Page 20 of The Pretenders of Copper County
On the lawn below, at least half a dozen men in ski masks spread out between Kenny’s house and ours. They moved with the grace of lumbering elephants, heedless of the streetlights, like they didn’t expect to be seen or care ifthey were. And every one of them was heavily, visibly armed.
What the fuck?
Had we been followed? No one could have gotten here this quickly, even if Chris had called someone… could they?
I shook myself quickly. There’d be time for speculation once we were safe.
Scrambling to my bag, I retrieved my backup weapon, even as I bounced the mattress.
“Wake up,” I hissed at the quilt-covered body on the bed. When Chris didn’t move, I shook him firmly, trying to ignore the warmth from his body and the way he’d curled into a tiny ball during the night like a pill bug. “Chris. We have a situation.”
He suddenly lurched up, the whites of his eyes visible in the dark room. “Wha?—?”
I leaned down to grab his shoes and shove them on his feet. I’d prefer not to leave the safe house, but if we had to run, he’d never be able to make it without shoes. “Stay low and quiet. Follow me and do exactly as I say.”
Half-asleep, he nodded and reached for my shoulder to keep from being pulled off the bed when I yanked his laces tight. I slung my duffel over my shoulder, grabbed his hand, and moved toward the door.
“Wait!” he cried. He fumbled back toward the pillow, found his glasses, and shoved them on his face.
“Take this.” I shoved the Hellcat into his hand. “Eleven shots plus one. Slide rack.”
He fumbled the damned thing like it was a hissing cobra.
I reached out to steady his hand on the grip. “Deep breath. In and out. You got this.”
“Sure. Yeah.” But under his breath, he added, “Oh, man, I donotgot this,” almost too softly for me to hear.
For once, Chris didn’t argue or attempt to talk my ear off. He did exactly as I said and stayed close to me as we crept out of the bedroom and down the hall. I’d familiarized myself with the layout when we arrived, so I knew there was a secondary staircase off the last bedroom. We made our way there on silent feet.
Halfway down, a loud pop of gunfire split the night, and Chris huddled against me with a muffled scream. I wrapped my arm around him to keep him close.
“We know you’re in there, Chris!” a man’s voice shouted, showing the operators had given up any attempt at a stealthy entrance. “Come on out.”
More gunshots followed.
Fuck.Since when did the Evanoviches open fire on a residential neighborhood? I had no idea what or who we were dealing with, which made escape a more tempting option… assuming it actuallywasan option.
I half carried Chris the rest of the way downstairs. At the bottom of the staircase, I peered around the corner and saw a clear path to the back door. More pops came from the side yard, but there was no movement at the front or back porch. No one was trying to breach the doors, and as far as I could tell, none of the shots had actually hit the house; they were just making a hell of a lot of noise.
“Should we call the police?” Chris whispered.
“I bet someone already has,” I said grimly. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing. If I had to explain our identities and the circumstances surrounding the incident, that would only bring up more questions, especially if Chris talked about being “kidnapped.” They might separate us until they could sort it out, which could take hours if no one at theDivision bothered answering their phone. Hours when Chris would be unprotected.
Chris’s hand clutched the back of my T-shirt as we moved across the tacky vinyl floor. Rabid ducks followed our progress from every angle, making an already tense situation that much more creepy.
Outside, glass broke, and more shots were fired. In the distance, sirens wailed. We were almost out of time.
I cracked open the front door and crouched down. My car appeared untouched, and all the activity still seemed to be on the side of the house where—I darted a quick glance out the door—Kenny and an elderly woman in a housecoat stood on the front porch, each clutching a weapon.
“Whoa. Is that Kenny’s grandma?” Chris squeaked, peeking around me. “I’msuperglad I didn’t disturb her TV program.”
“Come on.” I tugged him back to the kitchen door.
The sirens were approaching, and waiting inside was no longer an option. I had to hope that there were no assailants waiting in the bushes for us to be flushed out and that everyone had been too busy with the firefight to disable my car.
Once again, Chris nudged up next to me and peered out. “What if you shot at that, uh… that thing with the water in it? You know, like a distraction? One time in season three ofJohn Ruffian—” He broke off with a muffled yelp as another barrage of gunfire rent the night.
It took me a minute to recognize that he’d been pointing at a plastic rain barrel positioned at the back corner of Kenny’s house to collect runoff from the gutters. There was no telling whether it had water in it, but from the number of plants in the backyard, it seemed likely.
