I grabbed the nearest thing, a brass planter with a fake tree. I seized the thin trunk with both hands, and swung the planter at the window. It flew through the glass, the planter sailing free into the backyard.

One brusque sweep with the tree to clear the glass from the sill. Then I threw it aside.

“Dubois!” I screamed, voice cracking.

I backed up and took a run at the window. Grabbed the sill—vaulted through—a whoosh behind me—searing pain—a smack like an airbag going off—the force of explosion propelling me out the window—ground flying up to meet me—darkness.

I came to with a jolt, my limbs flailing as if I was still falling. I tried pushing myself up. A sudden “Oh, my God!” wave of pain, and I fell face-first to the grass again.

I had to get up. If Wilkes saw me fly out that window—

Quinn—Quinn and Felix. They were out here somewhere, watching the backyard. Had they seen—?

Another boom, and the night lit up. I craned to look over my shoulder. The house was in flames, the windows and doors yawning holes. Quinn and Felix would see that and assume I was still inside, that I’d been caught asleep.

Did Dubois make it? I couldn’t worry about that. Had to get up. Find—

Wilkes.

I reached for my gun. The holster was empty.

I started looking around wildly as I pushed up onto my elbows. A sharp throbbing coursed through my wrist. My right wrist. My gun hand.

Doesn’t matter. Just find the damned thing and worry later about whether you can fire—

Something moved across the lawn. A tall broad-shouldered figure. Quinn!

My lips were parting to call a greeting, then something in the house flared and the flash of light illuminated a face under pale hair. Wilkes. Looking right at me. Heading for me. A slender barreled gun dangled at his side. Even half-stunned, my brain coughed up an ID before I could ask it for one. A Ruger Mark II with a suppressor.

Fury coursed through me, so strong I had no hope of beating it back. Couldn’t even form a clear thought. Could only glower up at Wilkes like a cornered beast. Then I saw the gun glide down, moving into position, and my brain snapped back on.

Don’t fight the anger. Use it.

A gun like that is made for contact hits. Small caliber, inaccurate with the suppressor, still noisy if fired from a distance. He’d want to walk right up to me and put the gun to my head. I had a chance…