Blood Vendetta. Don Pendleton

she told herself, not this night. She set her jaw and shook her head to flush out the panicked thoughts. Returning to her bed, she kneeled next to it and felt around beneath it for the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver sheathed in a leather holster. Her memory raced back to the pawn shop where she’d purchased the weapon, to her conversation with the owner. He’d patiently explained that the .38 wasn’t the most powerful handgun in the world, but it was simple and reliable. She’d tapped her finger against a glass case that contained four 9 mm auto-loading pistols.

      “Aren’t those better?” she’d asked. “More bullets?”

      She’d at least known that much about guns at the time. The pawn shop owner, holding the S&W revolver, the empty cylinder flopped out to the side, flashed a nasty grin. He flicked his wrist and the cylinder snapped into place.

      “Lady,” he had said, “you can’t put something down with five shots from this, save the sixth for yourself.”

      He’d laughed.

      She’d swallowed hard and with barely another word bought the revolver, three speed loaders and two boxes of hollowpoint ammunition.

      Years later, she still hadn’t decided how much of what he’d said had been a joke aimed at further unnerving an already nervous lady and how much had been his true belief.

      A night-light plugged into a wall outlet suddenly blinked.

      The first alarm, which already had stopped beeping, was designed to wake her, alert her to an initial intrusion.

      This one told her someone had set off motion detectors on the first floor. Belting the pistol around her waist, she reached under the bed again, feeling around until fingertips brushed against cold steel. She closed her hand around the shotgun barrel and pulled the weapon from beneath the bed.

      The 20-gauge shotgun’s double barrel had been sawed down to eighteen inches. Like the revolver, she liked the shotgun’s simplicity. Easy to carry and load and unload. It didn’t require marksmanship to hit a target with this gun, even though she’d practiced with similar weapons over the years. At close quarters, even under stress, she believed she could fire the weapon and score a hit. Gunfights were not her specialty. Her skills lay elsewhere and likely were the catalyst for this late-night visit. Stuffing a handful of shells into her front right pants pocket, she came back to her feet and continued to move.

      She’d drilled for this for years. Dozens of times in the real world, countless times in her head. She never knew who might come for her or how they might find her. But she always knew someone would come. She only hoped she was ready.

      The night-light flashed again. A cold sensation raced down her spine. The flickering meant someone had stepped onto a pressure pad on the second floor and they were coming to her room.

      She aimed the shotgun at the door.

      The knob turned slowly and quietly. Had she been asleep she never would have heard it. She watched as the door swung inward and revealed a big man clad in black standing in the doorway.

      In a flash, she saw his hand come up. The night-light’s glow glinted on a metallic object in his hand. Without hesitation, her shotgun exploded, twin tongues of flame lashing out from the barrel. The blast hammered the man’s midsection, hurled him from the doorway and into a wall opposite her bedroom.

      She broke open the shotgun, reloaded.

      Her luck was about to run out, that much she knew. She’d just taken out one armed man, probably in part because he’d underestimated her. Or maybe because they’d been ordered to take her alive. Whatever the reason, she guessed things were about to become much worse. They knew she was armed and willing to use a gun. If they were burglars, they’d probably get the hell out. If they were here specifically for her, though, they likely would keep coming for her.

      Rounding the door in a low crouch, she gingerly stepped over the body of the first man she’d killed, looked around.

      The bulb of a single small lamp burned downstairs, emanating a white glow that quickly was swallowed up by the darkness.

      Her ears continued to ring and she forced herself to rely on her eyes as much as possible. She could see shadows shifting along on the walls and guessed others were waiting for her to come down the steps and fight her way out.

      Panic started to well up from within. Her knees went rubbery and her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe.

      She shook her head. Not happening. She had no idea who they were, or who they worked for, but she guessed her visitors had lost money to her—or more accurately to the Nightingale—meaning they had hurt somebody, maybe many people. Maybe someone like Jessica. An image of her sister—curly blond hair hanging past her shoulders, her stomach curved outward as she entered her third trimester of pregnancy—flashed through her mind. Her breathing slowed and her knees became steady again.

      If they’d hurt someone like Jessica, and she’d taken their money, they’d gotten exactly what they deserved.

      She crept into a second bedroom. Crossing the floor, she held the shotgun by its pistol grip with one hand and worked the lock on the window with her free hand. She raised the window, which went up about eight inches before it stuck.

      She swore through clenched teeth, cast a glance over her shoulder at the door, but saw no one there. With a grunt, she gave the window one last push, but it remained jammed. Leaning the shotgun against the wall, she pushed against the window with both hands. It gave, but with a squeak that sounded like a bomb explosion in the stillness. A moment later, she heard one of the stair steps creaking under someone’s weight.

      Pulling the .38 from its holster, she spun around and leveled the pistol at the hall. A shadow appeared in the doorway. She snapped off two quick shots. One slug hammered into the molding around the door, splintering the wood. A second drilled into the plasterboard to the right of the door, just a few inches above a light switch. The figure ducked from view.

      Several heartbeats ticked by as she remained motionless, the pistol trained on the doorway.

      A door slammed shut downstairs with a crack, the unexpected noise startling her body, which was already overloaded with adrenaline. In the distance, she heard sirens. She guessed someone had summoned the police to check out the gunshots. For a normal person, the sound likely would provide some comfort. But she’d relinquished any pretension of normalcy years ago. Her instincts told her to run. Run from the police. Run from the people who’d come for her. Just run like hell and figure the rest out later.

      Looping the shotgun over her back, she pushed herself through the window and disappeared into the darkness.

      * * *

      SHUTTING THE DOOR behind her, Davis turned the dead bolt and flicked the wall switch. Fluorescent lights sparked to life and bathed the room in soft white light. A wooden workbench, the surface scarred and blemished, ran the length of one wall. A tool chest, its metal skin scratched and mottled with rust spots, stood in another corner. A compact car, its red paint bleached by exposure to the elements, was parked in the middle of the room.

      She shoved her keys into her hip pocket and withdrew one of the cell phones from her belt pack. With her thumb, she punched through a group of numbers, put the phone to her ear and listened as it dialed through a series of cutouts. She noticed her hands starting to shake, immediately felt her face flush.

      It’s just adrenaline, she told herself. You’ve been through hell. It’s catching up with you. Ignore it.

      After two rings, someone picked up on the other end.

      “Yes?” It was Maxine.

      “Good to hear your voice.”

      “You okay?”

      “All things considered.”

      “What happened?”

      “Someone came after me tonight.”

      “Who?” Maxine asked, concern evident in her voice.

      “I’m