He saw what she was doing, stared for a moment, then slammed the door shut and frantically scanned the bedroom for something to barricade the door with, and it was the dresser that was closest, the dresser Ryan’s parents bought them when they moved into the house, and he shoved at the dresser, its legs tearing the carpet as it stubbornly moved closer and closer to the door, and she realized the dresser was the only thing that could save them, that could give them a few extra seconds, and so she ran over to help him, the little perfumes and candles on top of the dresser tipping over and falling to the floor.
The driver attempted to kick the door open right as they put the dresser in place, and the driver started shooting at the door, bullets tearing through the dresser, and the window was directly across from the door, one of the bullets shattering the glass, and she knew that as long as the driver kept shooting there was no way they were going to escape through the window, no way at all.
The closet—that’s where they needed to go, where they needed to hide, because it suddenly occurred to Tina that they weren’t going to survive this, that the driver would manage to burst through the door and would kill them all, even the man she didn’t know, the man who said her sister sent him.
She grabbed Max’s arm and yanked him to the closet, flinging open the door and shoving him inside, and she shouted at Matthew to come too, Matthew who was now flat on the carpet, his hands on top of his head, trying to keep out the noise, and at first she didn’t think Matthew heard her or if he did he wasn’t going to listen, but then he jumped to his feet and raced to her, tears streaming down his face.
The closet was small, filled mostly with her clothes, some of Ryan’s, and she backed into the farthest corner, her butt on the carpet, her back against the wall, and held both boys, all of them crying, while the driver out in the hallway kept shooting and kicking at the door.
The man stood in the closet doorway for a moment, stared down at them, and then stepped back out and closed the door, enveloping them in darkness.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
She didn’t know if it was Max or Matthew or both of them, sobbing into her, shouting it again and again, and she squeezed them tight, kissed both of their heads, telling them that it was okay, that everything was okay.
For a couple seconds there was silence, and then she heard the driver kick at the bedroom door again, a hard, solid kick, and she knew the door had opened wide enough for the driver to slip through.
The man fired at the driver but the driver fired back—she saw it all in her head, the men exchanging gunfire—until suddenly there was no longer a volley but only the sound of one gun firing bullets, and she saw the man get shot when she heard him shout something but his words were unintelligible, just gibberish, and besides, all she wanted to focus on now were her boys, both of them clinging to her as she kept kissing their heads.
The closet door opened.
The driver stepped inside.
Tina opened her eyes and saw him standing there, a tall Hispanic man dressed in slacks and a suit jacket. The man reloaded his gun as he stared down at them, his eyes dark and hard as he observed them in their final moments.
The man pulled back on the slide, began to raise the gun at them—and that was all Tina saw, her eyes now squeezed shut, holding the boys tighter than she’d ever held them before.
Two sudden gunshots—boom boom—and Tina jumped with each one, screaming, certain that both of her boys were now dead.
She opened her eyes and saw the man still standing in the doorway. He dropped to his knees, half his face gone, and stared at her with just the one eye before he fell over dead into several of her blouses.
The man—the man she had pictured shot and killed, the one her sister sent—must have done it. He was the one Tina expected to see, but the man who stepped forward was a big white man with a beard.
He had a gun in his hands, aimed at the driver, and once he was satisfied that the driver was dead, he looked at them cowering in the corner of the closet.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Tina didn’t answer at first—she couldn’t—but she ran her hands over both boys, searching for blood, and when she thankfully didn’t find anything she shook her head at the man.
The gun now at his side, the man pulled out a cell phone and placed the phone to his ear.
“Family’s secure. Target’s down. And Erik—shit, we need an ambulance here ASAP!”
Forty-Two
Louis sets the backpack with the disassembled sniper rifle on the bed closest to the window, opens it up, and starts taking out the pieces.
I ask, “Can I do that?”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum have moved to separate corners, Berettas held at the ready. I might not have possession of the assembled rifle yet, but they aren’t taking any chances.
Louis glances at the men for a beat, then shrugs.
“Be my guest.”
I stand up from the chair and hold out my bound wrists. Louis motions at Tweedledee, and the freelancer slips his knife from his pocket as he approaches, slices
