ATSWT/We Own The Night – Bodies and Cannolis

Nancy parked in front of the nondescript house and got out. Striding toward the house, she was met by one of her men at the front door. “Is he in there?” she asked.

He nodded. “He ain’t talking, though.”

“He will,” she said, walking past him and into the house.

The interior of the house was bare bones. Walls, but no carpet or furnishings of any kind. Three of her men were standing around, eating cannolis. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

There was a man tied to a chair in the middle of what Nancy assumed was going to be the living room. There was a pillowcase over his head, and she yanked it off, smiling a little as he yelped in pain. She must have yanked out some of his hair. Worse things than that were going to happen to him before she was through with him.

“What the hell is going on?” the man yelled at her. “Who are you?”

“None of your business, Ennis Woody.”

He looked startled. “How do you know my name?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” she replied. “Right now, I would worry about whether or not you’re going to make it out of this house alive.”

He sucked in some air at that statement before he sat up straighter in the chair. “You better hope I don’t kill you in the next five minutes,” he said. “You think these ropes are going to hold me for long?”

She reached behind her back, pulled out her gun, and shot him in the left knee. He screamed. “Think I’m scared of your punk ass?”

“You bitch!”

“I’ve been called that before, and by better men than you. Now, if you don’t want me to shoot you in the other knee, you’re going to give me some names.”

“Larry, Moe, and Curly.”

Nancy shot him in the right knee. “Keep it up. Your elbows are next.”

The men standing in the room chuckled.

“What do you want?”

“I want the names of the men who shot up the playground and shot Philip Powell. I want to know who killed those soldiers at the Strangerville Labs. And I want to know where you’re holding Powell.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ennis said, gritting his teeth.

Nancy aimed at his left elbow.

“No! Don’t shoot me again!”

“Names, pissant. I want names.”

“Cristen Dorsey, Randy Bright, Carter Brock, Ty Sweet.”

Nancy nodded at her man, who took out his notepad and wrote down the names. “Add his name to the list as well.”

“I had nothing to do with it!”

She shot him in the left elbow. “Who gave the orders?”

“Son of a…”

“Let me make this very clear to you, Woody: I have men near your house right now, waiting on a call from me. If I make that call, they will go in, grab your son, Willie, and bring him here. I will shoot him, right in front of you, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

“No, not my son!” Ennis cried. He hung his head in defeat. “The orders came from Charlie Waller…and my father, Major Tom Woody.”

“Where is Powell?” she demanded.

“In one of the back rooms.”

Two of her men hurried off. One of them came back a couple of minutes later. “He’s on a mattress on the floor, unconscious, but alive.”

She walked over and patted him on the cheek. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He didn’t say anything.

She walked over to her man, who was standing back and to the right of Ennis. “One last thing, Ennis: who killed Malcolm Landgraab?”

Ennis snorted. “I did.”

Walking back over to him, she grabbed him by the top of the head and tilted his head back. “He was my son.”

His eyes widened in fear.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you,” she assured him. She let go of his head, walked around his chair and stood four steps away from him. “Hey, Ennis.”


“I lied.” She raised the gun and shot him in the head. “Get out of here,” she told her men. “I’ll wait for Andy.”

“What about him?” one of them said, pointing at Ennis’ body.

“Leave the body. Take the cannolis.”

Published by Author Teresa Watson

I have always loved to read, and carry a book with me wherever I go. I’ve written for several online sites, doing book reviews and author interviews. After graduating in 2000 from West Texas A&M with a Bachelor’s degree, I was a teacher for a while before deciding my destiny was to write, not to mold young minds. Writing for me is like taking an exciting journey, or going on a welty, as my parents say. I don’t know where my stories are going to take me. I just hang on and enjoy the ride.

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