I wheel around the corner.
“There you are.” Her gaze drops to my gun. “What the—?”
A figure steps out behind her. My heart thuds.
“Stop!” I lift my gun. “Stop right there—”
Diana lets out a squeak … as a pistol barrel presses against her neck.
SIX
“Lower your gun,” a man’s voice says.
“You first,” I say.
“I’m the one with a target.”
I aim my gun over Diana’s head. “Mine’s just fine.”
He laughs softly. “Then we’re at an impasse. But I’m still going to suggest that you won’t want to take that chance.”
“Let her go—”
“No, sorry. She’s obviously a friend, which means I know the value of my target.” His voice is calm, casual even. Just stating facts.
He continues, “You and I need to have a conversation. I propose we lower our weapons together, but I’ll keep your friend close while we chat.”
I could bluster. Say I won’t talk while he has Diana. But he can’t surrender his hostage and trust in a civil conversation. That’d be stupid.
“Count of three,” I say. “Guns holstered.”
“Lowered.”
“Holstered.”
He doesn’t argue. So he has a holster, which means he’s accustomed to carrying a gun. In Canada that suggests he stands on one side of the law or the other. I’m not sure which side would be more troubling.
“Yours goes in the holster first,” he says. “I’ll follow.”
“Not a problem.”
Diana snorts at that. It’s a little ragged, but she meets my gaze with a smirk. She knows how fast I can draw my weapon. She also believes I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. She’s been my friend since I did exactly that, once upon a time. Pulled the trigger and changed my life. Ruined my life, but I don’t think Diana ever fully understood that.
I do the countdown from three, and we lower our guns together. Mine goes into my holster, but my fingers linger on it until the man lifts his empty right hand. Then that hand grabs Diana’s upper arm. She jumps and starts to twist.
“It’s okay,” I say. “He’s going to bring you over here. You two will sit on the couch. I’ll take the chair. We’ll talk.”
“First, lock the front door,” he says.
“That’s a bad—” Diana begins.
“It’s fine,” I say.
I walk to the door and turn the lock. He makes me pull on it, proving I’ve done as he asked. Then we head into the living room. He waits until I sit before he prods Diana to the sofa. As he lowers himself to it, I take a closer look at him in the moonlight.
In size, he’s somewhere between Dalton and Anders. Formidable enough. He’s older than us, maybe early forties. Dark hair salted with gray. Brown skin. I won’t guess at the racial makeup—I get tired of people doing that with me.
“You have someone here that I need,” he says.