CHAPTER ONE
Being a hairstylist wasn’t supposed to be a dangerous job.
Freya Hansen blinked as time slowed. Shock consumed her. She met her client’s surprised gaze in the mirror and then shifted her attention to the angry man rushing up behind them.
Her client, Janie, gasped.
Freya’s spa manager hurried toward them, chasing the red-faced man.
Before Freya could react, the man grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her to the side. She crashed into the salon chair beside hers, toppling it. Its lightly padded metal arm slammed into her ribs. Fire tore through her chest. For a split second, her breath locked in her throat, and all she could do was stare, unable to take in the pandemonium that had exploded around her.
“How dare you, bitch!” he screamed at Janie.
He tried to yank the woman out of the salon chair, and Janie cried out, clinging to the chair with one arm, covering her head with the other as he slapped her.
All the while, Claire—Janie’s sister, who’d been seated at the station next to them—shouted, “Call 911!”
Claire pounced onto the man’s back, trying to drag him off her sister.
Chaos. It was utter chaos.
Freya untangled herself from the overturned salon chair and surged to her feet, ignoring the pain that shot up her side. Joining Claire, who was now punching the back of the man’s head, Freya grabbed the man’s right arm and yanked, hoping to get him off Janie.
The man continued to slap at Janie while screaming vile curses at them, but Freya clung to his arm like a spider monkey.
Then time stopped.
Freya’s eyes widened when she registered the black gun clutched in the man’s right hand.
She opened her mouth to shout out a warning, but before the words left her mouth, a deafening bang sounded. The mirror in front of them shattered. Screams rent the air, and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled her nose.
Her ears rang, but she held on to his arm.
“Let go of me, you bitch!” he roared. His brown gaze locked on hers, and fear chilled her blood, but she clung tighter to his arm.
“No!” someone screamed.
He reared back and smacked his head against hers.
A loud crack reverberated through Freya’s skull, and her vision wavered. Dazed, her grip on his arm weakened, and she crumpled to the ground.
The man sneered down at her, a trickle of blood dripping from his forehead. “Touch me again, bitch, and I’ll blow your fucking head off,” he spat before turning his back to her.
Heart racing and vision blurry, Freya scrambled backward over the broken pieces of the mirror. She ignored the sharp stings on her palms and tucked herself under her workstation. Less than ten feet away, Janie was huddled on the ground withClaire, both still wearing their salon capes. The man stood over them, arms flailing wildly as he waved his gun at the handful of women still in the salon.
“Janie, Janie...” He tsked. “When will you fucking learn?” With a deranged laugh, he fired again, striking another workstation’s mirror. Then again into the drywall. And again into another mirror.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Freya made herself as small as possible, covering her head with her arms. More glass shattered, more screams filled the salon. Her body trembled with each heart-stopping gunshot.
“Police! Drop your weapon!”
Freya buried her face tighter against her knees and held her breath, too scared to move.
“Fuck you!” the man shouted.
Three more gunshots rang out. Freya jerked with each one.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the sounds of women crying and whimpering, muttered curses, and the crunch of glass underfoot replaced the quiet.
