I angled my weapon over the sofa at him. He clutched his wounds with his hands, trying to stem the tide of blood, but failed miserably. His rifle lay across his lap.
I crept around the sofa, moving toward him, keeping a wary eye on my surroundings.
The thug made a move for his rifle.
I fired two more shots into his chest.
Shell casings danced against the tile, and the goon went limp. He lay on the floor in a pool of blood.
I cleared the kitchen, the living room, and the downstairs guest bedroom.
An eerie silence filled the house.
I moved back to the edge of the foyer and angled my rifle skyward toward the balcony as I inched forward.
Muzzle flash lit up the night, peppering the tile as I stepped into the foyer.
I darted back.
Raul leaned over the balcony, blasting away.
If he was on the frontlines, there were no more underlings. Just him, Jordan, and Paisley.
I aimed my rifle at the ceiling and squeezed off a flurry of bullets.
The minions of death tore through, shredding Raul as he stood above. He groaned, tumbled forward, and fell over thebalcony. Raul flopped flat on his back on the hard tile in the foyer. He moaned and gurgled, unable to move.
I put two more bullets into him to end his misery, then crept into the foyer. I kicked his weapon away and crossed to the floating stairs. I took a wary step up. With my barrel aimed at the top of the staircase, I inched forward.
As my head crested the top of the second-floor landing, muzzle flash lit up the darkness.
I ducked as bullets snapped past my head, peppering the drywall.
This was a bad tactical position.
54
“Back off, or she dies,” Jordan shouted.
“Let her go, and I’ll let you live,” I replied. "You need to think about this," I shouted at him. "If you harm Paisley, you die. There's no scenario where you walk out of here alive, unless you let her go."
"Fuck you!”
His voice gave away his position.
I inched toward the top of the steps.
More bullets snapped over the top of my head.
Jordan wasn’t the best shot in the world, but even a broken clock is right twice a day. If I gave him enough chances, he'd hit me eventually.
He hid behind the bar counter in the spacious lounge that had terrace access. Moonlight filtered in, backlighting the room, silhouetting his outline.
Jordan had his hands full, keeping a pistol aimed at me while managing Paisley. Her whimpers drifted from the room.
"Just put the gun down, Jordan.”
In close-quarter combat, most gunshots miss. The rush of adrenaline and nerves degrade fine motor skills. With heartbeats pounding and shaky hands, even professionals can’t hit squat. Jordan certainly wasn't a trained professional.
