Center mass. Center mass means he drops. If he drops, where does she fall?
She’s slung over his shoulder, dead weight. The alley is concrete and ice and broken glass.
If she cracks her head—
If he twists at the last second—
If I miss—
If. If. If.
If I don’t take the shot, he takes her. She’s gone.
“Kelly, talk to me,” Jack’s voice barks in my ear. It’s out of breath, as though he’s running. “I’m almost to you. What’ve you got?”
I don’t answer.
I sight down the barrel instead. My finger tightens on the trigger.
Henry’s at the mouth of the alley now, Twig’s dead weight slung over his shoulder now like she’s nothing. His car is parked half up on the curb, driver’s door hanging open, engine idling.
Too far. Too close to her.
I exhale, try to thread the needle.
Don’t hit her. Don’t hit her. Don’t—
I squeeze.
The shot cracks the air, echoing down the narrow brick corridor. The muzzle flash blinds me for a heartbeat.
The bullet pings off the corner of a dumpster a foot from Henry’s head, showering him with rust and brick dust.
“Fuck,” I snarl.
He ducks, staggering, almost dropping her. But he doesn’t. He clamps his arm tighter around her legs and lunges for the car.
“Kelly!” Jack shouts in my ear. “Report!”
“He’s got her, back alley off Main, heading to a vehicle—”
A shape barrels in from the far end of the alley, opposite me. Jack, gun up, moving like a battering ram.
“Thurston!” he roars, voice big enough to bounce off brick. “Police! Drop her!”
Henry doesn’t even look.
Jack doesn’t hesitate.
His shot cracks through the air a split second after mine.
Henry jerks, a raw, ugly sound torn from his throat. Blood spatters the gray of his coat where his thigh should be.
He stumbles. For one perfect, vicious second, I think he’s going down and I’ll have a clean shot at center mass.
Instead, his knee buckles. His grip on Twig slips, and she spills from his shoulder, tumbling toward the pavement as he lets her go to grab the car door.
“Twig!” I bellow.
