Frenchie had been mid-rebound. Arms outstretched, he’d been throwing himself toward the gun also. But momentum stopped. Blood splattered. The blast echoed in the tiny room.

Whoever else was in the house surely heard the blast. Time to move. Brock checked Frenchie for additional firepower but came up empty-handed. He rolled off the floor, staggering to the wall and to the door. Brilliant agony pierced his breaths. Each struggling step sent shards of pain cutting through his veins. Gritting his teeth until his jaw could crack, Brock sweated each miserable move.

The deadbolt was unlocked, and he dragged himself out the door with the pansy-assed pistol in hand. No one rushed up the stairs. Guess shooting inside didn’t break any house rules. But if Frenchie didn’t appear soon, it would probably raise some eyebrows. Brock had to get out fast. Too bad nothing about his leg injuries made fast easy.

Slinking down one god-awful step at a time, he thought about Sarah. About his girls. Brock would make it home, no questions asked. He’d make them a new life. Whatever Sarah wanted. New school? No problem. A job? If she wanted one, it was hers to figure out. She could redecorate, re-wardrobe, re-anything. If she wanted more, he would figure out a way to support them. Whatever they wanted in life.

Cheering men stole him away from his pain-numbing thoughts. But had there been another noise? Brock peered through a banister rail. No men in sight. Scooting down the remainder of the stairs, he listened to the trafficker’s men in the parlor. Soccer broadcast loudly on a television and no one reacted to the other sound Brock was sure he had heard.

Ideally, he could snag keys to one of the Jeeps sitting outside and make his getaway. Considering how much blood loss and festering infection he had, that would be the perfect solution. But the SUVs were parked out a window and within eyeshot. He couldn’t waste time hot-wiring. Find keys. He could do a quick recon, but if nothing turned up, he’d have better luck slipping off the property on foot. There was always another way to find transportation.

Brock crept pass the now-boarded-up front door and headed to the kitchen. Kitchen counters were the universal landing zones for keys, right? But he’d have to pass the threshold to the parlor.

The soccer game caused a round of boos, and he made his move. As if his prayers had been answered, a pile of keys was strewn on the counter. He pocketed all the keys. No need for anyone else to have transportation. Too bad there wasn’t a cache of weapons sitting on the table along with a bottle of water and a burger.