I stepped on the first riser, let the wood creak, and called out: “Hey!”
He spun, gun up, scanning the dark for the source. That was all the time she needed. She pivoted at the porch rail, doubled back, and crashed into him shoulder-first.
The gun went wide, but the shot didn’t. A single round popped off, burning the night. I heard it hit the eave, tile splintering.
She kept going, ramming him into the wall. The gun dropped to the boards. I was up the steps and over the rail before he could regroup.
He tried for the weapon, but Seraphina was on him, hands around his wrist, digging in with the kind of leverage that only comes from knowing the angles.
I hit him from the side, shoulder to ribs, and drove him back into the stucco. His head bounced. He slumped, dazed, then reached for the gun again.
Seraphina kicked it away. She was breathing hard, eyes locked on the weapon, not the man.
I knelt beside him, pinning his good arm under my knee. “You alright?” I called over my shoulder.
She wiped a smear of blood from her chin, nodded.
Holloway looked up at me, teeth gritted. “You don’t get it,” he spat. “None of you get it. You’re just—just the disposable layer.”
I twisted his arm until something popped. He screamed, then went limp.
Seraphina stood over him, chest heaving. The blood on her knuckles was already drying. “What do we do with him?” she asked, and the calm in her voice was colder than any mountain night.
I shrugged. “Cops are five miles down. He’s not going anywhere.”
She nodded, then looked at me. There was something different in her eyes—no panic, just the dead calm of someone who had finally found the bottom and realized it was solid.
“Thank you,” she said.
I let go of Holloway, got to my feet, and wrapped her in both arms. She didn’t flinch.
We stood there, the three of us—one unconscious, two unkillable—until the world remembered to start spinning again.
The woods were quiet, the night absolute, and every single star watched us in silence.
***
We trussed Holloway up with three orange extension cords and the grounding wire from her espresso machine. He came to with his head lolling, eyes glassy, a thin rivulet of blood charting a river from his hairline to the collar of his Brooks Brothers. We sat him in the middle of Seraphina’s kitchen—her kitchen, the room I’d only ever seen as a backdrop for awkward breakfasts and the smell of old Sumatran roast. Now it looked like an interrogation cell with better appliances.
She stood in front of him, feet apart, badge still clipped to her blouse, the dried blood on her knuckles a bold new accessory. She was silent, letting him orient. It took a full minute before he looked up at her, blinked the fog away, and registered that he’d lost.
I circled, slow, boots grating on the tile. I let my hand rest on the butt of my backup, the little Glock with the trigger job, just to see if he’d flinch.
He didn’t.
“Holloway,” she said, as if reciting a case file. “Wake up.”
He squinted at me, working his jaw. “You must be the infamous Nitro.” His voice was ragged, but he tried to sound like a man used to giving orders.
I smiled, all teeth. “Heard a lot about you, Doc. Most of it sounded like you were a prick.”
He sneered. “I always said you were a liability, Seraphina. Now look at you. You’re a murderer’s groupie.”
She didn’t react. Just paced in front of him, eyes laser sharp. “Why are you here, Holloway? Who are you working for now? The Russians, really?”
He gave a little laugh, as if the answer should be obvious. “Nobody works for anybody. Not really. I’m just the middleman.” He licked his lips, gaze darting between us. “It’s always the Russians with you, isn’t it? Always the shadow games.”
“You sold me out,” she said, not angry—just confirming her hypothesis.
