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Gunshots rang out, but far away. Luca grunted, motioned with his gun.
“Run left,” he said. “Get to the far door.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“Right behind. Just get moving.”
I pulled Mom, and at first it felt like she wasn’t moving. But when we reached the door and turned into the hall, I felt her begin to run with me. I tore down the plush carpet, past the expensive oil paintings, and watched the overhead lights flicker as another deep resonant boom sounded somewhere downstairs.
“Go,” Luca said, coming up behind us. “Go now, go go go.”
I sprinted to the far end and slammed into the door. I grabbed the handle, my palm sweating, my fingers shaking, and turned it. Luca growled something and I heard yelling at the far end of the hall as I got the door opened and staggered through. I hit a stairwell, nearly tripped and landed on my face, but caught myself on the railing.
“Down!” Luca yelled, dropping to one knee.
I yanked Mom against me and pulled her down against the steps. Luca fired his gun, the weapon recoiling in his hands, his face serious. I heard screams from down the hall and more gunfire erupted. The bullets smashed into the walls and the carpet around Luca, scattering wooden shrapnel against his face, creating little cuts all along his cheek, but he didn’t even flinch. He kept firing, eyes and hands steady, then turned to us.
“Move,” he barked.
And I was up again, pulling Mom along with me.
We ran down the steps, staggering against the wall. Luca grabbed my arm and pulled me along as I pulled my mother.
The bottom of the steps opened into a dim hall. Half the lights were off, and the rest were dimmed, like the building was running out of power. Luca strode forward, pulling us past closed doors, more paintings, more statues, more trappings of wealth.
A door on the left opened, or tried to, but Luca kicked it closed. Someone cursed on the other side, and Luca just shot it. Someone screamed and Luca kept going, barely slowing down. I didn’t know who he’d just shot, if they were on our side or not, but he didn’t seem to care.
We reached an intersection. Luca pressed his head out, motioning for us to wait. He looked then moved again, pulling me along. We staggered into yet another hall, this one with only two doors, one on the right and one at the far end of the hall.
He headed for the far end. As we passed the door on the right, it suddenly burst open and someone shouted as they staggered back. It was a man in a suit, black hair slicked back, blood splattered all over his white shirt. Luca spun to shoot, but held his fire.
“Martin,” Luca said as the guy staggered toward us. He leaned up against the wall, breathing hard, clutching at his gut. Luca went to him, grabbed his arm to support his weight. “What the fuck happened?”
“Came in… shooting… hand grenades…” Martin grimaced, shook his head. “Fucked everyone up, Luca. Killed… killed Tad. Killed… Gavin.”
“How many? Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Martin said. “I just… got hit. Started running. Got lost. This fucking place, it’s a maze, man. Got lost in a fucking… ballroom.” He grimaced, coughed, groaned in pain.
“I’ve got you now,” Luca said. “Come on.”
Luca dragged Martin forward and I followed, pulling Mom along. We moved slower now as Luca worked to keep Martin upright. I could see the struggle in Luca’s eyes, but I was proud of him for making the right choice, even if everything in me screamed for me to run as fast as I could.
We reached the door at the end of the hall and Luca pushed it open. Martin stumbled and dropped to his knees as we entered into short hall with green tiled floor. The overhead light was off, but I could see stainless steel counters, refrigerators, bowls and cutting boards stacked nearly in overhead racks.
“Fuck,” Martin said. “Fuck. I can’t go… fuck.” He gasped, breathing hard, sweating.
“I’m not leaving you,” Luca said. “Clair, help me.”
“No,” my mom said. “No, he’s dead already, leave him.”
“Mom.” I stared at her, but she shook her head.
“Leave him,” she said.
I released her arm and went to Martin. I helped Luca get the man to his feet as Mom shook her head wildly.
“Come on,” Luca said.
I helped support Martin’s weight. I got his blood on my side, but did my best to ignore it. Mom kept up, staying just behind us, and we moved into the kitchen.
It was an open space, filled with rows of cooking stations. Luca went to turn right, but stopped in his tracks as some guys standing at the far end flanking a pair of doors began to yell. I caught just a glimpse of dark hair, light brown skin, and heard their Spanish accents. They wore earthtone cargo pants and bland black jackets.
