I don’t feel my knees scraping against the floor.
I don’t feel the sting of glass biting into my skin.
I don’t feel anything except terror pressing down on me so hard it makes the edges of my vision blur.
Someone is screaming. Maybe Sienna. Maybe me.
I can’t tell.
All I know is that we’re running, crawling, sliding trying to survive a night that was supposed to be full of lights and warmth and stupid holiday magic and instead became the moment everything in my life split apart.
“Birdie, this is bad,” she whispers, voice shaking. “We need to get out of here.”
More shots explode, louder this time. Someone screams—a raw, awful sound—and then Sara’s voice cuts through it.
“Dave!”
I look toward her just in time to see Dave on the floor, his white sweater blooming red, his dark eyes wide and empty. The sight hits harder than the pain in my arm. My breath catches, and the room tilts, all glittering lights and horror.
The apartment is pure chaos now. People scream, furniture topples, glass shatters. The smell of gunpowder mixes with cinnamon and beer, turning my stomach.
Sienna’s shaking beside me, clutching my good arm. “Birdie—please?—”
“I know,” I rasp, forcing myself up. “Come on.”
We crawl toward the hallway, staying low, my arm slick with blood. The men are shouting. One of them kicks over the coffee table, sending bottles and cans flying. I grab Sienna’s wrist and drag her toward my room, praying the noise covers us.
A bullet hits the wall above us, spraying plaster like snow. We dive through the doorway, and I slam the bedroom door shut, twisting the flimsy lock that won’t hold for long.
My breath comes fast and shallow.
Sienna presses her hand over my wound. “You’re bleeding.”
“I was afraid of that,” I push her toward the corner behind the bed. “Stay down. Don’t move, no matter what happens.”
The doorknob rattles. Then a boot slams against the wood and the lock gives in an instant. I grab the nearest thing I can which happens to be my bedside lamp and raise it like a weapon. My hand trembles, but I plant myself between her and the door. I don’t know why they want her, but I’m not going to let someone take my best friend, because I’m pretty sure that’s who they’re here for.
The door bursts open.
One of the intruders steps in, gun first, his face shadowed beneath a hood. I lift the lamp higher, ready to swing.
He laughs when he sees me. “Oh, this is cute.”
He fills the doorframe just as a new sound cuts through the chaos.
A shout from the front of the apartment. “Drop it!”
For one wild second, hope flares in my chest. Please, God, let it be the police. But then automatic fire rips through the air, a brutal, deafening crack that shakes the walls. The man in my doorway jerks violently before collapsing, his body crumpling to the carpet. And the blood…I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.
I choke on a sob and drag Sienna into my arms, shielding her as boots thunder down the hallway.
Three men flood into the room wearing black tactical gear, weapons raised, movements precise. They sweep the space like they’ve done this a hundred times. For a breathless, trembling instant, I’m ready to sob with relief. But then one of them barks something over his shoulder, sharp and commanding.
Not English.
Italian.
My heart nosedives. These aren’t the police.
