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"Elena!"

"I'm here!"

Two words. Enough to make my lungs work again.

The upper bolt gives. I rip the door open and enter with my weapon raised.

The dressing-room partition hangs crooked from its frame. The intruder and Elena are on the floor beside the bed, struggling for control of her gun. Blood darkens the sleeve of his black jacket where her bullet struck him. One gloved hand clamps around her wrist while the other drives the weapon against the carpet.

I have no clean shot as they are both grappling on the floor, his masked head moving behind her shoulder.

"Get away from her."

He sees me and reacts instantly. He knocks the gun from Elena's hand, hooks his wounded arm across her chest, and surges to his feet, hauling her up with him. Elena claws at his forearm as he drags her backward toward the broken dressing-room partition and the service exit beyond it, using her body to shield his.

His uninjured hand reaches beneath his jacket.

"Stop," I say. "If you draw that weapon, you die."

He pulls the gun anyway and presses it against Elena's ribs. Only half his face is visible behind hers. Not enough for the shot I want.

"Put yours down," he orders.

His voice is distorted by something beneath the mask. Elena's eyes lock on mine. Fear is there, but so is calculation.

I lower my gun by an inch. "You came for her alive. Killing her leaves you with nothing."

"Gun. Down."

Elena stops fighting him.

I know her well enough to understand that stillness is not surrender.

She drives her heel down on his instep and drops her full weight without warning. His injured arm fails to hold her. The gun jerks away from her body as his balance shifts.

She gives me one second.

I use it.

My bullet hits his shoulder and spins him away from her. Elena drops to the floor and scrambles toward the bed while he reaches for his weapon again.

I fire twice. He doesn't get another chance.

I cross the room, kick his gun away, and check him quickly.

Dead.

I don't care who he is yet. I turn toward Elena.

She's sitting against the bed, staring at her hands. Blood stains the front of my white shirt that she's wearing.

Every thought leaves my head.

"Where are you hit?"

"I'm not."

I drop in front of her and check anyway, running my hands over her arms, shoulders, and sides.