Seventeen

The sound is more like scratching than anything sinister.

I move my hand toward my butt and feel the warm fur still pressed against it. If Prince isn’t in his litter box …

The scratching stops and there is a clunk and scrape of metal sliding back into its stainless-steel sheath. My upgraded security locks have just failed their first test.

I slip off the couch and ease the Governor from beneath the pillow. It feels heavier in my hand than it did at the range, but the rubber grip holds secure despite the film of perspiration that coats my palm.

I thumb off the safety, revealing the ominous red dot, and cup my shooting hand with my left to form a triangular support. My eyes never leave the door as I move sideways toward the armchair, its antique solidity making it the most protective piece of furniture in the room.

By the time the door begins to swing open on whispering hinges, I am steely-eyed, petrified, and concentrating on my breath. Unlike at the range, I am having trouble keeping my inhalations calm and steady.

When the door is three-quarters of the way open, I see a silhouette straightening up from a crouch in the doorway. The ever-burning hallway light is dark, but loose strands of moonlight entering through the small street-side window are enough to let me know that whoever is standing there is a solid object.

When the silhouette steps forward, I thumb back the Governor’s hammer with a click that sounds more like a thunderclap.

The dark figure freezes in place and its head turns in my direction.

I wonder if I should speak or if it’s better not to let the intruder know that I’m alone. If he has an imagination like mine, he might wonder if the room isn’t filled with ninja assassins or a ruthless biker gang that owes me a favor and plans to use his limbs as baseball bats.

Neither of us moves, but I wonder if he can hear my heart on its thudding journey from chest to throat.

Perhaps deciding the sound was in his imagination, the intruder lifts his foot to take another step.

“I will shoot,” I say, hoping I sound more like 24’s Jack Bauer than Three’s Company’s Jack Tripper.

“We need to talk,” says the silhouette.

“I have a phone for that.”

“I can help you.”

“If that were true, I doubt you’d be breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night.”

The silhouette moves his head, surveying the room. He doesn’t appear to be wearing night-vision goggles. In the movies, they always glow green, and no part of him is glowing, but the longer he stands there, the clearer he’s becoming as my eyes adjust to the dark. Which also means his eyesight is improving, too.

“Are the sisters here?” he asks.

“What sisters?”

I see his lips bend in a smile and it worries me. Soon, he’ll be able to tell that I’m alone, in my underwear, hiding behind a chair.

“You won’t be able to protect them by yourself. Mr. Lebed is far too powerful to take on alone.”

This catches me off guard, since I assumed it was Lebed who sent him.

“You don’t work for Lebed?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.”

Now I’m even more confused. “I want you to leave,” I say.

“If you answer one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Who sent you?”

The bedroom door creaks open as the question sinks in and I realize it’s the same one that the dead Russian had been asking me on the street.

“Dixie?” calls out Bailey. “Who are you talking to?”

The silhouette moves forward and turns toward the bedroom in the same instant that I call out for Bailey to get back inside. I see the intruder’s arm rising, the shape of a gun in his hand.

I fire.

The Governor booms, unleashing one of its shotgun shells in a spray of lethal force.

The intruder spins and curses, his own gun firing in a rapid succession of trigger-twitching anarchy. Plaster rains from the ceiling and stuffing flies from my protective armchair.

I crouch down low and roll to a new position behind the couch. From this vantage point I still have a clear view of the bedroom door. Ears ringing and eyes stinging from dust and sweat, I’ve lost sight of the intruder. But I know what he’s after.

The sisters.

So with eyes fixed on the closed door to his targets, I allow my ears to scan the room.

They come up empty.

I wait in silence until Sam’s voice calls from the hallway outside.

“Dixie? Are you OK?”

I don’t want to call back and give away my position, but I can’t let Sam walk into danger.

“Stay in your apartment, Sam,” I yell back.

“I’ve called the police,” Sam yells. “They’re on their way.”

“You hear that?” I say to the darkness as a rush of relief ignites the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream. “If you’re still here when Detective Fury arrives, he’ll fold you in half and stuff your head so far up your ass you’ll need a snorkel to breathe.”

The darkness doesn’t answer.