“Crouch down and point it at the back door,” he said.
She did so immediately, her heart battering her rib cage. “What’s happening?”
“I’ll be right back.” Hunching over, he moved into the living room.
She pointed the gun at the innocuous yellow door, wondering what he’d seen. Or, rather, heard. His senses were so strong as to be supernatural. The blood rushed through her veins, pounding between her ears. Taking several deep breaths, she tried to calm the noise inside. What was out there? All she heard was wind and crackling ice.
Less than a minute later, he returned with two packs and tossed hers to her along with her boots and her wool coat. His gun was bigger than hers, with a huge clip thingy. “Put those on. Now.”
She set the gun on the scratched linoleum to slide her arms into her coat and then the straps of her backpack before yanking her boots on. Her hands shaking, she picked up the weapon again. “What’s happening?”
He shook his head. “I saw three gang members outside, and I don’t know how many more are out there. Keep your head down and move toward the garage. We’ll drive the truck right over the motherfuckers. I’ll go first, and you keep on my six.”
Six? What in the world was a six? “Okay.” She gulped, feeling way too exposed.
A loud pattering sound ripped through her plan, and wood went flying. She yelped and ducked low as bullets flew in every direction, smashing into the microwave and all across the kitchen. She cried out. The front window shattered in the other room. Computer monitors blew up with loud bursts. Bullets hit the refrigerator, and the door fell off. Milk exploded. Holes covered the top of the door leading to the backyard.
She screamed and covered her head.
Denver grabbed the back of her neck and all but dragged her toward the door to the garage. He opened it and shoved her hard. She tumbled down the two steps and fell against the truck, her shoulder protesting. Before she could right herself, he lifted her by her pack.
He leaned close, his face a hard mask. “We’ll be okay. Trust me.”
She gulped.
He tugged open the truck door. “The gang found us, damn it.”
Bullets ricocheted from outside the garage, pinging against the metal. The front of the truck exploded with a loud hiss. “Fuck,” Denver said, slamming the door. “New plan.” He pulled her around the truck toward an outside door, ducking as he went. “I’ll go first. When I motion for you, follow as fast as you can. Shoot anybody shooting at us.”
She looked down at the gun in her stiff hand. How could this be happening?
Denver gingerly opened a rickety door and slid into the darkness. He fired once. Twice. A scream of pain echoed. Then he turned and grabbed her arm to pull her outside. “Run, baby.”
She launched into motion, following him through the thick snow and making an instant right turn toward a six-foot worn wooden fence. Without stopping his stride, he turned and lifted her with one arm, tossing her right over. Her arms windmilled, and she fell hard, landing on her back in the snow. Rolling, she was on her feet as he dropped next to her.
Another snow-filled backyard.
The gunfire continued behind them.
A gang member with tattoos all over his face came out from behind a tree, his gun lifting.
Denver pivoted and fired his gun. The bullet hit the man in the middle of the forehead. His eyes opened wide, blood spurted, and then, almost in slow motion, he fell.
Noni stopped feeling. Not the cold snow covering her, not the fear. Nothing. She stared numbly at the dead body.
Denver clasped her arm and pulled her farther through the snow and toward the body. She tried to fight him out of pure instinct, but he was relentless. They reached the back fence.
Sudden silence took over the night.
He paused. “They’re in the house.”
She turned, the night surreal, and looked the way they’d come.
With a smile that scared the hell out of her and took her from her nice place of shock, he pulled a black square box out of his front jeans pocket.
“What’s—” she started to ask.
He pushed a red button.
