harder for him, she kneeled down, her back pressed against the wall. And waited. She could hear her own heart, pumping fast, but she held steady, slowed her breathing. Another soft footfall, then nothing. He was here, right outside the door, his ear probably against it, listening for any sound. She pictured what would happen, what she would do.
Was it the same man who’d tried to kill her at Pier 39? The man with his glasses, his Burberry coat, and his lovely smile?
The doorknob turned very slowly. He was coming in to kill her, shoot her in her bed, shoot her dead in her sleep, the bastard. Fierce anger punched up her adrenaline again, enough to make her shake, but it didn’t matter. She was ready.
When he was not more than four feet in front of her, slightly off to her right, he raised his gun. He shot once, twice, two more times into the pillow, the low thumping sounds of a silencer, she realized. He paused, then shot again where her head would have been. He lowered the gun, took a step toward the bed.
“Drop that gun right now or I’ll blow your head off.”
The man jerked around, fast, and fired at the same moment Julia did. Her bullet smashed into his arm, and he jerked back.
His shot was too high, slamming the wall right where her heart would have been if she’d been standing. He yelled and cursed as he fired again, six more times, the bullets striking the wall above her head. Had she been on her knees, he would have killed her.
But she wasn’t, she was flat on her belly.
She fired again, but the shot went wide, into her bedside lamp, smashing it to the floor. He tried to pull the trigger again but his clip was empty. She fired again, heard the bullet strike the wall behind him, and fired two more limes as he bolted in a zigzag out of her bedroom. She heard his boots on the long corridor. She hadn’t hit him again, dammit.
Julia leaped to her feel and ran after him, fired several more times as he bounded down the stairs. He was moving too fast, dodging from left to right. He suddenly whirled to face her, went into a crouch, paused a moment to aim. No, he wasn’t aiming, he was trying to shove in another clip.
She went down on her knees, pulled back behind the railing, shoved a new clip in the SIG and fired again, missed him by inches, but knocked off a chunk of a newel post, sending wood shards flying. Small pieces flew like darts into his face and neck. He grunted in pain, his hand jerking up to cover his face. She continued to fire as she ran down the stairs right at him and he turned and ran. She realized her second clip was nearly empty. She didn’t want to run out of bullets. But she couldn’t prevent herself from firing one more time. The bullet struck a tile next to his right foot, and she heard him curse. He jerked the front door open as she fired once more, and he was gone. There was no screaming wail. There was no sound at all. He’d disarmed her security system.
She raced across the entry hall, stuck out her hand to grasp the handle. No, don’t open the front door, don’t give him another chance. He’s probably got that new clip in. He could be standing right outside, waiting for her to show herself, grinning as he waited to shoot her. She sucked in deep breaths, felt her heart pumping so loud it hurt. She calmed herself. She was okay.
Her hand closed on the doorknob. She trembled from the rush of adrenaline still shooting through her. No, she had to be smart, she couldn’t go after him.
She’d put a bullet in his arm and wood splinters had dug into his face and neck. She’d done good. She hoped he would drop over in her front yard. She wanted desperately to open the front door and look out after him. Wait, how many bullets did she have left in her own clip? Not many, she couldn’t have many left.
She cracked the front door open, heard a car start from perhaps half a block away, heard it moving, the sound of the engine dying away.
She ran over to the phone, but she didn’t dial 911. She dialed Special Agent Cheney Stone’s cell.
CHAPTER 17
Cheney drove from Belvedere Street in Upper Haight-Ashbury to the Ransom mansion on Broadway in just under eight minutes. He cell-phoned Captain Frank Paulette, told him what happened, that he was on his way to Julia Ransom’s house.
She was standing just inside the cracked-open front door when he swung into the driveway. He jumped out of his Audi, fanned his SIG around him, examined the shadows. He saw no one, no movement of any kind. He holstered his SIG, held up his hand to keep her back.
When he was nearly to the front door, he said, “You okay?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember? I already told you three times I was okay. Come in, come in. I was a fool, an idiot. I could have killed him, but no, I had to tell him not to move and then he turned around—Oh God, Cheney, he moved so fast, but I was down on my stomach on the floor and I did shoot him in the arm. Then he shot at me, fired lots of times but he missed me, he was shooting where he expected me to be and he was too high.
“I shouldn’t have told him not to move, all I had to do was shoot him and keep firing like you told me, but I didn’t. Then I shot my lamp. I’m a moron. But I did shoot him in the arm, so that’s something. Maybe he’ll get blood poisoning, you think?”
Her voice was manic high. When she crashed, he knew it would take her to the mat for hours. She went on talking, repeating herself another two times, while he took in every inch of her. She sounded and looked like a teenager on drugs, nearly incoherent words flying out her mouth. She was wearing a long dark blue sleep shirt with Wonder Woman on the front, gym socks on her feet. Her hair straggled around her face, the bruise just beginning to fade from her jaw.
He placed his fingers lightly over her mouth to shut her up. She talked through his fingers for a moment before she fell silent. When he moved his fingers, she opened her mouth, gave him an insane grin, then managed to close
