I angled my pistol over the counter, took aim, and squeezedthe trigger. The 9mm hammered against my palm, sending shockwaves down my forearm.
Muzzle flash flickered, and smoke wafted from the barrel.
The tangy scent of gunpowder drifted in the air.
I acted without hesitation or thought. Pure instinct.
My bullets streaked across the living room, pelting the thug in the chest, spewing geysers of blood. His body twitched with each hit, then tumbled back and fell into the foyer, moaning and groaning.
It was enough incentive for his companion to back out of the house and take off.
With my heart pounding, I darted from the kitchen and advanced across the living room to the foyer. I kicked the Uzi out of reach, then knelt down and felt for a pulse in the thug’s neck.
Threat neutralized.
I holstered my pistol and advanced to Grayson. I felt for his pulse, but there was no thump against my fingertips when I touched his neck. My face and my stomach twisted with horror.
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, put it on speaker, and set it on the floor while I attended to Grayson.
"911, what is your emergency?"
I told her what had happened and gave her the address. I'd made a note of it when we first arrived at the house.
Over the last week, I noticed myself habitually making note of small details. I was extra observant. A collector of minutia.I soaked up directions, remembered addresses, and observed people around me. I made note of their appearance in my mind. I'd catch myself testing my memory—what they wore, what they looked like, and whether they were a threat. In restaurants, I’d always sit facing the door. Every building I entered, I always noted the exit routes and formulated a plan on how to get out in case of emergency. I tried to predict where potential threats might come from and what type of threats I might be liable to encounter. It was second nature. Something I did unconsciously.
It was a paranoid way to live.
But it seemed ingrained in my being.
My long-term memory may have been gone, but my short-term memory was phenomenal. Whatever training I had was embedded. Hardwired into my brain. Part of my physiology.
The operator said an ambulance was en route and told me to stay on the line.
I kept up with the chest compressions.
Grayson wasn't coming back from this.
I felt a deep sense of sorrow. My stomach churned, and my heart hung heavy. Part of me had been ripped away. On the surface, Grayson was a man I’d just met, but my body knew there was a deeper connection.
His warm blood seeped through my fingers, pooling on the tile.
I wiped my bloody hands on my pants, then moved to the thug, lifted his mask, and studied his face.
I’d never seen him before.
It sounds morbid, but I snapped a few pictures of his face with my cell phone for reference. Maybe I could get Tyson to help me figure out who this guy was.
I set my weapon on the kitchen table and unloaded it. I knew coming into this scenario, the police would have no idea who the shooter was and what happened. I didn't want to risk getting inadvertently shot.
The distant sound of sirens warbled, and soon, an ambulance pulled to the curb along with the fire department.
First responders rushed into the house.
They took over, but there was nothing for them to do.
Then came the questions.
I rehashed the grisly events.
