Page 52 of Glamour and Grit

My vision fades, and Petty’s laugh is the last thing I hear before blackness fully consumes me.

16

DANE

Iburst through the thin plywood covering a window and hit the ground shoulder first. Ignoring the shock and pain of impact, I roll up to a kneeling position, gun braced in both hands.

“Let her go.”

The big Italian stares at me, more confused than afraid. I can’t even see Selene’s face, because his skillet-sized hand covers it completely.

Petty’s hand darts toward the gun holstered inside his ill-fitting plaid blaze. I divert my aim to dead between his eyes.

“Don’t try it. I came here to talk, Petty, but I won’t hesitate.”

To my surprise, Petty doesn’t act afraid, either.

“Hesitate, Dane? Like you did when you had the shot on Klaus?”

My heart leaps up into my throat. How the fuck does he know my name, let alone details about a classified mission?

“The Moreno family has connections,” he replies in response to my unspoken question. “It’s as simple as that. You might have delayed us a little bit, running around LA county with Miss Jackson there, but we were going to catch up with you sooner or later. You couldn't get the job done then. Why should I think you can do it this time? Youshould drop that gun before Guido does something unpleasant to your client here.”

“You need her alive, and what’s he going to do, choke her to death before I give him a bullet lobotomy? This is what we call point blank aim. I literally can’t miss.”

Guido stares back at Petty.

“What you want me to do, Will? I think she may have stopped breathing.”

“No!”

Rage sizzles through me. I turn and take aim, squeezing a round off in an eyeblink. Unlike in the movies, baddies don’t go flying back when you perforate their skull. He just kind of drops where he stands, releasing Selene in the process.

Unfortunately, I give Petty all the time he needs to draw his piece. I dive behind the bulk of a heat pump as sparks fly from his initial shots. Nine mil, automatic. That means he has between nine and twelve shots left.

I pop up, firing blindly just to keep from getting shot myself. My risky gambit pays off. Petty flees, ducking his head and running around the corner of the soundstage.

He doesn't stay gone, though. When I leave my cover to help Selene, a bullet whizzes by my ear, missing me by about an inch. I duck back behind the squarish unit and curse my luck. If Selene stopped breathing, she doesn’t have much time before it’s too late to save her. But I can’t reach her without being shot.

Petty is right. I hesitated when it mattered. I should have shot him first before going after Guido. He presented the greater threat.

This will never do. If I’m going to help Selene, I have to act. Petty’s a decent shot, but he’s not a trained warrior. I’m counting on that to keep me alive.

I do something I was trained to never do. I leave my covered position while an enemy has me in their sights. Petty fires. Bullets whizz past me, sparking off the downspout, the rusted dumpster, and the concrete wall.

As I move, he comes into my sights. I don’t have time to line upthe perfect shot. I aim for the largest part of his mass I can see, his shoulder, and fire. Petty cries out, the gun falling from his hand.

He staggers out of sight, but the splash of crimson on the sun-bleached concrete tells the story of my success. Even if I didn’t kill him, I seriously cramped his style.

I scoop up Selene and check her vitals. To my relief, her nostrils issue a faint but steady blast of air. I can’t check her for worse injuries right now. I have to get us out of here, and fast. Petty’s friends in the Moreno family can’t be far behind.

I carefully bundle her into the front seat, fastening her seat belt before tearing out of the studio lot. Only when we’re safely on the freeway, with no signs of pursuit, do I try and wake her.

“Selene? Are you all right?”

I gently nudge her shoulder, and get no response. Is she hurt bad? I dig around in the center console, looking for something that might help. I don't even know what I expected to find, but what I come up with is a packet of Uncle Reemus’ ghost pepper hot sauce, leftover from a late night beer and wings run.

“Uncle Reemus, don’t fail me now,” I say, ripping the packet open with my teeth. I rub the contents on the inside of her lips and mouth.

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