Page 101 of Dead Girl Running

Four feet.

She would do what she had to do. Shoot with her left hand. Make each shot count. She held herself up against the vehicle and perfectly still. She saw Mitch’s feet, legs, waist. He walked toward the grease pit, his pistol and his gaze pointed down. Like her, he would be wearing a Kevlar vest. So—his belly and his head: her targets. She swung her weight onto her right elbow. Aimed at his abdomen.

Six feet.

Her motion caught his attention. He looked up, realized he’d been suckered, lifted his pistol.

Kellen shot. Missed. Damn that left hand!

Seven feet.

At its full extension, the lift ground to a halt.

She was exposed, hanging above him like a piñata.

He aimed.

She shot again. Blew a hole in his thigh.

His shot went wide. He screamed in agony, crumpled to his knee.

She shot, hit his chest.

The impact caught him square on the Kevlar vest, knocking him onto his back. In one smooth motion, he rolled and flipped, raised furious red-rimmed eyes to her, supported his gun hand with his other hand and aimed.

She prepared to drop, knowing she could never outrun a bullet shot by a master marksman.

From above, something large and square slammed down on his head, knocking him flat. Knocking him unconscious.

What? A cardboard box. He’d been hit by a cardboard box. Car manuals spilled out, dozens of them, thick, heavy, leather and paper andweight.

From the loft above, Birdie said, “Take that, you bastard.” Her voice was no more than a croak.

Kellen stashed her pistol, supported herself with both hands and swung her feet down. She landed flat-footed and ready to fight.

Mitch was unmoving, a pool of blood beneath his thigh.

With her pistol in her right hand and her left hand supporting her aim, she approached him.

None of her guys should ever be underestimated.

Still in that hoarse voice, Birdie said, “The box was full of old car manuals. Probably weighed forty pounds. He’s not getting up.”

With her foot, Kellen pushed the box off Mitch’s back.

His neck was crooked sideways.

Kellen felt for his carotid artery.

No pulse.

“You broke his neck.” Kellen looked up at Birdie.

“Good for me.” Birdie used the handrail to lower herself to the loft’s metal mesh floor. “Because he damned near killed me.”

A drop of blood splatted on the floor beside Kellen.

The right side of Birdie’s face was split open, bruised and shiny like a ripe eggplant.

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