I start to stand but the room tilts again and I have to throw a hand out to the wall to stay balanced. I look down at what’s become of Jerold, all his blood soaking into the plush expensive carpet. I place a hand on my stomach, know I’m going to be sore for a couple days.
Watching the girl, I say, “Scooter, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” His voice soft and tinny. “You all right?”
“I’ve been better.” I clear my throat, take a breath. “The bodyguard’s out of the picture. I’m going for the target next.”
“Good luck.”
I turn to the girl. Her wide eyes are like spotlights shining down on the darkness that was Jerold. She looks at me and even in the dimness I can see the fear and terror there.
“Hey,” I tell her, as quietly and calmly as I can. “It’s okay.”
She keeps murmuring the Ave Maria.
It hits me then she doesn’t speak English, and that if she does it’s not very good. I speak seven languages and Spanish is my third best. I take a step toward her, slowly, and in Spanish tell her that everything is okay.
Her eyes go wider, and she takes a step back.
I say, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She stops murmuring the prayer. She shakes her head quickly, says, “Never like this.”
“I know”—taking another slow step, then another, the world still spinning—“but he was a bad man. I had no choice.”
“They will”—she places her thumb in her mouth, starts to bite at the nail—“they will kill me.”
“Don’t worry about these men.” My voice has gone calm. The pain is still there but I’m to the point now where I don’t feel it. “I’ll take care of them.”
“Not these men.” More tears come to her eyes. “The men who run the ranch.”
“The ranch?” I pause. “What ranch?”
That’s when there’s a knock at the door, and a voice says, “Yo Jerold, you okay in there?”
Six
For a moment the world stops spinning. Even the carpet pauses in soaking up Jerold’s blood. The jazz has gone silent too, and it’s not until another second passes and a new song starts up that I realize it’s not just my imagination.
There’s another knock. “Don’t play too rough, man. You don’t want Mr. Delano to have to pay for any damages.” The man sounds like he’s laughing with his friends.
I glance up at the girl and find that her hands have gone back to her face. Her eyes have grown even wider.
“Jerold?” The man sounding puzzled now. “Jerold, you hear me?”
I quickly dart my gaze around the room, looking for something—anything—to use as a weapon. Jerold wasn’t packing, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t a piece in one of those drawers. Or in the bathroom.
Thinking of this, I whisper to the girl to go in the bathroom and lock the door. She doesn’t move. I step forward, point, repeat my order. Still nothing. I take another step, give her a soft slap on the face, and she blinks and nods and hurries into the bathroom.
She closes the door when I hear the man out in the main room clear his throat, then say, “Jerold, man, I’m coming in.”
I turn back and jump for a place just beside the door. I flick the switch for the lights just as the knob turns and the door is pushed open. I realize my heels are going to be a burden and slip them off, place the one on the floor, keep the other in my hand. I hold it with the toe pointed toward my wrist, the four-inch heel pointed out.
The door opens wider, yellow light suffusing the plush expensive carpet. The man’s silhouette holds a gun at his side.
“Jerold?” he says, caution now in his voice as he takes a step forward.
I wait for him to take another step before I lean out and swing the heel. I aim for his face but luck out and strike him in the throat. His mouth opens and his eyes go wide and his free hand goes to his neck like it will do any good, which it won’t, because I’ve driven the heel right into his larynx.
He tries raising the gun with his other hand but I grab it, turn it around so it’s aimed at his chest. I place one bullet there and push past him into the main room, see that with the four girls two men in suits have been lounging on the couches. The men are already scrambling to their feet, already reaching for their guns. I put two bullets in the one guy’s head, two bullets in the other guy’s, and then I’m running forward, the gun aimed at the guy behind the wet bar.
He ducks behind the glass, comes back up with a SIG MPX K, and lets it rip.
I dive behind one of the couches for cover. I’m barely aware of the girls screaming and the rap music blaring and the deafening blasts of the gunfire. I eject the magazine, see how many rounds I have left, pop the magazine back in, rack the slide and wait a moment, a half second, before I make my move.
The guy behind the wet bar’s an idiot—he exhausts the entire 30-round mag, which gives me the chance to pop back up from behind the couch, aim and fire toward the wet bar. He sees me and ducks, but I plan for that and aim low, striking him in the chest.
Two of the girls have been caught in the crossfire, their dead bodies spread out like rag dolls on the floor. The other two girls keep low with their hands to their ears, crying and screaming.
The foyer door opens and the gunfire starts up again, the guy who’d frisked me charging in with his finger pressing the trigger of his Glock. I put it down to a rookie mistake—you never charge into a gunfight, not if you don’t know what’s what
