Chapter 22: The Kash & Grab Shooting - Part 1
Ben's Danger Intuition detonated at 2:47 PM like a nuclear bomb inside his skull.
One second he was under a car, checking brake lines. The next, he was running.
No conscious thought. No decision-making process. Just pure instinct responding to power that screamed NOW NOW NOW.
Three blocks to Kash & Grab. Ben sprinted, lungs burning, vision tunneling. His Danger Intuition showed him fragments—gun, Ian, violence, seconds remaining—and pushed his body past normal limits.
He burst through the store entrance at the exact moment Mickey Milkovich pulled a gun.
Time fractured.
Ben's MacGyver Mind processed everything in crystalline detail: Mickey in the center aisle, shaking hands gripping a revolver that looked too big for him. Ian behind the counter, frozen mid-motion, eyes wide with shock. Linda near the register, inhale caught in her throat, scream building. Kash emerging from the stockroom, confusion blooming into terror. The fluorescent lights humming overhead. The smell of industrial cleaner and fear.
Mickey was crying.
The detail hit Ben with unexpected force—this wasn't robbery, this was desperation wearing violence like a costume.
Ben's Danger Intuition showed him the next ten seconds with horrifying precision: Mickey would panic, finger would tighten, gun would fire. Ian would move wrong—instinct making him duck right instead of left. The bullet would catch him center mass. Blood. Screaming. Damage that couldn't be repaired.
Unless.
Ben's Silver Tongue activated at maximum volume.
"POLICE OUTSIDE! DROP THE WEAPON!"
The words erupted from him with supernatural authority, carrying conviction that bypassed rational thought and hit primal fear. Every syllable vibrated with power, with certainty, with the absolute belief that police were seconds from storming in.
Mickey's head snapped toward the storefront windows.
Half a second of distraction. Ben moved.
He tackled Mickey from the side—not gracefully, not heroically. Just desperate collision of bodies, both of them crashing into shelving that held candy bars and chips. The impact drove air from Ben's lungs. Mickey grunted, surprised, gun waving wildly.
The gun went off.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space—not like movies, but a physical assault that made Ben's ears ring instantly. His Danger Intuition shrieked trajectory, showing him the bullet's path in his mind's eye with terrible clarity.
It missed Ian by four inches.
Passed through the space where Ian's head had been half a second earlier. Shattered liquor bottles behind the counter. Glass and alcohol exploded across the back wall.
Ian screamed. Raw, terrified sound that Ben had never wanted to hear.
Mickey and Ben struggled for the gun. Mickey was stronger than Ben expected—wiry muscle fueled by adrenaline and panic. His street-fighting instincts were better, found leverage Ben didn't know existed, nearly broke Ben's grip twice.
Ben's MacGyver Mind identified pressure points, joint vulnerabilities, ways to apply force. But knowing wasn't the same as executing. Mickey's elbow caught Ben's ribs. Pain exploded across his side. His grip weakened.
The gun waved between them—pointing at ceiling, at floor, at Ben's face, at Ian.
Someone's going to die if I don't end this NOW.
Ben made a split-second decision driven by pure desperation.
He focused on the gun itself. His illusion power activated with precision born from weeks of practice. The hammer appeared to stick, locked in place like mechanical failure. The trigger seemed to jam mid-pull. Visual and tactile illusion simultaneously—Mickey could see it malfunction, feel the resistance.
"What the—" Mickey looked at the gun with confused horror.
Ben used that moment. Twisted his body, leveraged his weight wrong but effectively, and wrenched the gun from Mickey's grip. Nearly dropped it himself from momentum, but managed to maintain control.
He pointed it at the floor, finger deliberately off the trigger, and stumbled backward.
Mickey sat among scattered candy bars, breathing hard, staring at his empty hands with an expression that mixed fear and confusion in equal measure.
Linda was screaming into a phone. "—shots fired, Kash & Grab, send police NOW—"
Ian stood behind the counter, hyperventilating, hands clutched to his chest like he was trying to hold his heart inside. His eyes were locked on Ben with an expression Ben couldn't read—shock, gratitude, suspicion all tangled together.
Kash emerged fully from the stockroom, took in the scene, froze.
Ben's hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the gun. His ears rang from the gunshot. His ribs throbbed where Mickey's elbow had connected. His Danger Intuition was still screaming—not immediate threat anymore, but ripples, consequences spreading outward from this moment like fractures in ice.
"How'd you know?" Mickey's voice was quiet, broken. "How'd you fucking know?"
About the police. About the timing. About being here exactly when needed.
Ben couldn't answer. Had no explanation that wouldn't reveal impossible truths. So he said nothing, just kept the gun pointed down and tried to remember how to breathe.
"How'd you know?" Mickey repeated, louder now. Fear turning to anger. "You weren't here, then you were. Perfect fucking timing. Like you knew—"
"Shut up," Ben managed. "Just shut up and stay down."
Ian made a sound—half sob, half laugh. Relief and shock and probably adrenaline crash. He slid down behind the counter, disappearing from view. Ben heard him breathing in ragged gasps, trying not to cry.
I saved him. The bullet missed. He's alive. But now everyone's going to ask how I knew. And I have no answer that makes sense.
Sirens approached in the distance. Growing louder. Kash moved to unlock the front door, hands shaking. Linda was still on the phone, providing details Ben couldn't process through the ringing in his ears.
Mickey looked up at Ben with an expression that was equal parts fear and understanding. Like he recognized something in Ben's impossible timing. Like he saw through the coincidence to the calculation underneath.
"You knew," Mickey said, quieter. Not a question. An accusation. "Somehow, you knew."
Ben met his eyes and said nothing. Because Mickey was right. Ben had known. Had seen this moment days in advance, had prepared, had arrived at exactly the instant required.
And now he'd have to explain that to police. To Ian. To everyone who'd ask how he'd happened to be here, happened to intervene, happened to know exactly what to do.
The sirens were close now. Seconds away.
Ben looked at the gun in his hands—evidence, weapon, symbol of violence he'd intercepted but not prevented. Looked at Mickey sitting in candy bar wreckage, crying quietly. Looked at the counter where Ian was hidden, alive but changed.
I saved him. But the cost of that salvation is a story that doesn't add up. Questions I can't answer. Suspicion I can't avoid.
The first police car pulled up outside, lights flashing red and blue through the storefront windows.
Ben set the gun down carefully. Raised his hands. Prepared to face the hardest part: explaining the unexplainable without revealing the impossible truth of what he was.
The story was about to get very complicated.
And Ben had no idea if he could lie convincingly enough to survive it.
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