Page 112 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

But the second gunshot tore through the air before I got the chance.

And the kid’s body jolted hard then fell.

“No!” I shrieked.

And I don’t really know what happened then.

Why my instinct wasn’t to hide, to stay safe, to trust the other men would come.

Maybe it was the same instinct that had me holding a mafia capo hostage.

But I threw open the back door and flew out.

“No,” the kid hissed through his pain. “Get back in the car.”

I wasn’t listening.

I was lunging for the gun a few feet away from him, grabbing the unfamiliar heaviness in my hand.

I didn’t know much about guns.

But any fool could point and pull a trigger.

So, I straightened.

“Where’s my dad?” I yelled.

“Dead,” he said, having the nerve to smile as he said it. “Put a bullet right between his eyes. Just like I’m gonna do to you.”

I didn’t think.

Didn’t even hesitate.

I raised the gun, aimed, and shot.

The shock sent me back a foot as I watched Ira jolt hard, then blood bloom through his shirt before he fell.

“Give me the gun,” the kid on the ground demanded, pulling himself up, his face drenched in sweat and his features tight.

“Sit back down,” I demanded.

But I didn’t stop to make sure he did just that.

I tightened my sweaty hold on the gun and ran toward Ira, rather than away. He was still breathing, his hand clutching his chest, eyes wild.

“You… shot… me.”

I grabbed his gun and kept running in the direction he came from, forcing my legs to carry me faster than they ever had before.

Not that there was much hope if he had a bullet in the forehead. But I had to be sure that I tried to help if there was anything that could be done.

I’d only been running for maybe two minutes when I heard it.

“No, please. Mona, no!”

Dad.

That was my dad.