Page 231

They’ve passed by the lit guest bedroom window at least three times, pausing twice to glance out the window.

Bufalo.

It makes sense. Every time Buf would visit to work or stay over on long nights, he picked that room.

He’s banking on me walking through the door virtually alone, walking through a quiet house and coming up the stairs, blind to the threat of a bullet between the eyes.

If Sylvie’s anywhere, she’s in that room with him.

“Looks clear out here, Russo. Some movement in the upstairs guest bedroom, the one at the end of the hall. Buf, probably,” I radio back. “Be careful.”

“Roger.”

The setup reeks.

Why would Bufalo make himself so visible?

Something feels wrong.

Even if he thinks I’m stupid, he should take basic precautions. I reach for the radio, about to call off Russo.

Before I get that far, a distant bang erupts from the place.

Shit, shit.

Not gunfire, though. It’s too soft for that.

I drop the radio and reach for my binoculars.

Through the upstairs window, I see another figure, so small she barely leaves a shadow against the back wall.

Oh, fuck.

Sylvie.

I see her pressed against the rain spattered glass, yelling, her chestnut hair flying every which way.

Trying to warn me.

She’s ripped back from the window by two burly men a second later.

Loud shouting oozes from the house, breaking the silence. A few barks of gunfire split the night.

I turn to stone, lost in a vision.

My sweet wife motionless on the floor, a pool of thick blood forming under her.

Cold, alone, and not remotely safe like I promised.

Her hand stretched out in a claw, still reaching toward the window.

Just like Mama.

But it doesn’t make sense.

He’s keeping her as bait. Buf wouldn’t shoot Sylvie when he knows how much I care about her.

He knows she’s the only person who’d make me crazy enough to risk my life in a shootout. The only reason I’d ever enter that godforsaken house if I smell a trap.