“When did you hide firearms under the bed?”
I smile, exhaling into a comfortable position, my finger resting on the trigger.
“I told you I don’t like to be blindsided.”
When Baz told me there was ammo underground, I took it upon myself to go snooping. I found a hatch door under a rug in the back of the house by the washer and dryer. When I climbed down into the hidden room, or should I say warehouse, I discovered the motherload. It was like walking through an armory. If it maims, kills, or blows up, it was down there. I helped myself, stashing all types of guns around the house wherever I could. Baz may hate Benny, but he can thank him for making me paranoid.
I inhale a deep breath when I see the barrel of a gun sneak around the wall to the staircase. Let the duck hunt begin.
I hold still, maintaining my patience until a head follows the floating gun. I pull the trigger as soon as a man’s face comes into view.
Bullet straight to the temple.
I hear Baz’s choppy breathing and uncomfortable moans behind me.
“You better not be dying on me back there.”
He huffs. “I’m good, killer.”
The nickname sends a cold shiver down my spine. Baz has never seen me like this. In my element. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Shit,” I hear a deep voice mutter as the body at the bottom of the stairs is nudged. As soon as the second man turns the corner, I shoot, sending two into his chest. He collapses on his “friend.” The bodies are piling up.
“Stevie.” Baz struggles to inhale. I glance back to find him sweaty and pale. He’s losing too much blood.
“How far away is the truck?” I ask, overly concerned.
“Quarter mile.”
“Do you think you can make it?”
He nods.
“We’ll have to make a run for it. We can’t stay here.”
“It’s fine.” His eyes are droopy. Baz keeping his truck parked far away in the woods is smart but inconvenient in this situation.
“Can you grab a towel and shirt from the room?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Go. I’ll wait here just in case any more of their buddies show up.”
Baz is in and out in a matter of seconds, pressing a white towel to the wound on his shoulder.
There are a million things to worry about all at once, but I have to keep my priorities straight and not lose my head. There’s too much at stake to start fucking up now.
We sneak down the stairs, me going first with the rifle still perched in my arms. I check to make sure it’s clear, listening for breathing or footsteps or a click of a gun. There’s nothing, just the melody of the birds chirping in the trees.
“Let’s go.” We hurry to the front door, and I check outside. This is dicey. There could be an army waiting for us to exit. I always think the worst.
I go to step out onto the porch, but Baz pulls me back. “Let me go first.”
“You’re hurt.”
“You’re pregnant. That life”—he points to my stomach—“is more important than my life.”
I know this is no time to melt, but I do. That statement just scored him back door booty for a month. Maybe a year, provided we live that long.
