Page 5 of The Satyr's Guilt
Once Denim heard the clunk of the steel doorleading to the basement, she pressed the intercom again. “I don’tknow who you are, but we’ve called the police. I won’t be lettingyou in the house. Leave.”
“Not without Leslie and my kid.”
Leslie’s Carl.
Denim did not acknowledge his wife was here.“Like I said, cops on the way. Be warned. I’m on a diet, cranky ashell, and packing a loaded gun.”
He snorted. “The police have more than theycan handle with Mardi Gras craziness. They won’t be here for hours.And don’t think I’m afraid of you and your popgun, bitch. Let mein.”
Denim thought he might be right about thecops, but she’d handled bigger scumbags than this guy. In the armyshe’d patrolled roads littered with IEDs and raided houses wherearmed terrorists popped out of the walls. She never underestimatedher enemy.
His fist thundered against the wood. Throughthe peephole, she saw him move away, raise his foot, and slam itinto the door. It shuddered but held. Kicking down a door wasn’t aseasy as it looked on TV. He hauled back, striking it again. Itsounded as if he shouldered the wood, causing a crack to form.
Denim toppled a large coffee table, draggingit to block the kitchen doorway as added cover. She stood it onend. Her gun drawn, she checked the magazine and patted her pocketfor a backup. She examined the chamber.
All’s good.
Concealed in the kitchen, she had a goodview of the front entry. In her right hand, she gripped herBeretta.
Muscle memory. It felt good.
She steadied the weapon with her left hand,took a firing stance, and prepared for the asshole to break in.
Was it asking too much for him not to becarrying? Was it asking too much for her to stop him with one shot?How about for the cops to arrive and haul him off all bloody andcontrite?
Yeah. Probably.
The door splintered, a loud crash followingas the guy flew through, dropping to the floor in a crouch.
Damn. He’s armed.
She didn’t call out a warning because shewasn’t a cop anymore. He didn’t deserve a tip-off. She fired, buthe rolled. He ducked into the bathroom as she let off another twoshots.
He answered.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Carl could have nine rounds.Hell.Hecould have a lot more.
When he peeked around the corner, she firedagain, the bullet biting into the frame near his head.
A hit would be sweet.
His next move was downright stupid. It costhim. He must have seen too many movies.Dirty Harry. TheMatrix.The Terminator.They probably topped his list.He centered himself in the doorway, spread his legs, andstraight-armed his weapon.
While he was setting up, Denim chuffed, tookaim, and put a bullet into his shoulder.Clunk.His guntumbled to the ground. The melody was as good as Louis Armstrongmarching along Bourbon Street playing his trumpet. She racedforward, kicked his piece aside, and kneed him in the groin.
Carl cradled his crotch, fell to his knees,and moaned, puking onto the floor like the chicken shit he was. Alittle vomit didn’t bother Denim. She locked an arm around his neckand jammed her pistol against his temple. “Please move, dickbreath. My finger’s twitching for some action. I’m hoping you’re inthe mood for suicide by bitch.”
She lifted her head, listening.
Saved by the siren.
“Fuck you.”
“Ew. Not in a million years, yousyphilis-ridden degenerate.”
She locked the Beretta against his fleshuntil the cops rolled in.
