I breathe, and I wait.
The knob rattles again. Fear pounds in my veins, but my hands are steady.
I can do this.
I willnotgo back.
I’ve already killed one man—funny, I barely remember that, and feel oddly removed from it.
I do not doubt that when the moment comes, I will pull this trigger, no matter who is on the other end.
“Break it down,” I hear a voice say in a not-exactly hushed whisper.
A silent instant, and then a deafening, splintering crash as a boot or a body slams against the door. The frame cracks and the door crumples inward but holds. Another crash and it flies open inward.
A lance of light spears in through the doorway, sweeping the bed, the bathroom, the back corners.
All I can see are silhouettes, but I don’t need to see any more. These men are not here to help me, they’re here to take me to my father. To Jerry.
I extend my arms and point the barrel at the figure now creeping through the doorway; he hasn’t seen me yet, crouched on the floor in the corner to his left. His light is attached to the bottom of a long, heavy-looking machine gun. He’s wearing armor, but it doesn’t quite fit, his bulbous belly spilling beneath the edge. I see a silhouette of a thick, shaggy beard.
I have the flashbang clipped to a loop on the vest; I decide to use it.
I clamp the pistol between my thigh and the vest, gingerly tugging the pin free—it’s harder to remove than I would have imagined, especially when trying to do so quietly and slowly; the rasping sound of metal on metal is loud in my own ears. They don’t seem to hear it, and they haven’t swept their lights this way yet.
I don’t know much about such things as this, room clearing or whatever, but that just seems clumsy and careless to me. I’m just a scared, untrained girl—if Silas had been here, they’d all be on the ground already, broken and bleeding.
He’s not here. I have to deal with this situation on my own.
I can, and I will.
Anger sizzles inside me, spreading like wildfire. These men willnottake me. Not without a hell of a fight.
The anger burns away the fear.
I see four bodies now, spread in a condensed cluster just inside the doorway. I tuck the pin into a pocket of the vest, grasp my pistol in one hand, and give the surprisingly heavy flashbang an underhanded toss among their feet. I see their confusion, and then I jam my fingers in my ears, close my eyes tight and turn away.
TheBANGis still disorientingly loud and the flash still sears over my eyelids, but I was expecting it, and I’m not stunned.
Not like they are.
My pulse is a wild erratic pounding in my ears and throat and chest. I aim the pistol with both hands at the nearest torso.
Squeeze the trigger.
BANG!
The gun jumps in my hand, the barrel bucking upward. I don’t fight the recoil, but control it the way I remember my father telling me. Let it fall back down and aim again at a different body.
BANG!
They can’t see where I’m shooting from. They’re disoriented, spinning in circles, yelling, cursing, rubbing at their eyes and ears. One man was wearing night vision goggles, and he’s on the floor, screaming in agony, hands over his eyes.
I fire again. I don’t know if I’m hitting anyone, but I can’t afford to wait and find out. I fire at another upright figure, and he has finally located me.
His gun chatters, a muted rattling,BAPBAPBAPBAP.Impacts thunk into the wall above my head, near my shoulder. A scream of terror and anger and adrenaline rips out of me, and I shuffle in a crouch awkwardly to the side just as he fires again, rounds pocking into the wall where I was.
I fire once.
