The same principle applied to shooting a vehicle, even if it was stationary. She had fired an AR-15 before, but she had no idea how the weapon she held in her hands had been calibrated, if it had been calibrated at all; if it had been cleaned properly and wouldn’t jam. And then there was the wind to consider, and she didn’t know how to factor that into her shooting.

The door opened, swinging into the house.

Her heart pounding and her breath coming hard and fast, the odors of grass and the arid, sunbaked earth beneath her filling her nostrils, she watched as armed men bolted outside. The entryway got choked with bodies, just as Sebastian had predicted, but mainly because three armed bodyguards were flanked around a small, chubby, and terrified Middle Eastern man.

Paul came out last, backward, with Sebastian’s daughter gripped in a powerful choke hold; he was using her as a human shield. He was armed with a handgun—a nine, by the looks of it—and he fired several shots into the house; at Sebastian, Ellie assumed. Two of the bodyguards in the rear-flank position had turned to the house and fired as they moved backward, providing covering fire to protect their boss, or whoever he was. When they ran out of ammo, they replaced their spent magazines with fresh ones, all with the practiced ease and confidence of professionals used to handling weapons.

Paul fired as he whipped his head back and forth, trying to get a quick lay of the land. Ellie had the side of his torso lined up in the scope’s reticle.

She thought of Danny and wanted to take the shot—and would have, too, if Paul hadn’t taken a hostage. He held Grace Lewis effortlessly, like she was a doll, the woman’s face turning a dark crimson and her bare feet kicking above the ground as she tried to pry his forearm away from her throat.

Take the shot.

She couldn’t.

Too risky. If she was off just a bit, she might hit Grace. She was an innocent.

Paul’s handgun either ran out of ammo or jammed; he tossed it aside as he moved to the nearest car—a red Lamborghini that screamed “middle-aged man with small penis having major midlife crisis.” Ellie watched his hand reach into his pants pocket and come back with a key fob. He opened the driver’s-side door and turned, his back facing her—

Ellie fired.

The shot went wide, the bullet exploding the Lamborghini’s back window.

Paul spun around so fast, he lost control of his hostage. Grace slipped from his grip. He thought about going after her, decided against it. He slid behind the wheel of the sports car. Ellie sprang to her feet, eyes locked on Grace, and ran.

CHAPTER 51

HE COULDN’T FIND Grace. What Sebastian did find was the old Q-tip with the tufts of white hair slumped against the floor. His breathing was labored as he held out an arm, terrified, shaking the set of car keys pinched between his clawed fingers.