Page 115 of Precious Hazard

“Greta!” I snatch the wire, pulling the device from her left ear.

“Mrs. DeVille? What—”

Another round of gunfire erupts outside. This one sounds way closer than earlier. The slightly perplexed expression on Greta’s face morphs into absolute panic. She pales, complexion instantly a shade that would rival a sheet of paper.

“We need to get upstairs, quietly. Don’t worry. We’ll be okay,” I whisper, hoping what I’m saying is true. And that it sounds even mildly reassuring.

She nods, and even though she’s trembling all over, she grabs my hand with a bone-crunching grip. My fist squeezes around the handle of the hammer as I lead Greta back toward the entry hall.

We are halfway to the stairwell when gunfire again explodes nearby. This time, it sounds like it’s coming from the backyard. Loud shouts and clipped orders intermix with the incessant rattle of the weapons. I recognize Tony among the voices. The group of attackers must be larger than I initially thought, and they are advancing from multiple directions if Arturo’s men haven’t yet been able to stop them.

Greta seems to have frozen in place, her feet rooted to the floor. I have to basically drag her behind me as we climb the stairs to the upper level.

“Where the fuck is Arturo?” I mutter under my breath while urging Greta to keep up. “Still meeting with the don? Someone had to have called him by now. Wouldn’t Tony or one of the other guys have told him about the shitstorm that has descended on us? He’s got to be on his way back. Or maybe he already arrived and—”

I stop in my tracks. If my husband is here, that means he’s probably at the gate, where the bulk of the firefight is happening. Oh, God!

“Greta!” I spin around to face her. “Take this,” I say, shoving the hammer into her hand. “Go to one of the bedrooms and lock yourself in. Stay away from the windows. Understand?”

“Yes… But… what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Where’s your phone?”

“My phone?”

“Yes. Where is it?”

“I… I left it in the kitchen. By the stove, I think.”

“Okay. Now go.” I all but push her up the stairs.

The instant she reaches the landing on the second floor, I race back to the kitchen. I have to get ahold of Arturo. Ineedto know that he’s alright or I’m going to fucking lose whatever sanity I have left.

Greta’s phone is right there where she said it would be. I grab it as if my life depends on it and punch in Arturo’s number. I’m not even sure when I learned it by heart. The line rings. And rings. Then clicks over to his voicemail.

“Damn you, Arturo!” I hit the countertop with my palm and redial. If he got himself killed, I’m going to strangle him. “Pick up. Pick up. Please pick up!”

The gunfire and men’s shouts sound as if they’re right outside the kitchen walls, but I try to block all that out and concentrate solely on the ringing tone. Its familiar noise holds a promise, until it dumps me into voicemail again. Shit. Shit. Shit!

I redial.

Again.

And again.

Glass shatters somewhere behind me just as an enraged male voice yells down the line, “WHAT?”

Relief. Overwhelming, instant relief floods me. I’ve never felt such solace in my life.

“You’re okay,” I breathe.

Turning around, that blissful feeling snaps like a dry twig. Sheer terror puts me in a chokehold.

“Tara!” Arturo roars through the phone. “Where are you?”

I can’t speak. Can’t think. Not even sure if my heart is beating. I stare at the orange flames as they spread from the floor to the drapes.

“TARA!”

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