Page 199 of The Next Lie

Delia shoves me, hard. I hit the stone on my hip. Pain flashes white. The bullet strikes the iron railing where my chest had been and screams off into the night.

The second guard comes through the doorway and grabs Delia from behind.

She fights. For one second, she fights like my sister.

Elbow back. Heel down. Nails into skin. A curse ripping out of her that sounds like the girl who used to declare war over stolen cereal.

Then he catches her by the throat and wrenches her arm behind her back. She goes still. Fear moves across her face so nakedly I feel it in my own body.

“Delia,” I shout.

“Stay down,” she chokes.

The guard drags her toward the door. She does not stop watching me.

That is the thing I will remember later. Not the gun. Not the blood. Her eyes. Terrified and furious and sorry.

Then she is gone through the door, pulled backward into the light.

The first guard steps over me. His gun lowers toward my face.

Cal fires.

The guard grunts and staggers, hit in the arm. His weapon swings away, but not far enough. Cal tries to fire again, but his knees go out.

He hits the stone hard.

“Cal!”

I scramble toward him on hands and knees. The guard recovers faster, bringing his pistol up. Cal’s gun lies beside his hand, slick with blood. I grab it.

I have held guns before. At ranges. Under supervision. With Cal behind me saying breathe, kid, don’t slap the trigger.

This is not a range.

My hand is wet. The grip slips. I use both hands, raise the gun, and aim at the dark center of the man walking toward me.

He sees it. He laughs once, like he thinks I won’t squeeze the trigger. Like everyone thinks I am still the girl in the closet.

I pull the trigger.

The recoil snaps through my arms. The shot goes wide, hitting the side of a planter. Clay explodes. The guard flinches but keeps coming.

Cal says something. I can’t hear it, my pulse too loud in my ears.

I fire again. This time the bullet hits his chest. He stops, surprise opening his face.

I fire again because he is still standing and because my nervous system does not understand the difference between threat and dying threat. The third shot throws him backward against the railing. He slides down, leaving a dark smear on pale stone.

Silence crashes in.

My ears ring. People are shouting inside. Somewhere beyond the gate, a car horn blares. Cal is making a wet, awful sound through clenched teeth.

I drop the gun and turn to him.

Training takes over because panic is useless, and I have spent years learning that panic can wait its turn.

Pressure.