Killers of a Certain Age(84)

Nielssen had left the back door open as he ran, and we had a clear line to it as long as we stayed behind the table. With a heave, we lifted it in front of us like a Spartan shield, running as fast as we could as Wendy and Carter emptied their guns at us. Bullets ricocheted around the room, and one of them winged Carter. Just then, Wendy’s gun jammed, and as she worked the clip, Mary Alice noticed the small bit of powdered creamer burning near her shoe. Her aim wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. The bottle of cooking oil she threw smashed at Wendy’s feet, splashing her up to her knees. Carter had transferred his gun to his nondominant hand, and he emptied another clip. The table was giving way, the wood splintering to hell, and I knew it wouldn’t stand another round.

I looked around for something to throw, but before I could lay hands on anything, Mary Alice snatched up a heavy iron skillet and swung it like she was batting cleanup. There wasn’t much left of his head after the second swing, and she turned to Eva, finishing her off where she’d fallen while Nat took care of Wendy. Helen looked shell-shocked, but I grabbed her hand and hauled her outside, my other arm around her waist.

“It’s almost over,” I promised her.

Just then a bullet winged through my hair, clipping the very bottom of my earlobe. It was Vance, coming through the garden at us. I shoved Helen aside, and she stumbled back into the house. Mary Alice and Nat were putting the fire out, and Akiko must have run out of potatoes. God only knew where Taverner was, and I realized it was probably always going to end like this.

I stood up, shaking with adrenaline and fatigue because, let’s face it, I’m not as young as I used to be.

I squared up to Vance, blood dripping down my shirt. “Goddammit, Vance. That was silk.”

“Smartass, right to the end,” he said, raising his gun. He squeezed and nothing happened. He didn’t try again. He tossed the gun aside and reached inside his pocket, coming up empty. He must have miscalculated or misplaced his backup because he had nothing, and as he straightened, he stripped off his jacket and cracked his neck.

And then the bastard smiled at me. He smiled the same smile I’d seen a thousand times, a hundred thousand. The smile that said, I know best. The smile that said, I’m better than you. The smile that said, I’m safe here and you’re not. The smile that said I have a dick, so I win.

Rage rolled up in me like the sea and I felt it sweep over my head, threatening to drown me. And then I heard a voice, small and still, a voice I hadn’t heard in forty years. I closed my eyes and listened.

It isn’t your anger that will make you good at this job. It is your joy.

The rage ebbed and, in its place, only happiness. Fierce, rampant happiness.

It wasn’t the prettiest fight I’ve ever been in, but it was the most ferocious. I hit him with everything I had and he damned near won. We were on the grass, wet with dew and slippery, his legs locked around mine, his hands squeezing my throat until my vision was going dark. He’d managed a few good hits to my ears and they were ringing so loud I couldn’t hear anything except my own heartbeat.

I could tell he was surprised I’d held my own for so long. But then, Vance always did underestimate women.

I waited, holding my breath and lolling my head to the side, sticking my tongue out just a little for effect. He eased the pressure in his hands. They were shaking and I reminded myself that he was five years older than I was and carrying a little martini weight.

The instant his hands relaxed, I jerked my head back and slammed it into his nose, breaking it in a gush of blood and cartilage. He staggered back as I got to my feet, grinning. “That can’t really be the first time a woman has faked it with you.”

He came at me with a roar, and I let him. Twenty years ago, I could have countered with a hurricane maneuver, running my feet up his torso and wrapping my legs around his neck to fling him to the ground. But that shit takes stamina, and I was tiring fast. I had one good move left and then it would be game over, one way or another.

He put his hands out to take me by the throat again, shaking me like a doll, the blood spraying from his broken nose. I let him bear me down to the ground, landing on me, hands squeezing, tighter and tighter, narrowing my vision to a pinpoint of blackness. I grabbed at his hands with my left, scrabbling at his fingers, but they were like iron. With my right, I reached up into my hair and took out the barrette, flicking it open. Natalie had sharpened it for me, honing it finer than a razor, and when I snaked it into Vance’s armpit to slice the axillary artery, it slipped in like butter.

He didn’t know what had happened at first, but I brought the blade out, holding it in front of my face, the metal wet with his blood. The sight of it threw him off and he loosened his grip. Before he could regroup, I twisted my hips and flipped him onto his back. Our legs were still locked and I used mine to hold him in place, my hip flexors screaming as I rose, looping one arm under his chin, just like Mad Dog had taught me. I put my other hand on top of his head, and as I looked down into his eyes, I realized he knew exactly what was coming.

He opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. And then I jerked hard, snapping his neck with a quick flick of the wrist. His body settled against mine, before he slid slowly down, like a rock coming to rest on the bottom of the sea. I laid him on the grass, rolling onto my knees. I was bleeding and out of breath, the stitches on my shoulder popped open and part of my earlobe entirely gone. Mary Alice and Natalie, bruised and bloody, were standing on the edge of the garden. Mary Alice was holding an axe and what was left of two guards was stacked up like cordwood between them.