Maggie had heard cops who’d been involved in shoot-outs talk about time slowing down and extreme events unfolding around them in slow motion as rushes of adrenaline kicked in. But that wasn’t the case for her. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. The events inside the small house in Brighton Park happened so fast that her mind struggled to keep up with them.
It was all just a flash of images and emotions. The gun in O’Malley’s hand. Something striking her face. Stumbling backward against the table. O’Malley firing into Andrew’s chest. Her ears ringing from the shots. The smell of burnt gunpowder in the air. Andrew falling back against a ratty old couch. The entire thing tipping over as gravity pulled him down to the pale yellow linoleum. He smashed into a small end table, causing an antique lamp with no shade to fall over on top of him.
Then O’Malley started to turn and bring the gun to bear on her.
Her first instinct was to run, but she fought the impulse. Instead she grabbed hold of one of the green chairs around the table and swung it against O’Malley’s back.
He cried out in pain but stayed on his feet.
Marcus had taught Maggie to use her environment as a weapon, always stressing that anything could be a weapon in the right hands. She followed that advice now as she grabbed the edge of the faux-wood table and flung it at O’Malley.
It struck him, and he stumbled backward. But he shocked her again by not going down. The man who only a few moments before had appeared frail and old in her eyes now seemed to have shed twenty years and was surprisingly strong and quick.
She went for the backup pistol concealed at her ankle, a .357 Glock 33 subcompact. But, as she pulled it free, O’Malley lunged forward and slammed her with an uppercut from the butt of the gun in his right hand.
Maggie felt the flesh on her face tear open as she slammed back against the linoleum. The impact drove the air from her lungs. Her Glock 33 slipped from her grasp and skidded across the floor and out of reach.
Her mind registered vaguely that she had been played, but she didn’t have time to consider the possibilities. O’Malley was raising the gun in her direction.
She rolled toward the back door as he opened fire. It was heavy and wooden, its paint white but flaking from age. The sensation of flying hot metal searing the air around her head and the noise of plaster exploding propelled her through the door. She staggered onto an old porch that had been closed in and converted to a laundry room. She fell to the floor and kicked the door shut behind her. Three more 9mm bullets smashed through it, splintering the wood.
Scenarios flew through her mind. Should she run out the back door and go for help? But she couldn’t just abandon the Schofield family in the house. It was her job to protect them, not just save her own skin.
Marcus’s words returned to her again. Anything can be a weapon.
Maggie glanced quickly around the small porch. There was an old yellow dryer and a mismatched white washer. The room smelled of water damage. A shelf hung above the washer and dryer. It contained a dusty bottle of fabric softener and a big jug labeled Clorox with white letters over the shape of a red and blue diamond.
Anything can be a weapon.
Maggie grabbed the bottle and spun the cap. Then she squatted low and waited, another trick she had learned from Marcus. People expected others to be at chest and head level with them, which was where humans’ gazes naturally traveled first. Getting low and catching the old man unaware could save her a split second, and a split second was often all that was needed to turn the tide in a battle.
The respite lasted only a few breaths. It ended when O’Malley kicked open the door and aimed the Glock inside. She didn’t hesitate. She tossed the contents of the jug up at the man’s face.
He saw her at the last second and jerked back, which probably saved his eyes. But the bleach still landed on his face and arms. In his condition, with already damaged and exposed skin, the bleach must have felt like acid in an open wound. It soaked his clothes and bandages.
O’Malley wailed in agony. It was a high and penetrating sound.
But the trauma didn’t slow up the old man’s attack. Instead, it whipped him into a frenzy. His eyes were wild and insane as he rushed toward Maggie, and his mouth was wide open and screaming a banshee’s wail.
She stumbled back from her crouch, and he tackled her to the ground. His bandaged hands found her neck, and he squeezed while simultaneously lifting her from the ground and pounding the back of her skull against the linoleum.
There was no defense against such fury and violence. She kicked and clawed and gouged at his burnt flesh. But his rage eclipsed his pain, and the more she fought, the tighter he squeezed.
After a moment, Maggie could feel consciousness slipping away as her lungs cried out for air. She fought and tried to suck in a breath through her nose but was only rewarded with the pungent smell of bleach.
The darkness closed in, and she felt numb all over.
But then the back door of the small room burst open, and snow and light flooded into the room. The cold breeze felt good on her skin. She saw an indistinct figure in the doorway.
Maybe a neighbor who had heard the shots? Or a cop who was in the area?
The newcomer kicked O’Malley away from her.
Then the man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold and snow. A massive stainless-steel revolver was pointed directly at O’Malley. Maggie recognized it as a Taurus Judge, a pistol that could be loaded with five shotgun shells.
She gulped in a mouthful of air and looked up at her savior. The breath caught in her already irritated throat. She coughed and gasped at the sight of him.
The man smiled down at her with a charming grin on his handsome face, a face that she had hoped never to see again.