“Your father would be embarrassed,” I say.
The room changes.
Ron’s smile vanishes.
There. There he is. The wound with a gun.
“My father is dead.”
“I heard.”
“He died ashamed of me.”
“Probably.”
One of his men mutters, “Ron?—”
“Shut up!” Ron roars.
I use the distraction.
I rise just enough to fire twice.
The first shot hits the gunman’s shoulder, spinning him into the wall. The second strikes the kitchen cabinets above Ron’s head, showering him in burning splinters and melted composite. He ducks with a shout.
I run.
Not for the door. They expect that.
For the bedroom.
My plan is not elegant. It is barely a plan. The bedroom has a window overlooking the narrow side ledge above the bakery sign. Kauss once told me it was unsafe as an exit. Kauss tells me many useful things while believing I am not listening.
I reach the bedroom doorway before Ron tackles me from behind.
We hit the floor hard.
Pain blasts through my ribs and shoulder. The pistol skitters across the boards toward the window. I twist under him, clawing for his face. My nails catch the bandage over his nose and tear it loose.
He screams.
I drive my knee up as hard as I can.
He chokes and rolls partly off me. I scramble toward the pistol.
He grabs my ankle.
I kick him in the face.
Something crunches wetly.
I get the gun.
Ron lunges again, and this time I fire too close.
The plasma bolt catches the left side of his face and neck in a searing arc.
His scream is not human.
