Page 32 of Theta

"Hey, watch out!” The guard says as I hit the tile. "You are okay? What you tripped on?" He puts the emphasis on the last word—what you tripped ON.

I hear his heavy tread shuffle forward and glance over my shoulder as I pretend to get to my feet, slowly, laboriously, and with evident pain.

Exactly as I risk a glance, Killian shoulder checks the door. It cannons into the guard with a wet crunch; the guard gives a howling gurgle of pain, stumbling backward with his hands pressed to his nose, which is sluicing crimson blood. The guard has remarkable presence of mind, though—he's grabbing for his gun even as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Killian rounds the edge of the door, lunges toward the other man, and catches his gun-wielding hand. With a deft twist, Killian has the gun and shoves the barrel into the man's bearded chin.

"Don’t…fucking…move," Killian says, his tone hard and cold. "I don't want to have to hurt you. You've been okay to us, as far as kidnappers go."

The man's eyes widen, and he shakes his head slowly. "No, no funny business. I have a daughter. This man, this Pugli, he gives me no good choices. Either he pay me a lot of money to do this, and he say no one is killed, if this plan goes rightly. Or…he kill my daughter. Already, my wife is died from a bad sickness. Now my daughter, she has only me. What am I to do, hmm? He kills me, he kills my daughter? Or I am paid enough money to start in your America, with all of the promises for getting rich, sì?"

Killian jerks his head at the bed. "Go sit. Story, can you find something to tie him up with, please?"

"Oh no, no, this is not necessary," the man argues. "I wish you no harm."

"Your friends," Killian says. "What will they do when they find out?"

He shrugs. "I do not know. They are bad men, but they are bad at being bad, you understand this? I am not so afraid of them." A pause, another shrug. "Also, they are no friends of mine."

I go into the main living area and hunt for something—I spot a pair of old work boots, battered and floppy and mud-crusted. I work the laces free, return to the bedroom, and make quick work of tying the guard's hands behind his back, using the knots Dad taught me. The man is remarkably calm through all of this, cooperating almost too easily.

Killian is clearly having similar thoughts, because he sidles up to me after I finish tying up the guard. "Is it me or does this feel too easy?"

"I was just thinking that myself," I answer. "Let's get out of here."

Killian shoves the pistol behind his back and we scrounge the main area for anything usable. We come up with a burner cell phone, a small folding box cutter, a little over a hundred euros in an assortment of small denominations, and the box of shells and the spare magazines. There's a black backpack by the door as well, which contains a spare change of clothes; Killian takes the T-shirt, which is several sizes too big for him, and dumps the rest to make room for our haul.

"Wait, let me see if there's food we can take," I say, before we leave the flat.

I rifle hurriedly through the fridge and cupboards, but all I find is a case of beer, almost empty, a one-third-empty handle of vodka, some fresh tomatoes, cilantro, basil, heavy cream, some raw chicken breasts…fixings for meals, but nothing transportable.

And then, score of all scores, I spot a keyring half-hidden under the pile of porn magazines; there's a key to a Lancia on it, which means there has to be a car nearby.

I snag the keys, and we prepare to exit.

Killian steps in front of me, gun in both hands, pointed down, waiting behind me and to my left in classic room-clearing formation. He nods at me, and I yank the door open, stepping out of the way with it. Killian, pistol held in a Weaver stance, slides to cover the open door.

"Fuck!” BAM-BAM-BAM!

I have no time to react. The curse and the three shots happen almost instantaneously. Before I realize what's happening, it's done—the three goons lie stretched out on the roadway outside the door, each of them with a hole in their foreheads. The rain has settled into one of those steady slogs that doesn't seem too hard at first, but once you're out in it, you realize it's a lot more rain than you were thinking; the rain swirls with the leaking, running blood, rinsing it away as it drains out of the dead men.

There's a sudden silence after the gunshots, and then Killian abruptly shoves the gun into my hands, trots a few steps out into the rain, and vomits into the gutter. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck," he rasps. "Jesus. Jesus."

I hurry to him and rub his back as he bends over, hands on his knees, retching, panting, and retching. "Hey, breathe. It's okay. You did good, Killian."

"I killed them." He straightens, hawks, and spits. Sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and exhales with slow, pursed-lips intention. "That happened so fucking fast, holy shit."

"Your reaction time was incredible," I tell him.

"It was honestly instinctive," he says. "It just sort of happened. I moved into the opening and they were just…there. The one guy had his arm up to knock. I don't remember even deciding to shoot. It just…it just happened."

"Hey! You kids! American kids!" The guard is shouting.

"I suppose the goons being dead changes the equation for that guy, huh?" Killian says.

"Does it?" I respond. "We need to get scarce. Especially now. Those shots are going to be reported."

“Yeah, well…I have a feeling about that guy. I think we should let him go."

"And have him report us to Pugli? Or kill us when our backs are turned? Killy, c'mon. We need to go. It's called being on the run, not on the leisurely stroll through sleepy Italian port villages."