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“Hunter, we have to go. Now.”
I flush again and then open the door.
“Ready.”
The three of us march out to the parking lot, where I find a cloth-wrapped cache of weapons strapped to my bike.
“You guys sure about this?” I say. “What about civilians and other gamblers who might be there? We should take some more time, survey the place, do some recon.”
Havoc shakes his head and slings his leg over his bike. “They don’t open for gamblers for another couple of hours. The only people in there are staff, mostly security, and everyone armed is to be considered hostile. It’s the perfect time for us to strike. So that’s what we’re going to do — hit them hard and kill everyone.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Emily
The banging at my door escalates until it’s a rapid-fire concussive assault. Somehow, with the gun in my hand, I feel braver, more self-assured. Maybe it’s that I know I could use it if I had to; maybe it’s that I want to.
Clutching my weapon, I hurry to my front door for a moment and take a peek through the peephole. In the abandoned hallway of my apartment building, I see two masked men. The ski masks must be for their benefit, or for any witnesses, because I know who they are — Jay and his friend, Officer Abrams.
A heavy kick that makes my door rattle in its frame and the wood groan and squeal sends me stepping backward.
I raise my gun, and I ready myself. My heart feels like a runaway freight train in my chest, and my hands shake, the barrel of the gun moving like a conductor’s baton in my grip. Yet I know that, when that door flies open, my aim will be enough — then I’ll be through with Jay and never have to deal with his threats, his machinations, his ruinous bullshit ever again.
I breathe in slowly, just like Gary taught me. And I hold that breath, ready for the slow, steady exhale that comes along with an accurate shot.
Another kick. My door shrieks. It won’t hold much longer.
The door splinters, wood fragments exploding inward, and it groans and shakes and wobbles in its frame. It won’t hold on any longer. My finger tenses on the trigger, ready to unleash death. But then—
A wail pierces the air behind me. Charlie. Oh God, Charlie.
My resolve crumbles like sand. How could I forget about Charlie? How could I even think of doing this with him here? The gun suddenly feels like a viper in my hands, poisonous and wrong.
Nausea roils in my gut. What kind of monster am I, ready to paint these walls with blood and brains while an innocent baby watches? That I’d be so giddy to shoot someone in front of the infant son of the man I love makes me sick. The image of Charlie's bright eyes clouded by the horror of murder flashes through my mind, and I choke back a sob.
I’d never be able to hold him in my arms again, knowing that he witnessed me acting like some inhuman monster; a murderer, a vengeful murderer willing to shoot dead two men in front of a baby and feel glad doing it.
Another kick. The door is giving way, slumping, falling, fading, but I can't. I can't do this.
"Help!" I scream, my voice raw and wavering. "Somebody help me! Call the police!"
I back away from the door, trembling. There’s laughter on the other side of the splintering wood.
"Please," I plead to no one and everyone, "someone call 911! They're breaking in!"
Charlie's cries grow louder, echoing my terror. Tears stream down my face as I continue to shout, praying someone, anyone, will hear me. The gun shakes in my hand, nearly falling to the floor while the door gives a mournful groan of protest.
Behind me, there’s a sound of shattering glass in my kitchen and I look over my shoulder to see someone has hurled a brick through my window.
Then my lights flicker.
Once, twice, then go out. They must be at the fuse box in the hallway. They’re cutting my power.
I have to do something. Have to get him out of here. Hurriedly, I gather Charlie in my arms, shielding him with my body, and I run toward the bathroom. The bathroom door slams behind me and I lock it and run to the bathtub. I set Charlie down inside and get in next to him, my back to the chill tile, the gun trained on the door.
I wouldn’t commit a vengeful murder in front of Charlie, but would I shoot someone to protect him? Without a doubt.
If anyone comes through that door, I will shoot them.
