Stella nodded.
Another bullet ricocheted off the brick just below the windowsill.
I started to count down. The second SUV skidded to a stop behind the first before I reached two.
24
Stack heard a heavy weight hit the floor directly above his head, then roll down the stairs. Plaster rained down on him from the newly created window from his bathroom to the second floor.
Never one to waste a trip, when Stack got the beer from the kitchen, he took the opportunity to fill his left pocket with twenty-nine rounds of .357 ammo from the box in the utility drawer beside the refrigerator. All he had in the house. He clicked open the cylinder, removed the three spent shells, and replaced them with fresh bullets. Then he flushed the toilet, opened the door, and stepped back out into his living room.
The man who came down the stairs the hard way was lying in a heap against the coat closet door. His white trench coat had twisted around his body, and his right leg had gotten caught up in the shotgun slung over his shoulder and hidden under the coat. His fibula split halfway between his knee and ankle, broke through the skin, and stuck out from a hole in his white slacks. If the man had still been alive, that leg would be bothersome. As it currently stood, one or more of Stack’s shots caught him between the legs and exited out the small of his back—both of those wounds looked far more painful.
Stack froze in the living room, not out of shock or fright, but because his hearing was terrible and he couldn’t tell if there were more people upstairs.
25
From the corner of the shattered front window, Stella and I watched Latrese Oliver step out in her familiar flowing white trench. Her left arm was in a sling, partially hidden under the coat. If she carried a weapon, I didn’t see it.
The old woman looked up and down the street, then at the bullet-riddled front of Cammie Brotherton’s small house. “Are you in there, sweet Stella?”
Stella, who was still crouched low on my right side, started to rise. I shot her a quick glance and shook my head.
She froze.
“I know it was an accident, dear,” Oliver said. “You didn’t mean to hurt me, did you? It was all because of him—Dalton, Preacher, whatever he calls himself these days—he confused you with his little escape plan, told you things, didn’t he? Untrue things. Not a single question of ‘would you like to leave?’ Instead, he took you from me, then left you alone in the streets—a bird from her cage lost to flutter in solitude on broken wings. You can come back, Stella! You know I love you. Nobody loves you like I do! I forgive you for what you did to me!”
Stella stirred but said nothing.
Oliver took a step closer to the house, favoring her left leg. “That Dalton, he’s a hitman, you know. It’s one thing to kill those who deserve it, but he simply kills for money. He puts a price on a head and accepts it—fathers, brothers, mothers, sisters—he doesn’t care, he’s killed them all. I taught you values, I taught you morals, I made you the grandest of women. Come home to me, continue your studies, and all is forgiven!”
“You imprisoned me!” Stella shouted. “Made me kill for you!”
“I kept you alive, dear, kept you safe. I brought you what you needed. Who else would do such a thing? And you’re overdue! Two days! You must be famished! Let me feed you, Stella. I know exactly what you need! I have one all picked out! One might not be enough anymore. Perhaps two or three.” Oliver took another step closer and frowned. “The Thatch boy is in there too, isn’t he? With that awful Hobson fellow? I can smell them. Put them down, Stella, then come home with me. I have a new place, a wonderful place. You’ll find it so lovely. Let me give you what you need, my sweet, sweet girl. All is forgiven, I promise you!”
Hobson was looking down at Stella’s hands, her long, black gloves back on. He turned back to the window as a man rounded the SUV.
“David,” Stella whispered.
David held up his wrist and tapped the front of his watch. “We’re on a bit of a time crunch, Latrese. How about we save the bonding speech for back at Charter, huh?” He smiled toward the house. “Hey, Jack? Did you like the Jameson I left for you back in Pittsburgh? I heard it was your favorite. I’ve got another bottle here in the car. It’s all yours. I just need you to do a little something for me first. Nothing serious, just a little favor. You’ve got a gun, right? I bet you’ve got a cannon in there. All loaded up, ready to go? I need you to point your gun at Dewey Hobson’s head, get it right up on there, nice and close.”
My arms swung around, and the rifle with them, the narrow barrel less than an inch from Hobson’s forehead. I tried to point it away, but my limbs wouldn’t respond.
David then said, “When you’ve got the shot lined up, I need you to—”
A blast roared through the house as Stella raised her shotgun and pulled the trigger right next to my ear. The entire world went silent, David’s voice, Stella and Hobson breathing near me, all of it replaced in a millisecond by a high-pitched ringing. I dropped the rifle, and it fell to my side on the sling. I covered both ears with my hands, but the ringing only grew louder.
Stella slapped my back, then began firing toward David, toward Oliver and the other people in white. She shouted something at me, right in my face, but I couldn’t hear her. Her eyes jumped to the rifle dangling from my neck before going back to the window. I remembered the plan, scooped up the rifle, and fired—each shot nothing but a distant thud buried beneath the ringing.
Stella got to her feet and grabbed Hobson. She was out the door in an instant, pulling the man behind her. She released him just long enough to get a firm hold on the shotgun and squeeze off a series of shots, peppering the SUVs, then tugged at him again, pulling him across the yard. One shot struck the woman with the nickel-plated pistol and she fell back against the driver’s seat, then to the ground. I fired, too. Four shots rained against the side of the vehicle. A fifth blew the front tire of the first SUV. I fired at a man huddled low in the passenger seat of Oliver’s SUV while Stella took aim at a man who had rounded the vehicle and was now kneeling beside it, using the fender as cover. I shoved Hobson toward our Mercedes, fired another round, then yanked open the back door and pushed him inside. I threw our bags in behind him.
Oliver stood in the middle of the road, oblivious to all the gunfire, her eyes locked on Stella. She started toward her, a slow shuffle. David had taken cover somewhere. I didn’t see him.
Stella froze at the sight of Oliver, the old woman creeping toward her, raising her one good arm, the other trapped in the sling. I shouted her name but heard nothing over the ringing. I tugged at her arm, pulled her toward the car, got her into he passenger seat. Then I slid over the hood and got in too.
Oliver was still walking toward us.
“Go,” Stella’s lips mouthed silently. “Please… Go. Go! Go!”
