Surging to his feet, he tackled the gunman and knocked the guy’s legs out from under him. They hit the ground with a thud, the gun skittering away across the tiled floor. Matt grappled with the gunman for a moment or two—he was larger than the kid, and his daily workout assured he was stronger, as well—but a kick to the ribs sent him rolling away. The one called Barry glared down at him, foot poised to strike again. “You all right, Chuck?”
“Where’s my fucking gun?” Chuck sat up and pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, which had come up over his head during the struggle. When he didn’t see the gun immediately, he punched Barry in the knee, almost dropping his friend. “I said, where the fuck—”
Vic interrupted him. “This?”
Matt rolled toward the sound of his lover’s strong voice. “Vic, thank God.”