Forced to Kill

Five shots left.

A sudden barrage of bullets tore down the hallway. Slugs careened off the slate floor and splintered the door leading to the garage.

A black blur dashed into the den.

Two seconds later, the wall erupted toward Nathan in a horizontal maelstrom as the remaining merc fired blindly through the wall. Something struck his head. Hard.

His vision grayed for an instant. Damn it. Through the haze, Nathan returned fire, emptying his magazine through the wall along the same pattern the merc had fired.

From behind, Holly’s Glock boomed again. Nathan watched chest-high holes appear along the entire length of the wall.

He ejected the spent magazine, jammed a second home, and thumbed the slide release lever. The first of fifteen more rounds slammed into the breech. Feeling light-headed, he crawled across the debris field toward the den. Gun first, he peered around the corner.

The merc was gone.

Cracked pieces of glass still clung to the corners of the sliding door.

The floor was trashed with drywall dust and tempered glass fragments. He saw it then, a small, dark object several feet distant. Fighting to stay conscious, Nathan recognized its form.

A severed finger.

Chapter 19

Holly felt a severe stinging in her left forearm. In the dim light, she saw an area of torn flesh the size of a silver dollar. What started as a bee sting quickly turned ugly. Within seconds, the fire in her arm had doubled. By the time she stood up, it had multiplied by a factor of ten. Damn, this thing’s really bleeding. She was pretty sure she hadn’t been shot, so what had nailed her? Then she recalled the granite countertop exploding. She must’ve been clipped by a sharp piece. Although her arm hurt like hell, she was more concerned for Nathan.

“Nathan, are you okay?”

“It’s… not too bad. Just a glancing…” He didn’t finish.

“Nathan?”

Holly looked around. The kitchen was trashed. What had Nathan said? It’s not too bad? Bad? What wasn’t too bad? She ran into the den, ignoring the pain in her arm and the debris under her bare feet. She found Nathan on his back with a dark stain spreading into the carpet under his head.

“Nathan. Nathan!”

His eyes opened and blinked a few times. “How long?”

She parted his hair and felt a deep cut along his scalp.

“How long?” he repeated.

“Have you been out?”

He closed his eyes.

“Ten seconds. You need a hospital.”

“No hospital. No police.”

“Nathan-”

“Cleaner could be coming. You can’t stay.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“In the den… a severed finger.”

“Severed finger?”

“Take it with you.”

She felt numb. Everything had happened so fast. Tranquility had turned into chaos. Blood splatter covered everything. The walls. Carpets. Ceiling. The room smelled of burned gunpowder, plaster dust, and the coppery salt of gore. The man she loved-loved? — was lying in a growing pool of his own blood.

“Nathan, I can’t leave you here.”

His head slumped to the carpet.

Part of her wanted to run. Her instinct for self preservation was strong. She looked at the garage door. Beyond it, certain escape. She could be gone within ten seconds, fifteen at the most. She looked at the wound on her forearm. It could have been a lot worse if it weren’t for this man. She could never face herself again if she abandoned him, even if it meant her life.

Fueled by a desire to save herself and Nathan, she groped her way into his bedroom and noticed the bottom of her feet stung. She must’ve stepped on some broken glass. She found a necktie in his closet and a washcloth in his bathroom. She set her Glock on the bathroom counter, folded the washcloth into a small square, and covered her forearm wound. Using her other hand and her teeth, she cinched the necktie to secure the washcloth in place, careful not to make it too tight. Back in the den, she tried to rouse Nathan, but got no response.

Steeling herself against the pain in her forearm and feet, she hooked her arms under his shoulders and dragged him toward the door leading into the garage. She cried out as the torn muscles in her left arm ripped even more. She bit her lip and kept going, but the slate floor in front of the garage door was covered with broken glass and debris. She found a push broom in the garage and swept a corridor through the mess, then used the broom to prop open the door.

She dragged Nathan across the threshold, but quickly decided that dead-lifting him into his Mustang would be impossible. At six-foot-five, 240 pounds, he felt like solid iron. She’d never be able to do it.

The hand on her shoulder made her yelp in fear.

She whipped around, ready for a fight.

“Harvey!”

“I’ve got him. How bad is your arm?”

“How did you-”

“Later. How bad is your arm?”

“I think it’s okay, just bleeding a lot.”

“Does Nathan have any kind of spinal wound?”

“I don’t think so.”

She marveled at how easily Harvey lifted him off the garage floor and carried him out to the driveway.

“Holly, cover us.”

She crouched with her Glock and faced the dark garage. She stole a look over her shoulder as Harvey examined Nathan’s scalp wound and took his pulse. He poked Nathan in the shoulder. Hard. Nathan stirred a little and moaned. She recalled from her first-responder medical training that Harvey had just performed part of a Glasgow coma scale assessment.

Harvey looked up. “Stay alert, Holly. He should be okay. How many attacked you?”

“Four. One got away.”

“Wait here. I’m going to retrieve their weapons. You okay?”

“Nathan said there’s a severed finger in the den. He wants me to take it.”

“I’ll get it. Where are your spare mags?”

“The bedroom on the nightstand.”

“Nathan’s gun?”

“Near the den.”

Harvey pulled his Sig from the small of his back. “I’ll be right back. You sure you’re one hundred percent?”

She nodded.

“If anyone other than me comes back through this garage, shoot to kill. Clear?”