The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

They were choking, guffawing, weaving in and out of traffic. Fright slipped out his high-

gloss stainless steel Ruger . 357 Blackhawk revolver with its six-and a-half- inch barrel

and walnut grips and adjustable sights. It was loaded with six Hydra-Shoks. He handed

his piece to Wheatie, who acted as if he knew all there was to know about guns, and

owned plenty of them. They pulled up to Hardee’s. The friends landed glazed eyes on

Wheatie.

“All right motherfucker,” Slim said to him.

“You go in and get a twelve-piece dinner, all white meat.” He snapped out a twenty-

dollar bill.

“You pay and wait. Don’t do nothing ’til you got the food, you know? Then you tuck it

under your arm, pull out the gun, clean out the registers, and run like hell.”

Wheatie nodded, heart drilling out of his chest.

“We ain’t gonna be sitting right here.” Fright made that point, jerking his head at the Payless gas station next store.

“Back there by the Dumpster. You take long, motherfucker, we leave your ass.”

Wheatie understood.

“Get the fuck outa my face,” he said, tough and invincible as he tucked the revolver in the front of his pants and pulled his T-shirt over it.

What Wheatie did not understand was that this particular Hardee’s had been robbed

before, and Slim, Fright, and Tote were aware of it. They were laughing and lighting up

another joint even as he walked in and

they drove off. Wheatie’s little butt was going to get locked up tonight. He’d learn about jailing honestly, his pants falling off because they took his belt, then dropping the rest of

the way when some motherfucker got the urge for his sweet little ass.

“Twelve piece, white meat.” Wheatie’s voice didn’t sound quite so tough now that he was at the counter. He was shaking all over and terrified that the fat black lady in a hairnet

knew all about his plan.

“What sides you want?” she asked.

Shit. Slim didn’t tell him that part. Oh shit. He got it wrong and they’d kill him. His

furtive, hard eyes cast about, not seeing the Tracker anywhere.

“Baked beans. Slaw. Biscuits,” he did the best he could.

She rang it up, and took his twenty. He left the change on the counter, fearful that

tucking it in his pocket might draw attention to the gun. When the big bag of chicken and

side orders were gripped under a frail arm, Wheatie drew the gun, not real smoothly, but

he got it out and pointed it at the fat lady’s startled face.

“Give me all your money, motherfucker!” he commanded in his crudest voice as

the gun shook in his small hands.

Wyona managed this Hardee’s and was working the counter because two of her people

were out sick tonight. She’d been robbed three times in her life and this little piece of

motherfucking white meat wasn’t going to make it four. She put her hands on her hips,

glaring at him.

“What you gonna do, cockadoodledo? Shoot me?” she sang.

Wheatie had not anticipated this. He clicked back the hammer, hands shaking harder. He

wet his lips, eyes jumping. It was decision time.

No way he could let this fat chicken lady dis him. Shit man. He

walked out of here without the money and that was the end of his career. He wasn’t even sure he’d gotten the sides right. Oh shit, he was in trouble. He closed his eyes and pulled

the trigger. The explosion was incredible and the revolver jumped in his hands. The

bullet smashed through large fries $1. 99 on the lit-up sign over Wyona’s head. She

grabbed the big . 357 magnum away from him, and he ran like hell.

V9 Wyona was a firm believer in community intervention. She chased Wheatie out the

door. She thundered after him through the parking lot, across the way to the Payless, and

behind it where a red Tracker was parked, filled with teenagers smoking weed. They

locked the doors.

Wheatie tugged a handle to no avail, yelling, as the huge woman grabbed the back of his

pants, yanking them down to his leather Adidas. He fell to the pavement in a tangle of

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