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If he comes through, he'll expect me across the room.

I raise the tire iron over my shoulder.

The door slams inward.

Mercer comes through.

I swing.

The tire iron connects with his injured shoulder.

He screams.

The sound is fucking glorious.

The gun drops from his hand, clattering onto the floor.

I swing again.

He twists.

The tire iron catches him across the ribs instead of the head. He crashes into the workbench. Tools scatter.

I dive for the gun.

Mercer grabs the back of my shirt.

“No!”

He yanks me backward. I hit the floor.

Adrenaline courses through me as I twist around. My fingers scrape over wood.

The gun is inches away.

I reach for it.

Mercer catches my ankle.

I kick. My heel connects with something.

He grunts.

I kick again.

His grip loosens.

My fingertips touch the gun.

Almost.

His hand closes around my calf. He drags me away.

“Fuck!”

I roll onto my back and swing the tire iron.

He catches it.