Thom landed hard on his right side and felt a white-hot flash of pain in his shoulder as his arm flattened beneath him and his collarbone snapped. He knew, as the pain cut into him, that he had failed. He had not controlled the situation, he had not dictated the course of events, all he’d managed to do was unleash a climate of mayhem, and whatever happened in the next forty-five seconds would be on his conscience forever.
Should any of them survive.
Celeste screamed, Zielinski leaped to his feet, and Scott bolted up from the couch, racing out of the room, and thundering up the stairs.
Espinoza reached into his belt and pulled out a nine-millimeter as Zielinski shouted at him. “Shoot that motherfucker! Shoot him!”
Aubrey lurched forward, reached under the coffee table, and flipped it over, into Zielinski’s knees. Zielinski shouted, more in surprise than pain, and Aubrey jumped up, diving toward Thom’s gun, which was on the floor between the couch and the front hall.
Celeste moved too, lunging for the kitchen knife on the end table next to Zielinski. Her father caught her by the wrist, spun her around, and pulled her close to him, raging in her ear as he held her with one bearlike arm.
Rusty, who spent the first few seconds sitting the conflict out entirely, saw Aubrey nearing Thom’s gun, on the floor. He pounced, grabbing her by the hair and hauling her to her feet. He moved to throw her across the room, but Aubrey resisted, finding strength in her legs and core that wasn’t there four months ago. She snapped her head back, shaking off Rusty’s weak grip, and turned on him. She was stronger than him and smarter than him, and he could see it in her eyes. He froze, and she shoved him hard, both hands slamming into the middle of his chest. He flew back, into the mantel, the wind knocked out of him.
Thom, the broken bone in his shoulder searing, crawled toward the Glock.
Zielinski shouted at Espinoza again. “Shoot the son of a bitch, goddamn—”
But he cut off in the middle of his sentence as Celeste stomped down on his foot as hard as she could. He howled in pain and lost his grip on her. She whirled around, brought her knee up into his balls, and, as he started to double over, punched him in the throat.
“That’s for you, naruszyciel prawa.”
Zielinski, in pain but livid, stood and drew back his meaty right hand, to backhand her across the face. Celeste stood her ground, ready to take the blow.
From the bottom of the stairs, a thunderous gunshot exploded, shaking the walls of the house. Aubrey and Celeste winced, Thom flinched, and Rusty covered his ears and backed away.
The back of Zielinski’s head burst open, spattering the wall behind him with gore.
At the base of the stairs, Scott stood still, Brady’s M&P Scandium in his right hand, its barrel smoking. The gun suddenly heavy in his hand, Scott’s arm dropped to his side. He stared at the dead body, in shock at what he had just done.
Behind him, Espinoza spoke softly. “Don’t raise your arm, kid. Keep it exactly where it is.”
They all turned and looked at him, too terrified to move. Espinoza, who’d been forgotten in his spot against the wall, held his gun on them with one hand. He held the other hand up, signaling they should not move.
He turned and looked at Thom, still down on the floor. “You got the money?”
“No.”
“He’s lying!” Rusty shouted.
“Shut up, Rusty.” Espinoza didn’t bother to glance at him. “Did you bring any money at all?”
“No,” Thom said.
“Didn’t think so. I wouldn’t have either.”
“He’s full of shit!” Rusty shouted, taking a menacing step forward. Espinoza turned and looked at him with an expression of severe annoyance.
Rusty’s face was reddening with rage. “He’s got the money, he’s got the fucking money, he’s got the fucking—”
Espinoza swung the gun from Scott to Rusty and fired three shots. The first hit Rusty in the right shoulder, spinning him half to the side. He regained himself and staggered toward the back door, to flee. But the next two shots hit him squarely in the back, propelling him into a post on the small back deck, where he bounced and turned, looking back at the others in disbelief.
He fell to the ground just outside the door, dead.
Espinoza stared at him for a moment, then looked up at the others.
“He never would have left you alone. Or me.” He looked around the room, at the two bodies on the floor and the blood on the walls. “For the record, I hate this shit.”
No one spoke.
Espinoza backed away, toward the rear of the house, never taking his gun or eyes off them. He reached the screen door, pushed it open, and walked away into the night.