Page 113 of Single Mom's Daddies
I fist my fingers and rap them twice on his forehead. “Knock on wood.”
He laughs, and we continue the search for more soon-to-be corpses.
33
SAFFRON
The compound is under siege.
I don’t know how many more of them there are. I just know the bodies aren’t stopping. They keep pouring through the halls like a flood of angry water—scrambling through broken doors, shoving past shattered windows, yelling in that wild, uncoordinated way that only cowards with guns do.
And I’m out of bullets.
I round a corner too fast, nearly trip over a cracked sculpture base, and press my back to the wall. I scan what’s ahead—two doorways, both clear. Until they’re not. One flickering sconce. A low, broken noise to the left.
A moan. I edge forward. That noise—it’s a woman. In pain.
Should I call out? What if it’s one of ours? The guys who just came out of the doorways might hear me. But I can’t do nothing, and they’re heading outside. They don’t see me. They aren’t even looking this way.
I wait until they’re out the side exit and whisper, “Hello?”
A rustle of fabric. Then I see her.
Mrs. Popovich is wedged behind an overturned bench near the second-floor hallway gallery. Her apron is dark with blood—right calf soaked, her shoe half-off, and her face pale. Her voice is weak. “I didn’t think you’d be the one I’d see,” she mutters, grimacing as she tries to sit up straighter.
“Jesus, Mrs. Popovich.” I rush over, staying low so they don’t see me through the windows. “You’ve been shot!”
“I’ve been worse,” she grunts. “You got a weapon?”
I hold up my empty Glock. “Not anymore.”
She huffs, then reaches into her apron and pulls out a little pink pistol that looks like it belongs in a novelty catalog. “Was my sister’s,” she whispers, handing it over. “Don’t laugh. It fires. But my sight isn’t what it used to be.”
I don’t laugh. I take the gun, cock it quickly, and spin around just as a man in black tactical gear comes charging down the hallway, rifle raised. I raise the ridiculous pink gun and shoot. Once. Twice.
The first misses. The second hits him in the side. He screams, spins, and scrambles backward, trying to retreat down that smoky hall. I bark, “Run, asshole!”
A wet thud breaks the brief silence and a pair of boots suddenly sticks out of the hall. More men crash into the doorways on the opposite wall, heading our way.
Fuck me, more of them? I brace myself, and Mrs. Popovich clutches my shoulder. Her eyes flutter and her breaths are labored. “Make them pay.”
“I will.” I grit my teeth and take aim, counting four incoming.
But from deep in the smoky hall, Roman’s voice booms out, “We have Joe Costello and a federal agent who has witnessed this unprovoked attack!”
I freeze, gun still raised, as his voice roars over the chaos like thunder.
A second later, he appears at the end of the corridor. His shirt’s torn, blood all over his arm, and he’s dragging a man by the collar—half-limp, clearly broken. Roman presses a gun to the bastard’s temple and snarls, “Every one of you will lie down on the floor and toss your guns away. Right the fuck now!”
There’s a pause. A crackling tension.
Then—one by one—some of the intruders drop their weapons. Others hesitate.
Victor storms through the outer door, slamming one man into the wall hard enough to break plaster. “Do it!” he bellows. “Or you’re next!”
That gets more movement. Weapons clatter. Sirens wail in the distance.
Nik appears beside me, a duffel in hand. He tosses it at my feet. “Zip ties.”
