Page 6 of Mountain Protector

That’s what I do.

I turn and leap forward, to the side and down.

There’s a sharp crack.

Pain flares in my arm. Burning. Agonizing.

My heart nearly bursts from fear.

“You can’t get away,” the man says, his voice low and slithery, like a snake. “There’s no point in trying.”

No.

I refuse.

This ismyhouse. Mylife.

Anger chases away everything else. And after it, a laser-sharp focus.

Instead of running, I release the safety. Cock the trigger. Then I spin around and aim, just like I’ve done hundreds of times in practice. Because one benefit of being a perfectionist is I made sure I’m an excellent shot.

And I fire.

Another crack.

Then, a howl of pain.

He shouts, “You bitch!”

But the hand with the gun is down. Instead he’s hunched over, clutching his chest.

God. I shot him.I shot him.

Did that really just happen?

Then, through the shock, a flash of clarity.

Get outside. To the woods. Now.

Without questioning my instincts, I turn and run.

Back down the hallway, to the laundry room, where there’s another door to outside.

Once I get in there, I slam the door shut and flick the lock, but I know it’s far too flimsy.

Get out.

I can hear the man cursing. Groaning. Spitting out horrible threats.

Still clutching the gun, I burst outside. Leaping off the step, I land in a thick layer of snow, and my feet go numb almost immediately.

But it doesn’t matter.

I only have seconds to get to cover.

Adrenaline gives me an incredible boost of speed as I dash through the snow. I veer over to the shed and circle around it, trying to stay in the shadows.

But where next?

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