Page 183 of Lone Star

The lock clicked as Axelle thumbed it, and a moment later the knob jiggled as someone tested it from the outside. A fist thumped on the panel and an angry voice shouted an order in Spanish. It wasn’t Luis, but one of his men.

Michelle swung her legs over the side of the bed and straightened as slowly as she dared. She was still dizzy, but her equilibrium was returning as adrenaline flooded her system. She might collapse after – if there was an after – but need and instinct drove her now. Barefoot, she walked across the rug and moved to stand on the far side of the door, where the hinges attached.

Another loud thump on the door.

She caught Axelle’s frightened gaze. “He’s going to kick the door in. Can you stand over there? I need a distraction.”

To her credit, Axelle didn’t argue; she moved to stand between the beds, hands hovering at her sides, body coiled to flee, to shield herself, to fight.

Another thump.

Michelle gripped the other end of the chain with her free hand; wound the links over her knuckles twice. Flexed her biceps, testing them, wishing she’d had more time to work out lately.

Fox’s voice in her head, a memory:it’s about leverage, not strength. Anyone can kill anyone else if they’ve got the right tool, the right timing, and, most importantly, the right leverage.

She took a deep breath…

The wood around the doorknob shattered, and the door swung inward, toward her – concealing her.

…and exhaled as the man stepped into the room. Not tall, but thickset, padded with muscle and fat. He wore a long-sleeved t-shirt, and her gaze zeroed in on the sun-browned back of his neck, the little roll there, beneath the sharp line of his close-cropped hair.

He went straight for Axelle.

Michelle lunged. Got a good flying jump, pushing off hard from the floor, arms raised – over her head, over his –there, down. She landed on his back, and locked her legs around his waist from behind. Gripped the chain tight as she could, and hauled backward on it.

The man staggered, and choked out a harsh breath.Good, Fox’s voice again.Don’t let him inhale again. She brought her hands together in the center of his back, and let her weight help her; gripped tight with her legs and leaned back as he pitched forward.

A wire would have been better – a true garotte. But Michelle pulled and pulled, and he choked, and sputtered, and clawed at the chain pressing against his windpipe.

Over his shoulder, Michelle saw Axelle strike: a hard kick to the groin. The man bellowed and went down hard to his knees. Michelle leaned forward, and toppled him face-down to the rug. Scrambled up with her knees in his back andpulledwith all her might.

Axelle joined her: straddling his head, hands gripping the chain below Michelle’s, breath stuttering as she pulled, too.

The choking sounds cut off first, and then he went still. Michelle pulled a little longer, and then finally let go, arms numb and shaking.

“Is he dead?” Axelle asked, voice shaking.

“I think so.” She felt for a pulse as she pulled the chain loose, and couldn’t find one. “God, I hope. Let’s go.”

Downstairs: shouting.

~*~

Fox made noise about going around the back, about being subtle and properly cautious, but Candy had reached a point where he couldn’t listen anymore. Lights burned in an upstairs window, and Michelle washere, she was soclose, and fuck careful.

The door splintered in a gratifying shower of slivers when he kicked just below the doorknob. Albie was right with him; he could feel his body heat as he charged into the tile-floored entryway, gun raised.

A staircase lay just ahead, and a man stood on the first landing; he turned toward Candy, eyes going wide. His lips formed a curse, one left unspoken; Candy took him with a clean chest shot, already moving before the body dropped.

He heard shouts, and the slap of footsteps, and moved toward the sound, down a short hallway past empty rooms, and toward a kitchen. He was nearly there when a door opened suddenly to his right. He glimpsed dark clothes, and a snarling face, and a gun that wasn’t his went off: Albie. The would-be attacker fell back with a grunt, and Candy stepped through a wide cased opening into a gleaming chrome kitchen full of bodies.

He was on autopilot now: kill, kill, kill. The gun kicked in his hand, and a body dropped, and then another. He didn’t register faces, didn’t think of shielding himself or strategizing, or doing anything but pulling the trigger, again and again.

He hit the end of his mag, and reached into his pocket with his gummy, bloody hand for a second.

A sound like a cannon blast ripped through the house. A massive hole opened up in the sheetrock above Candy’s head.

A rifle, he thought. Dropped to a crouch, spun, and ejected his mag all in one movement.

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