'Nate?' he called out.
No answer.
Quinn hurried toward the kitchen, using the partial wall that divided the two rooms as cover. He was only a few feet away when a bullet slammed into the wall just behind him.
Without thinking, he dove to the floor. A second later two more bullets raced over his head. Remaining on his belly, he snaked his way to the edge of the wall and peered into the kitchen. Nate was there, on the floor. The chair Gibson had been sitting in was on top of him. From where Quinn was, he couldn't tell if his apprentice was still breathing or not. He looked left, then right. Gibson was gone.
Staying low, Quinn turned around and headed back into the living room. This time his only cover was his leather couch. He stopped for a moment and listened intently.
Nothing.
Wherever Gibson had gone, it wasn't far. And though Gibson had Nate's gun, Quinn had both a Glock and a knife. He also knew the layout of his house better than anyone. He knew all the hiding places, all the exits. Gibson had only experienced the walk from the front door to the kitchen. Every move he might make would be a guess.
Outside, the moon had moved below one of the nearby ridges. The only illumination now came from the flicker of the television and the light that was still on in the kitchen.
Quinn ventured a peek around the side of the couch. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He scanned the room a second time just to be sure. This time his eyes paused on the leather recliner that sat facing the couch about ten feet away. Something wasn't quite right. It was the shadow cast by the stuffed chair. As it changed with the flickering of the light from the TV, there were moments when the shadow seemed larger than it should have been.
He watched it for a moment, almost dismissing it as an optical illusion. Then the shadow moved.
Quinn eased out from behind the couch into the living room. As he approached the recliner his ears picked up the sound of breathing – slight, but definitely real.
He raised his gun.
'Stand up,' Quinn said.
Gibson leaned around the side of the chair and fired. The bullet went wide, but only by inches. Quinn pulled the trigger on the Glock. A roar filled the room, followed almost instantly by the smell of expended gunpowder. The shot pierced the chair nearly dead-center.
'You son of a bitch,' Gibson hissed, pain lacing his voice.
'Enough?' Quinn asked. 'Throw down the gun and come out slowly.'
Gibson stood up slowly, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side.
'Now put the gun down,' Quinn said.
For a second he thought Gibson was going to comply. Suddenly the assassin pushed back from the chair, the gun in his right hand moving quickly upward, pointing toward Quinn.
But Quinn was ready. He pulled his trigger first.
By the time Gibson slammed against the window, he was already dead. The bulletproof glass reverberated with the weight of the failed assassin's body, but didn't break.
Quinn ran back into the kitchen. The chair still lay on top of Nate's body. Quinn quickly pushed it off and put a hand on his apprentice's neck. He could feel a pulse, steady and strong. Quinn could also now see Nate's chest expand and contract. A quick visual check revealed no entry or exit wounds along his back, and no pool of blood gathering on the floor beneath him.
Quinn leaned down to Nate's left ear. 'Nate,' he
said. There was no response. 'Nate. Wake up.' A low moan escaped from Nate's mouth. A
moment later his eyelids fluttered. 'Take it easy,' Quinn said. 'Are you hit?' Both eyes opened slowly. 'Quinn?' he said, his
mouth pressed against the floor, slurring his speech. 'Are you hit?' Quinn repeated. 'I don't think so.' 'Maybe you should check.' Nate closed his eyes again. With effort, he rolled
over onto his back. 'Fuck,' he called out, wincing. 'What?' Quinn asked. Nate rubbed the side of his face. 'He hit me in
the jaw.' There was a red patch on the side of Nate's face, but otherwise he appeared unmarked. Quinn stood up. 'You might want to put some ice on that.'
Quinn walked back into the living room. The phone was still on the couch where he'd dropped it. He picked it up and was about to dial for help when he heard a muffled voice on the other end.
'Quinn?' It was Peter. 'You're still there?' 'What's going on?' 'Gibson got loose.' 'And?' 'He's dead.' Peter didn't answer right away. 'It would have
been better if you'd taken Gibson alive.'
'Well, shucks. I wish you'd told me that sooner. Or maybe I should have told him to wait a moment while I checked with you.'
'Give me the details,' Peter said.
