Reaper's Fall
Page 111
You can do this.
Grabbing the extra clip, I started back toward the house, praying it wasn’t too late. By now I was completely covered in mud, and I’d lost one of my shoes. None of it mattered, though. All that mattered was getting back in time.
Saving them.
But how?
Somehow I forced myself to slow down, to creep toward the window without making any noise—it wasn’t easy. Adrenaline sent my heart racing and my lungs pumped hard. Every breath seemed louder than the last, but I forced myself to calm down. Focus.
Pretend you’re at the ER, running a code, I told myself. You’re cool, you’re professional. Nothing can touch you.
The thought soothed me.
Reaching the window, I peeked up slowly. Oh God. Painter’s face was a mass of blood. Head wounds bleed a lot—don’t panic! Marsh stood over him, casually stretching like a man after a hard day’s work. Then he glanced over toward Deanna.
“You want to do the next one?” he asked. She shrugged, and I tried to read her expression. If anything, she looked almost bored.
“I think you should just shoot him,” she said, pulling out her gun. “I know you like to play with them, but we don’t have a ton of time. His bitch will probably miss him sooner or later. We should get out of here—they’re waiting for us up by the border.”
“Five years, Talia. Five years I’ve been waiting for this moment. Cut me some fuckin’ slack, okay?”
“Whatever,” she said, pouting. “Want a beer?”
“No,” he said, turning back to Painter. “I want to cut his face off.”
I clutched the gun tighter. Should I try to shoot him? But there were two of them, and Deanna—no, Talia—had a gun, too. Would I cause more harm than good?
Talia started toward the fridge and I saw something move on the floor near her foot.
Duck.
His eyes were open, and he was tracking her. Catching my breath, I watched as the old man struck faster than a snake, catching her ankle and jerking her down to the ground. The gun went flying and he dove for it, raising it smoothly. It went off with a roar and Marsh was down.
Like, down—as in the top half of his skull was just missing.
Talia screamed, rushing toward Duck. She started kicking him as she fought for the weapon, and as I watched in shocked horror, the stain on his pants started to grow.
Rapidly.
Blood was pouring down his leg, running across the floor. A flood of it—bright red arterial blood. He didn’t even seem to notice he was bleeding out, he just kept fighting until his body sagged to the floor, a sinking ship in a sea of red. Talia wrenched the gun out of his hands, raising it triumphantly as she shot him in the chest. Then she whirled around to Painter, raising it for another shot.
I raised my gun faster.
My first bullet caught her in the shoulder, shattering the window between us in an explosion of glass. The second went wide, and the third hit her leg. The fourth punched through the floor about six inches from Painter’s foot, and I nearly dropped the gun, shocked by how easy it would be to accidentally kill him.
Talia was screaming and moaning, rolling around on the floor. Darting around the back of the house, I reached for the door, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t, thank God—about time we had some good luck. Running into the kitchen, I launched myself at Talia, slamming her head into the floor as hard as Todger had slammed mine.
She went quiet.
I stood warily, looking for the gun she’d dropped—it’d skittered across the floor, stopping next to the stove. Grabbing it, I threw it out the shattered window, into the mud. Then I stumbled over to Painter, pulling the gag out of his mouth.
“Are you okay?” I gasped, running my eyes over his knife wound. Didn’t look serious, thank God.
“Yeah, it’s just one cut,” he said. “That was amazing, Mel.”
“I’ve got to get you free—do you know where the handcuff keys are?”
“Tie her up first,” he said. “For all we know she’s got another gun. Then check on Duck.”
Duck was deader than a doornail—I knew that without checking. The old man was toast the minute his artery blew, I thought with professional detachment. I’d freak out later, but right now I had work to do.
“Duck’s gone,” I declared flatly. “He bled out—nobody survives that. What should I tie her with?”
“There’s probably some rope under the sink,” he said. “Duck keeps shit like that down there.”
Crossing the kitchen, I had to wade through Duck’s blood to reach the sink. As I passed, I knelt down for an instant, checking his pulse out of habit even though I knew it was pointless.
Nothing.
Not a surprise. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away the emotion, pretending he was just another patient in the ER. We lost them every day—if I shut down every time it happened I’d never make it through a shift.
Under the sink was a tarp, some rope, a big box of black garbage bags, duct tape, and a hacksaw. I blinked. Don’t think about it right now. Don’t think at all. Just take the rope and tie her up. I grabbed what I needed, moving back toward Talia’s still body. I tied her hands first and then her legs before checking for a pulse.
It was there—faint, but definitely present.
Ripping open her shirt, I examined the bullet wound on her shoulder, then looked around for something to apply pressure. A towel, a cushion. Anything.
“She can survive this,” I said tightly. “But we’ll have to get her to a hospital fast. It’ll be hard to get the ambulance back here, but—”
Grabbing the extra clip, I started back toward the house, praying it wasn’t too late. By now I was completely covered in mud, and I’d lost one of my shoes. None of it mattered, though. All that mattered was getting back in time.
Saving them.
But how?
Somehow I forced myself to slow down, to creep toward the window without making any noise—it wasn’t easy. Adrenaline sent my heart racing and my lungs pumped hard. Every breath seemed louder than the last, but I forced myself to calm down. Focus.
Pretend you’re at the ER, running a code, I told myself. You’re cool, you’re professional. Nothing can touch you.
The thought soothed me.
Reaching the window, I peeked up slowly. Oh God. Painter’s face was a mass of blood. Head wounds bleed a lot—don’t panic! Marsh stood over him, casually stretching like a man after a hard day’s work. Then he glanced over toward Deanna.
“You want to do the next one?” he asked. She shrugged, and I tried to read her expression. If anything, she looked almost bored.
“I think you should just shoot him,” she said, pulling out her gun. “I know you like to play with them, but we don’t have a ton of time. His bitch will probably miss him sooner or later. We should get out of here—they’re waiting for us up by the border.”
“Five years, Talia. Five years I’ve been waiting for this moment. Cut me some fuckin’ slack, okay?”
“Whatever,” she said, pouting. “Want a beer?”
“No,” he said, turning back to Painter. “I want to cut his face off.”
I clutched the gun tighter. Should I try to shoot him? But there were two of them, and Deanna—no, Talia—had a gun, too. Would I cause more harm than good?
Talia started toward the fridge and I saw something move on the floor near her foot.
Duck.
His eyes were open, and he was tracking her. Catching my breath, I watched as the old man struck faster than a snake, catching her ankle and jerking her down to the ground. The gun went flying and he dove for it, raising it smoothly. It went off with a roar and Marsh was down.
Like, down—as in the top half of his skull was just missing.
Talia screamed, rushing toward Duck. She started kicking him as she fought for the weapon, and as I watched in shocked horror, the stain on his pants started to grow.
Rapidly.
Blood was pouring down his leg, running across the floor. A flood of it—bright red arterial blood. He didn’t even seem to notice he was bleeding out, he just kept fighting until his body sagged to the floor, a sinking ship in a sea of red. Talia wrenched the gun out of his hands, raising it triumphantly as she shot him in the chest. Then she whirled around to Painter, raising it for another shot.
I raised my gun faster.
My first bullet caught her in the shoulder, shattering the window between us in an explosion of glass. The second went wide, and the third hit her leg. The fourth punched through the floor about six inches from Painter’s foot, and I nearly dropped the gun, shocked by how easy it would be to accidentally kill him.
Talia was screaming and moaning, rolling around on the floor. Darting around the back of the house, I reached for the door, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t, thank God—about time we had some good luck. Running into the kitchen, I launched myself at Talia, slamming her head into the floor as hard as Todger had slammed mine.
She went quiet.
I stood warily, looking for the gun she’d dropped—it’d skittered across the floor, stopping next to the stove. Grabbing it, I threw it out the shattered window, into the mud. Then I stumbled over to Painter, pulling the gag out of his mouth.
“Are you okay?” I gasped, running my eyes over his knife wound. Didn’t look serious, thank God.
“Yeah, it’s just one cut,” he said. “That was amazing, Mel.”
“I’ve got to get you free—do you know where the handcuff keys are?”
“Tie her up first,” he said. “For all we know she’s got another gun. Then check on Duck.”
Duck was deader than a doornail—I knew that without checking. The old man was toast the minute his artery blew, I thought with professional detachment. I’d freak out later, but right now I had work to do.
“Duck’s gone,” I declared flatly. “He bled out—nobody survives that. What should I tie her with?”
“There’s probably some rope under the sink,” he said. “Duck keeps shit like that down there.”
Crossing the kitchen, I had to wade through Duck’s blood to reach the sink. As I passed, I knelt down for an instant, checking his pulse out of habit even though I knew it was pointless.
Nothing.
Not a surprise. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away the emotion, pretending he was just another patient in the ER. We lost them every day—if I shut down every time it happened I’d never make it through a shift.
Under the sink was a tarp, some rope, a big box of black garbage bags, duct tape, and a hacksaw. I blinked. Don’t think about it right now. Don’t think at all. Just take the rope and tie her up. I grabbed what I needed, moving back toward Talia’s still body. I tied her hands first and then her legs before checking for a pulse.
It was there—faint, but definitely present.
Ripping open her shirt, I examined the bullet wound on her shoulder, then looked around for something to apply pressure. A towel, a cushion. Anything.
“She can survive this,” I said tightly. “But we’ll have to get her to a hospital fast. It’ll be hard to get the ambulance back here, but—”
