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skinny
jeans, a white tee, and a leather jacket. The nice kind. The kind
that cost a few bucks. He wasn't a street kid. Or he hadn't been for
long. His face was on the thin side, his hair a shade of blonde that
teetered the edge of brown, cut short, slicked back slightly and
dark green eyes.
    “What're you...”
the rest of my sentence trailed off when, in a blur, his hand went to
the waistband of his pants and came back out with a gun. Pointed.
Aimed perfectly to put a plug between my eyes. And his fuckin' hand
was steady as a sniper.
    “Know it's a
coward's play, but I'd never beat ya in a fight,” he said,
shrugging a shoulder.
    “Wasn't gonna
fight you, kid,” I said, shaking my head. “Was gonna take
you to get some breakfast.”
    “Why?” he
asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
    “Because I'm
hungry,” I said, turning away from him and his gun and making
my way down the street.
    I didn't get more than
five feet before he fell into step beside me.
    “You know how to
use that gun.” It wasn't a question. Fifteen and he held a gun
like a seasoned professional.
    “Ain't grow up in
Al'Bama without learnin' to use a gun,” he drawled, making it
clear he had actively worked to drop his accent.
    “Long way from
the South,” I remarked, opening the door to the diner up the
street.
    “Long way from
the sonbitch who raised me,” he said easily, giving the
waitress who was at least ten years his senior a smile that made her
blush. Blush. “So what?” he asked, reading over the menu,
“you just a good Samaritan? Helping out the homeless kids on
your doorstep?”
    “Fuck no,”
I said, shaking my head. I had been one of those homeless kids at one
point. I knew how important bootstrapping was to their pride. I
didn't do hand outs unless someone was really hurting. And even then,
half the time it was thrown back in my face. Such was the attitude of
the streets. It was something I respected.
    “Just the ones
who pull guns on you then?” he asked, grinning over his menu.
    “Somethin' like
that,” I agreed, nodding.
    “So you got a
name?”
    “Breaker,”
I said immediately.
    At this, I got a brow
raise. “Well if you can have a dumb fuck name like Breaker, I
can be Shooter.”
    From that day on, he
was.
    “What do you do,
man?” he asked a few minutes later, digging into a huge pile of
French toast.
    “Nothin' I can
talk about in a crowded diner,” I said, slipping my eyes toward
the table less than two feet from us- an old couple making it no
secret they were eavesdropping.
    To this, Shooter
shrugged. “Need any help?”
    And from that day on,
he did help.
    Fifteen was a lot older
in street years. And it was even older when you grew up with a father
who used to beat the ever-loving shit out of you anytime he drank.
Which was daily. Shooter was fifteen going on thirty. Sharp. Aware.
With a surprising control over his emotions. Probably even more so
than me. He was funny. Quick with a smartass remark. Even faster with
a pickup line. And it always worked. He was a god damn teenage
Cassanova.
    And when he said he
knew how to use a gun, well, it was an understatement. He was a
junior champion shooter back in the Yellowhammer state. Best shot I
had ever seen.
    Until he was in his
early twenties though, he worked for me. Helped me case jobs. Gather
intel. Grab people if I thought I would have a problem. As he aged,
he didn't get big and bulky like me, but his wiry thinness had it's
own benefits in a fight.
    Then, around the time
he hit twenty-three, he decided it was time to branch out. Be his own
man. It was a move I had been expecting for a while. And I had also
been expecting what he would do.
    When you had skills
like his with a gun, well, what else would you get into but contract
killing?
    He took out big gigs-
working for the mob or the other crime families, the empires, the big
guys.
    When it came to my
jobs, I made bank.
    Shooter made my income
seem minuscule.
    He sent his shit father
a case of the finest