Operating on pure adrenaline, internal clock telling him time was ticking away, Royal pushed open the door and clicked on the light. The room was empty. Eyes sweeping the area, he stepped forward and threw open the closet door. Nothing but clothes.

He heard the floor creak. Did someone call out? The girl must be upstairs. Swirling back out of the room, Royal jogged for the stairs. Ears ringing from the gunfire, he thought he heard someone, but he didn’t hesitate. When he saw a woman, the cop’s wife, Royal fired without hesitation, feeling in a groove now. The woman went down, and he leaped over her. Upstairs, he found the couple’s daughter hiding under the bed and he shot her.

But the girl he’d come for, the one he wanted, was nowhere.

–––

Heather heard Sergeant Pink move again, but he didn’t go back upstairs. She hunkered down, more fearful now. What was happening?

She struggled to stay still, to not fidget, and then she heard the back door open.

A floorboard protested.

Boom! Boom! Two shots blasted her eardrums, and Heather jumped, nearly wetting her pants and smacking into a shelf, knocking a container of cereal onto the floor. Even as she stiffened, gripping her backpack in front of her with both hands, Heather thought of poor Mrs. Pink having to clean up the mess.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. More shots, and Heather heard a thud, then groaning. Was it Sergeant Pink?

She held her breath as footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Another gunshot, and the groaning stopped.

The footsteps crossed in front of the pantry, toward Heather’s room. The door was thrown open.

They were here for her.

It took all her strength to stay still. Very faintly, she heard Mrs. Pink call out, “Isaac?”

She wanted to scream a warning, something, anything, to save the woman who’d been only kind to her.

The footsteps passed in front of the pantry again, moving to the stairs. More gunshots.

Paralyzed by fear, Heather stood frozen, but the fear evaporated as a sense of self-preservation and fight or flight kicked in. She knew she had to move or be slaughtered. She opened the pantry door and darted out, stumbling when she saw the still form of Isaac Pink on his kitchen floor. Horror brought tears in a rush, and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. But street-smart pragmatism told her there was nothing she could do for him or his wife.

She cursed Porter Cross and hurried toward the back door. There was another body there. Devo. He belonged to Cross. At least Sergeant Pink got one.

Trembling, she stepped over him and out the back door into the driving rain, taking her one brief chance to flee and save her life by never looking back.

–––