Hazard had already lined up the shot, and now he took it. The sound of his shot was even louder, and his ears rang. A second hole, this one the size of a nectarine, opened the paneling farther down on the door. He couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears; the smell of gunpowder overrode everything else. For a moment, his finger trembled on the trigger. Then the dark shape on the other side of the door fell away.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Hazard dropped his head until it rested on the Blackhawk’s frame. He took a shuddering breath, breathing in gunpowder, feeling the hot metal of the frame, focusing on the sharp edges that dug into flesh. Then he got to his feet.

Keeping against the wall, he dragged the bed back a few inches, climbed over it, and got his foot between the door and the frame. He dragged it open. His ears were still ringing, so he couldn’t hear anything, but he did a quick feint, poking the Blackhawk through the opening like he meant to emerge, waiting for the shot, and then risking a look when nothing came.

Rasmussen, dark-haired and built like a battleship, lay on the linoleum parquet. Blood soaked the BEST IN THE WEST t-shirt she was wearing, and she had both hands over her belly. Her chest rose and fell erratically, her breathing obviously labored, although Hazard couldn’t hear it. A snub-nosed revolver, what looked like a .38, lay near an outstretched hand.

Hazard closed the distance at a sprint, kicked the gun away, and kept the Blackhawk trained on her. If she noticed him, though, she didn’t give any sign of it. Her eyes were wide and staring fixedly at the ceiling; blood pumped steadily between her fingers. Hazard went back to the bedroom, stripped the sheets, and used his teeth to start a tear. He ripped a length of the bedding free, wadded it, and then knelt next to Rasmussen. She was still taking those uneven breaths, and as the ringing in Hazard’s ears subsided, he could hear the painful, gulping quality.

Pulling her hands aside, he said, “This is really going to hurt.”

Then he began packing the gunshot wound with the sheets, forcing it in as deeply as he could. Rasmussen took a deep, startled breath and screamed. She flailed at him, but she didn’t have much strength left, and Hazard ignored her and kept packing the wound. Blood soaked the cotton, and he wadded up more, laid it in place, and compressed it. After a few more moments, Rasmussen gave a soft cry, barely more than a breath, and stopped fighting. Her eyes were half-closed, and her head had rolled to the side. She was still breathing, but either unconscious or in shock.

Hazard knelt there, blood staining his hands, until he heard the shouts of the police at the front door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JULY 5

FRIDAY

3:28 PM

IN THE SUB-BASEMENT, Somers pounded on the door and shouted, “Help! Let us out!”