Shotgun Opera

A sudden memory. Her old martial arts teacher, wrapping a blindfold around a seventeen-year-old Nikki. Fighting without sight, sensing the mass of your opponent in front of you. Listening for breathing and the rustle of clothing. Nikki closed her eyes, kicked, her heel impacting the big woman?s knee.

A pained yelp, strangely high-pitched and feminine.

Nikki scrambled to her feet, leapt high and kicked, felt the ball of her foot flatten the woman?s nose. She spun, kicked again, landed another blow on her jaw. A fist flew out of the darkness and landed above Nikki?s ear. She staggered back, spots in front of her eyes. She shook her head, tried to regain focus, when another unseen fist hit her square in the mouth. She tasted blood and fell backward, landed on her back.

She lay a split second on the floor, trying to block out the pain. She felt groping hands on her head. The woman grabbed a fist full of her hair. Nikki kicked up and over her head, caught her in the face again, and heard her teeth rattle. But this time the big woman hung on tight, hoisted Nikki to her feet.

Nikki felt a thick forearm tighten on her throat. It wasn?t the haphazard grip the woman had used on her before, some kind of wrestling hold. Going limp wouldn?t work this time.

Nikki bent her knees and heaved with all her strength to slam the big woman against the wall. It was like trying to move a bulldozer. Nikki managed to knock the woman against the wall, but it was barely a nudge. Nikki hadn?t even bruised the giantess. The grip tightened on Nikki?s throat, her face red and the air pressed almost completely out of her.

This time Nikki brought her feet up against the wall and pushed away hard. The big woman hadn?t been ready for that. She stumbled back, still clutching Nikki.

Their mass hit the stair railing, smashing it apart like so many matchsticks. The big woman panicked, let go of Nikki, arms windmilling, screaming bloody murder. Nikki was almost unconscious, but training and instinct kicked in, an arm snaking out to grab something solid.

The big lady fell like a meteor. She struck the chandelier, scattering crystal baubles just as a bright flash of lightning flooded the house. The woman fell among the glittering diamond rain. Woman and chandelier crashed at the bottom. It sounded like the apocalypse.

Nikki hung from the second-floor ledge, groped for the remains of the railing, and found a grip. She heaved, pulled herself up. She lay there, her legs still dangling over the edge, breathing heavily. If there were any more attackers, she didn?t care. There was no fight left in her.

Nikki heard the shotgun blast and remembered the old man.

41

Mike gritted his teeth to hold in a moan. The pain burned along his spine. He lay awkwardly on his side, a white-knuckled grip on the shotgun. He had one shell.

Make it count, little brother. I?m not there to bail you out this time. His brother?s voice echoed in his head. In the old days, Mike and his brother always went in as a team. Now Mike was alone. Is this how Danny had felt when Mike left him?

Sorry, Dan. My bad.

He couldn?t hear much over the wind and rain. Had the girl come out of it okay? Mike lay behind an overstuffed leather chair. It provided cover, but meant he couldn?t see anything.

As quietly as he could, Mike scooted out from behind the chair. If a lucky bolt of lightning lit up his foe, Mike needed to be ready to take his shot. He tried to heave himself into a sitting position. A mistake. More pain.

He elbow-crawled under a table, and rolled onto his back, breathing hard and clutching the shotgun against his chest. He glanced to both sides, tried to see feet in the brief lightning. If he had a shot, he?d take it, but he saw no sign of the intruder. Mike lay perfectly still, watched, and listened.

Directly above him, the wooden table creaked, the sound of a man shifting his weight.

Mike pointed his shotgun up, made his best guess, and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

The shotgun blast plowed through the highly polished wood, and Sprat?s left ankle exploded in blood and fragments of bone and blinding pain. He dropped the knife, tilted and went down screaming, his foot barely attached to his leg with a few strands of skin and sinew. He writhed on the tabletop, scattering the decanters.

He managed to raise his head, still looking for his adversary, rage and revenge boiling up through the pain.