Page 81 of The Woman in the Warehouse

Once they were all in here, there was no taking them all out before someone tackled me.

I spun, using the momentum to break the man’s hold on me as I slid off the safety, lifted my arm, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Once, twice.

The sounds were like an explosion in the small space, drowning out the curses and screams as the man’s arms lifted to his chest. Like if pressed hard enough, he could stop himself from bleeding out.

It was no use.

He was dead.

He just didn’t know it yet.

I swiveled, aiming toward the door as another man ran inside.

Sucking in a steadying breath, I released as my finger pulled the trigger.

Once, twice. He didn’t slow, didn’t drop.

The third shot landed dead center in his skull, his face frozen in a death mask of surprise before his body slammed down to the floor.

I was aiming for the next guy who ran in, when arms grabbed me from behind.

It was almost over.

But the gun was still in my hand.

The man holding me, the one who’d brought me down here, was wrenching me around, making my aim shit, but I didn’t care, I squeezed the trigger anywhere.

The aim was wickedly low, not hitting the chest, or even the stomach that were bad, and often fatal shots thanks to the infection risk of the blasted open, and bacteria-laden intestines.

Nope.

I shot the man in his dick.

The blood bloomed across the front of his light wash bluejeans. A guttural howl escaped him as he fell to his knees, clutching his crotch.

The gun was finally yanked from my hand and pressed to my temple, making me stop struggling.

Because up this close, even an idiot could make a kill shot. And there were quite a few rounds left in the gun.

“You’re gonna pay for this,” the man hissed, his spittle wetting my ear.

I wasn’t paying much attention, though, because someone was walking through the door, cool and confident, despite the destruction all around him.

The family resemblance was uncanny.

Same jaws, eyes, body shapes.

This was Jan Dvorák, Matej’s little brother.

A man so evil he’d orchestrated a slaughter of his former friends and coworkers. And the torture of his brother.

His gaze moved around the room, showing no emotion as he looked at the damage I’d done, as he listened to the howls of his man.

When he looked to me again, his arms lifted, and he started to do a slow clap.

“Impressive,” he said.

---