I crawled to the side window, peeked up, and saw movement by the fence line. A figure in dark jeans and a pullover, short-cropped hair, moving fast but not careless. He held a suppressed pistol at low ready, sweeping the backyard for targets.
I waited for him to reach the patio, then timed it. As soon as he stepped onto the flagstones, I stood and fired three rounds, center mass. He went down hard, dropped behind the grill. I kept firing, two more shots to make sure.
Back inside, the front shooter had started to advance. I heard the crunch of boots on the driveway, the deliberate cadence of someone trained to clear a building. I dropped flat, tracked his shadow as it advanced toward the door, and waited until his shoulder appeared in the blown-out window.
I fired once, saw him flinch back, then heard the retort as he fired a burst through the front wall. The sound was raw, deafening in the small space, but I counted the rhythm: three shots, then a pause, then two more. Standard training, suppress and flank.
I risked a look at Bellini. She was watching me, eyes laser-focused, breathing under control. She mouthed, “Garage?”
I nodded.
She started moving, low and fast, using the overturned couch and the pile of books as cover. The shooter outside must have seen the movement, because a new stream of rounds slammed into the couch, sending fluff and springs flying.
I fired again, three fast shots at the muzzle flash, then sprinted after Bellini as she dove for the hallway. We reached the door together, slammed it, and locked it.
“Keys?” I said.
She pointed to a hook by the fridge. I grabbed them, then scanned the garage for threats. Nothing moved. The air was hot, stinking of oil and tire rubber.
She climbed into the Lexus, hand on the ignition, eyes never leaving the side door.
I pressed my back to the wall and watched as the shooter outside circled around, scanning for a window of opportunity. He stayed low, kept his rifle tight, but I could see he was bleeding from the shoulder. One of my shots must’ve grazed him.
Bellini started the car, headlights off, and I cracked the garage door just enough to see the driveway.
The shooter was ten feet from the house, his weapon raised. I aimed, waited for his foot to cross the threshold, and put two rounds into his leg. He dropped, yelling, but still managed to return fire, shattering the passenger window of the Lexus.
Bellini floored it. The car slammed out of the garage, hit the shooter’s hip, and sent him spinning onto the lawn. She didn’t stop. I followed, keeping my weapon trained on the body, ready for another shot if he tried to rise.
He didn’t.
We cleared the driveway, the car roaring into the street. I watched the rearview, waiting for headlights or pursuit, but none came.
Inside the car, Bellini’s hands were steady on the wheel. Her breathing was ragged, but her eyes were clear.
“You okay?” I asked, voice low.
She nodded, then turned to me. “You take care of the one in back?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded again, then kept driving, silent except for the sharp, staccato breath as the adrenaline faded.
My hands trembled, just a little, as I reloaded the Walther. I glanced down at Bellini’s cheek, at the blood drying there. She noticed and wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“You bleed?” she asked.
“Just a scratch.”
She glanced at me, then back to the road. “Next time,” she said, “we'll use your place.”
I smiled, the adrenaline burn peaking in my veins. “Deal.”
Then, Catherine abruptly stopped the car. “I have to go back.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I need to be there when the police arrive.” She turned the car around. “And I need to know who did it.”
