Page 15 of Made Man

I land on my side against a wheel well. Wyatt calmly shoves his left hand in his vest pocket and raises Alex’s Beretta.

And then, as cool and collected as he could possibly be, Wyatt puts a bullet dead center between each man’s eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The first body is still falling when Wyatt squeezes off the last shot.

I blink up at him. Where the hell did he learn to do that?

He engages the safety, lowers his weapon, and immediately turns the pastiest shade of gray I’ve ever seen.

“Shit.” I scramble to my feet, stumble to my lost sandal, and shove my foot in. “We need togo.”

I grab Wyatt’s hand. He’s gaping down like he’s never seen hands before. He’s in shock.

“Come on!” I shout at him and try to drag him down the alley, but he’s always been too heavy for me to budge. “Wyatt, please, move your feet.”

“Mira?” His brow knits. Sweat pours off his face, soaking his collar.

Another screech of tires rings out as a familiar town car swings around the corner into the alley. Wyatt raises the gun again, his arm perfectly steady and the whites of his eyes so wild that he looks downright rabid.

I quickly lay a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. It’s Grandpa Ray,” I say. I’ve never been happier to see the guy in my life.

Grandpa Ray skids the Lincoln to a halt behind the van and hoists himself—rather than leaps—from the driver’s seat, but the hands wrapped around his gun are steady as he approaches us, kicking weapons away from the bodies crumpled on the concrete. His joints are a little stiff these days, but he’s still got it.

“Russians?” Grandpa Ray asks me.

“Yeah.”

“Where are your men?”

“Bought off.”

Grandpa Ray shakes his head as he stops several feet from Wyatt, who is still aiming the Beretta at his chest.

“Hey, kid. It’s been a minute,” Grandpa Ray says to him. “This your work?” He raises his thick gray eyebrows.

Wyatt nods jerkily, finally lowering his gun.

“You learn to shoot like that at college?” Grandpa Ray asks.

Wyatt nods again. “Yeah. I’ve been in sports shooting since then. I won bronze in the twenty-five-meter rapid fire pistol in Tokyo.”

“Oh, yeah? Only bronze?” Grandpa Ray sniffs and smirks, nudging a body with the toe of his wingtip. “I guess it was less than twenty-five meters.”

Wyatt looks at him like he’s speaking Greek. He’s in shock.

“What’s the plan, Ray?” I ask.

“I’ve got backup less than a minute out. You two need to get out of here. Now.” Grandpa Ray digs his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to me.

Somehow, despite how numb he’s acting, Wyatt snatches them from mid-air. He grabs my upper arm and drags me toward the town car.

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