Page 90 of Shameless Vows

My pulse is even and slow, breath subdued, eyes clear, every cell in my body infused with laser-like focus, and I slowly, silently, steadily pad down the rug that lines the hall and leads to the great room.

“I will never comply with what you ask,” Ernesto’s graveled voice pierces the atmosphere in Spanish. “You will have to kill me first.”

“We are not here to kill you,” another voice returns, also in Spanish. “First, we will kill your first born, just like we promised. And then we will give you time to consider our proposal. If you refuse, we will go after your other two daughters, and finally your son. If you still refuse, we will kill your wife. And then… I would venture to guess you may not care about your empire of stolen family money as much as you do now.”

There’s a shuffle of movement just as I reach the hall, and I cut a glance behind me as I wedge my shoulder against the corner that flanks the arched entryway to the great room.

Clear.

Peering into the room, I see Ernesto and Fortuna held at rifle-point against one wall. Two men. On the opposite side, three men; one of them the ringleader who is addressing Ernesto. On the rug in the center of the room is Isla, on her knees, ebony hair wild and framing her face, eyes closed, hands lifted, elbows and forearms skinned with rug burns, still as a statue while some lowlife levels a Glock at her temple. And not just any lowlife.

This piece of shit is one of the guys from the photo. The one that was gripping her hair and holding her head in place while she was unconscious. And he’s going to be the first to go.

Six men. Nine bullets. Three to spare.

I step to the opposite side of the hall where I have partial cover of the entryway, raise the Desert Eagle, square the iron sights on his head, slip my finger inside the trigger guard, and squeeze.

POPgoes this weasel.

One down.

Five to go.

Eight rounds left.

The force of the shot knocks him off his feet, sending him to the floor in a lifeless, gory, blood-spewing heap, and a series of shouts rises up in the atmosphere as total chaos unleashes in the room.

A firefight ensues.

Amidst the flash and bang of gunpowder and lead, I see in my periphery Fortuna dive for Isla and pull her behind one of the couches. A storm of bullets tears through the wall I’m hiding next to, but I sprint through the room toward another wall, aiming the pistol at my next target, the man next to Ernesto, and squeeze again.

Blood and brains paint the wall behind him.

Head shot.

Man down.

Four to go.

Seven rounds left.

I’m not quite to the other wall as shots ring out again, and fire rips through my shoulder and the left side of my torso. My vision blackens for a split second, and I’m not sure which weapon hit me, but I’m now staring at the ceiling.

Footsteps approach from the right, and I raise the Desert Eagle on instinct and powered by pure adrenaline, turn my head to check my target, and squeeze.

The loud, heavy thump of a body hitting the floor.

Three to go.

Six rounds left.

But now, I’m on my back.

“No!”

Her voice.

Slow, weighty footsteps approach from one direction, as well as much lighter, quicker ones scrambling from the opposite. Hands are on my face, my shoulder, my torso. Delicate hands. Gentle hands.

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