Ignoring the blaze of pain, I snatch his knife and jam it into the gap between his armor. He gasps like a landed fish, and I stab him again, then twice more.
His body goes slack underneath me.
“Peter!” Sara’s voice reaches through the roar of my heartbeat, and I look up, taking in her white, tear-streaked face. She’s pressing on her father’s chest in the unmistakable rhythm of CPR, her mother kneeling next to her.
I crawl off the dead man and push up to my feet. The room spins around me in a sickening circle, and when I glance down, I see that my right leg is covered with blood—and more blood is dripping down my left arm.
Of course. The gunshot wounds.
Pushing away the growing dizziness, I start toward Sara and her parents. “What happened? Did he get shot?” I don’t see any blood on Chuck, but—
Sara shakes her head. “Cardiac arrest.” Bending over, she pinches his nose shut and blows into his mouth, then resumes pushing on his chest.
Fuck. I take in the pill bottles lying unopened on the floor, and my chest tightens.
It’s Sara’s worst nightmare, and I brought it upon her.
“You two need to go.” Lorna’s hoarse voice sounds like that of a ghost, and when I glance at her, I see that she resembles one, her face like bleached parchment paper. “Before they send in the—”
A bullet shatters the wall above us, and I instinctively leap in front of Sara and her mother, shielding them with my body.
My left side explodes in pain, the massive force of the hit throwing me forward as I shove them both behind the couch. My vision flashes white, the pain ricocheting through my nerve endings as another bullet whines by my ear.
No. Fuck, no.
With my last remaining strength, I throw myself to the side, drawing the fire of the shooter away from Sara and her mother. Another bullet punches into the floor next to my knee, sending shards of wood flying everywhere, and through graying vision, I see an armor-clad figure swaying in the doorway, clutching a handgun.
It’s one of the SWAT agents I shot.
Dazed and injured but alive.
His face shield is missing, revealing mottled skin and wild eyes. “Die, you motherfucker,” he hisses, and aiming at my head, he squeezes the trigger.
32
Sara
I land painfully on my side, my head banging into the side of the couch as another shot rings out and a warm, metallic spray hits my face and neck.
“Peter!” Terrified for him, I scramble to my knees, wiping the blood out of my eyes—and then I see it.
Mom sprawled on the floor, her face splattered with blood.
Or rather, most of her face.
Part of her cheek and skull is missing, leaving a bloody hole where a cheekbone used to be.
My mind shuts down, a wall of numbness sliding into place as a third shot rings out.
I look at my husband, on his back and bleeding, then at the agent in the doorway, his face twisted with hatred as he aims at Peter’s head.
My gaze falls on the gun Peter dropped while wrestling with the other agent.
It’s three feet away.
I reach for it and pick it up. It’s cold and heavy in my hand, adding to the icy numbness in my heart.
My parents are dead.
Peter is about to be murdered.
I aim and squeeze the trigger a split second before the agent fires.
My bullet misses, but the gunshot startles him, causing his shot to go wild.
He spins toward me, and I fire again.
It hits him in the middle of his vest, throwing him back.
Without any hesitation, I walk over to him and lift my gun again.
“Don’t—” he chokes out, gasping for breath, and I squeeze the trigger.
His face explodes into bits of blood and bone. It’s like a hyper-realistic video game, complete with smell, taste, and surround sound. Fascinated, I drop the gun and reach out to see if it feels as real—
“Sara.” Peter’s strained voice reaches me as though through water. “Look at me.”
Blinking, I focus on his prone body, and some of my numbness dissipates as I see the amount of blood pooling at his side.
He’s hurt.
Badly.
A surge of terror clears the remaining haze from my brain, and I sink to my knees, frantically pulling at his shirt. I have to staunch the flow of blood, to see if the bullet—
“Ptichka, stop.” He catches my wrist with startling strength, his eyes boring into mine. “There’s no time. You have to hand me the gun. Put it in my hand. You didn’t do this, you understand? And then you need to walk away. Get as far away from me as—”
“No.” I twist out of his hold. “I’m not leaving you.”
He needs a hospital, but there’s zero chance the agents will take him there after this massacre. They’ll kill him on the spot for killing so many of their own.