Page 111 of Single Mom's Daddies
I clear the music room, where a full grand piano has been overturned and used as cover. More rounds fire off down the corridor. I duck, turn the corner—two men. One’s wounded, crouched against the wall. The other’s bracing him, trying to cover their retreat. I fire once—center mass. The standing one drops. The other tries to crawl.
I don’t stop to finish him. I’m looking for someone else. Ruger.
That rat bastard. Still in the house. Still alive, I hope. When all of this is over, we need him alive. He’s our best possible witness.
As long as he doesn’t try to turn this attack around on us.
I stop short when I turn the corner and find him standing shoulder to shoulder with Roman. Ruger’s coat is half-gone—ripped, soaked through in blood that doesn’t seem to be his. His tie’s gone, his shirt untucked, and he’s got a federal-issue firearm raised, firing in controlled, practiced bursts at a trio of men near the collapsed south stairwell. Roman crouches low behind a broken armoire, returning fire between columns.
And for a moment I forget how to move. Roman’s hurt, blood gushing down his arm. I slide into cover beside them, blood still roaring in my ears. “You good, man?”
He’s pale. I don’t like it. He grunts between shots, “Golden. You?”
“All good.” I plug the hole they couldn’t cover, and we’ve got them good and pinned, but at some point, one side will run out of bullets. Ruger looks over, eyes sharp. I snort once, cold. “Still think our art’s the problem?”
His lips twitch. Then, without changing expression, he raises his gun?—
And aims it atmy head. “Duck.”
I drop to a squat.
Gunfire cracks just above my shoulder. I spin as a man behind me drops, a fresh hole between his eyes. I turn back. Ruger’salready ejecting the mag, slapping in a new one. “What art problem?”
I blink. Then I laugh. Once. Loud and sharp, before I take out the next goon. The firefight doesn’t let up. Rounds snap past my head, slamming into plaster and paintings. A landscape by Svet—an abstract storm in charcoal—shatters behind me as I duck behind an overturned armoire. Its broken frame splinters across the floor like a skeletal wing.
Roman’s crouched to my right, breathing hard, sweat slicking his temples. He looks like a ghost of his younger self—ruthless, calculating, eyes sharp through the smoke. Every time he moves, it’s to kill.
But he won’t last. I see how tired he is. How drained, literally.
Ruger is still here. Still fighting. Still standing.
The three of us press forward together, clearing this space. I keep expecting Ruger to turn on us, to pull some fed trick, but he doesn’t. He moves like he belongs.
“Yeah, so why the fuck isn’t your backup here yet?” I ask.
Roman snorts a laugh, eyes sharp on the carnage as he kicks a body to check it. We reach the west corridor—the one that overlooks the inner courtyard—and pause behind the archway. A bullet streaks past and punches through the plaster column behind my head. I crouch lower.
Roman taunts, “Tell him, Ruger.”
Ruger reloads again, hands steady. “There is no backup.”
I blink. “You serious?”
He pulls a spent mag from his vest and tosses it aside. “The warrant was a fake.”
My mind blanks out. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Ruger doesn’t flinch. “I wasn’t here for your books. I came to plant bugs.”
“You son of a?—”
“I thought you were building something—expanding. Thought you were recruiting again. I didn’t want to believe it at first. You guys…out of all the crooks I deal with, you guys aren’t the worst ones. But I figured…if I planted the bugs, I’d know for sure.”
I stare at him. My grip on the pistol tightens. “So you came into our house, pretending you wanted peace, while setting traps for us behind the walls.”
“I came to keep the peace,” Ruger snaps. “But I fucked up. I didn’t think Costello would be this bold, and I sure as shit didn’t know he’d be moving today. I thought if I could keep eyes on your family, maybe I’d head him off before it got bloody.”
I laugh once, bitter. “Yeah? How’s that plan working out?”
