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She’s screaming and howling. “No, no, no! Never again!”
“Cut the shit!” I snap at her. “Who knows what the fuck my brother has done to the house? He could blow it to pieces! He could be out there waiting with a sniper rifle! We have to get the hell out of here, now!”
I climb to my feet and throw her over my shoulder, hurrying toward the Mercedes that I keep parked in the traffic circle in front of my house and praying that Charlemagne hasn’t sabotaged it. She’s writhing and kicking so hard I almost drop her.
As I reach the car, I don’t see Elizabeth there waiting for me. What the hell? I don’t have time for this! I glance back at the house and see that she’s running for the front door. She’s going back in.
“Elizabeth!” I yell at her. “Get back here! What are you doing?”
I run back to the house, still holding a wildly struggling Toy. Elizabeth runs right through the airlock room and into the house.
She turns around to look at me. She points at Toy, then gives me the middle finger. Then she opens her mouth wide and sucks in huge gulps of air.
And falls over backward.
I drop Toy on the ground with a thud, suck in my breath, and make it partway into the room, but whatever the gas is, it makes my eyes sting and I can’t go any further. I turn away and run back outside, leaving Elizabeth behind to die.
I feel a tsunami of a horrible emotion that I don’t recognize rolling over me. Oh God, I think it’s grief. I will never see Elizabeth again. Never.
What has Toy done to me?
How can I have these disgusting feelings?
I shake my head, blinking hard against the burning of my eyes, and look for Toy. Of course, she has run off again.
I run over to the car and fetch the Glock that I keep in the center console and tuck it into my waistband. Then I chase after her as she runs toward the woods, her bare feet slapping on the cold ground.
“Toy! Get the hell back here or I will cut your fucking tits off!”
Do I hear sirens far, far away? Has Charlemagne called the cops on me?
I need to get out of here, immediately. Toy is slowing me down.
The ice-hearted reptilian part of my brain knows what to do. I must kill her to save myself. This isn’t a game of cat and mouse anymore. This is the very real possibility of me going to prison or dying in a police shootout.
I fire the gun once, over her head. “Get back here or I’ll shoot!”
She ignores me and keeps running, so I point the gun at her, aiming for center mass. Shoot the torso rather than the head—it makes a better target, and there are all kinds of juicy internal organs in there. My bullets are hollow-point; they’ll make bloody confetti of her insides. I’ll toss her body in front of my house, flee the scene, and blow that shit sky-high, incinerating her and all the evidence.
I will do this.
I can do this.
Everybody exists to serve my purposes, and when they threaten me, they need to be eliminated. Simple as that. She’s getting further and further away from me, disappearing into the woods.
The iceman survivalist inside me pulls the trigger. But the new thing that Tamara created jerks the gun at the last second so that the bullet flies right by her left ear.
She trips and falls to her knees but gets up again. She limps away slowly. She must have wrenched her ankle.
I tuck my gun in my waistband and catch up to her easily and carry her back to the car. Desperation makes her wild.
She snatches the gun from my waistband and jams it into my throat, and I stop moving instantly. Her finger is on the trigger. It doesn’t take much pressure at all to fire a Glock. She could do it without even meaning to.
“Put me the hell down!” Her voice is trembling.
“Take your finger off the trigger,” I snap at her.
“You don’t give me orders anymore, asshole. Never again. Put. Me. Down.”
