This is my chance.
I slowly lift my hands up, up, up my torso. Jerry doesn’t notice. I grip the neckline of the vest.
“Hold the fuck still,” Jerry snaps into my ear.
I grip the edges. My pulse pounds. How fast can I move? I go through the movement in my head: the handle is just below the neckline of the vest; reach in, pull the knife free, remove the sheath, and jam the blade into Jerry. Drop. Run.
I go through it again mentally, and then I glance at Silas. I hope he understands the silent message I’m sending him with my eyes—I’m trusting him. Trusting his words, that he loves me, that his statement a moment ago was a lie to buy time.
“Drop your fuckin’ gun,” Jerry snaps. “Now.”
“You drop yours,” Silas says, smirking arrogantly.
Jerry thumbs back the hammer of his pistol.
Now.
NOW.
I drive my elbow backward as hard as I can into Jerry’s gut, and then reach in and grip the knife handle, drag it free. Only, the sheath lip catches on the edge of the vest and won’t come out for an agonizing instant. Jerry is gasping, winded—not even a heartbeat has lapsed.
The knife comes free, and mercifully, the sheath has ripped off and remains inside the vest.
I drop and twist as Jerry recovers, bringing his gun around on me.BANG!Something snaps past my ear, hot and angry.
He missed.
I smash the knife as hard as I can into his leg, high up near his groin. The blade sinks to the hilt, and he screams. I twist it. Drag it sideways. Pull it free.
I throw myself to the ground as gunfire erupts, blasts from pistols and chattering from Silas’s silenced weapon.
There’s a heavy thud, and Jerry flops to the floor in front of me. His eyes are shocked. Scared.
I glance down at his body: blood sluices out of his thigh in a thick flood. Way too much, way too fast.
As abruptly as it began, the gunfire stops.
I glance over. Everyone is down except my father and Silas.
They have their guns pointed at each other. My father is bleeding from the left shoulder, grimacing. Silas is in pain, his knees buckling: there’s a divot in the center of his chest. His eyes are sparking with fury.
“Naomi,” he gasps, voice rasping, breathless. “Go. Get out of here. Malik is back there.”
I scramble to my feet, wincing and hissing as pain sears through my ribs and steals my breath.
I glance down: Jerry’s eyes are wide and sightless, now. His pistol is in his slack hand. Bracing one hand on my knee, moving slowly and with a pained grunt, I bend and retrieve it.
My leg burns, and I have to limp; I’d almost forgotten I got shot. He must have missed, though, because it’s not too bad, even though I do feel blood oozing out, wet and sticky.
I limp toward my father, the gun hanging at my side.
I stop and face him. “Drop it.”
Silas eyes me. “Go. I got this.”
I ignore him. Lift the gun and aim it at my father. “I said drop it.”
“You’re gonna shoot me?” He sneers.
