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I jerk to my right, making a move to bolt around Mitch. He lets out a startled, angry noise and swings his gun toward me.
And that’s the opening Linc needed.
The dark-haired boy springs into action, launching himself at Mitch in a full-body tackle. They grapple for the gun as they go down and it flies out of their hands, skittering across the hardwood floor.
Linc and Mitch hit the floor hard.
And chaos breaks loose.
My aborted motion to the side to draw the man’s attention has left me off balance, and I go to the floor, landing painfully on my wrists. But that fall saves my life.
A bullet whizzes over my head, slamming into the wall with a dull whap. Time seems to slow down and elongate, seconds stretching beyond meaning as everything happens at once.
The man who dragged River over to the far corner of the room pulls out his weapon and fires, and River hurls himself to the side, landing hard and rolling behind a massive chair. The bullet meant for him strikes one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and it shatters in an explosion of glass.
Dax makes a grab for the man in front of him, and another gunshot goes off as they wrestle for control. But the man wrenches away and plants a heavy foot in Dax’s abdomen, shoving him backward and raising the gun again.
A noise like nothing I’ve ever heard before cuts through the air, like pure, soul-deep pain given voice.
Before my brain can process the sound, Chase launches himself at Dax, shoving his twin out of the way as the man fires another shot.
Dax stumbles, and Chase’s body jerks backward.
Just like Hollowell’s did.
He falls, his body going limp.
Just like Hollowell’s did.
No.
No.
No!
Dax hurls himself at the man who shot his brother. The man fires again, but not fast enough. The bullet clips Dax’s shoulder a second before he lands on his attacker, fists flying.
I don’t hesitate. I’m up and moving, my gaze narrowing to a single point, a single goal. I have to get to Chase.
As I sprint across the room, something slams into me from behind, and for a second, my stunned brain thinks I’ve been hit by a car. The force of the strike sends me staggering forward, sends pain reverberating through my skull. I hit the floor awkwardly, too stunned to protect myself from the hard landing, and when I roll over, my double vision shows me two versions of Niles D’Amato standing over me, twin guns pointed down at my face.
I grope wildly around me, but there’s nothing but slick floor and the corner of a soft rug. Nothing to fight with. Nothing to defend myself with.
Now there’s emotion in Niles’s eyes. Now he looks angry. We fucked up what should’ve been simple, and now he’s going to put a stop to it. He adjusts his grip on the gun, raising it to aim at my head.
Two high-pitched metallic thwips cut through the air.
But my body doesn’t jerk.
It doesn’t hurt.
My muscles all tensed in anticipation when he aimed at me, and they feel like they’ll never unclench as I watch Niles topple to the floor like a felled tree, the back of his skull blown out by two bullets.
Beyond him, halfway between the dining room and the large foyer, Hollowell lies on the floor, a messy smear of blood trailing behind him like the track of a giant red slug. He drops the gun and collapses, slumping back down onto the polished hardwood floor in a heap.
Another thwip of a gunshot sounds above me, and it’s like that sound frees me from the prison of my shock, allowing other sounds to penetrate my rattled brain.
The man who was shooting at River goes down, screaming as he clutches his leg, and River takes the opportunity to lunge out from behind the chair, aiming and firing again. This one hits the man’s chest, and he goe
