Tonight, she was grateful that the noise meant no one was likely to hear the shots.
Guns weren't her thing, but she'd long ago learned that needs must when the devil drives. So she practiced regularly. She could hit what she aimed at, and in the event her target was human, she'd be aiming for head or heart.
She shivered. She wasn't certain that what was about to come through that door was human.
Shoot only if you mean it, and if there is no other choice. The memory hurtled at her, stinging like a stone churned up against a windshield. She remembered the sound of Kai's voice as he'd said that, and the look in his eyes. All business. It was one of the things that had convinced her that he meant it when he said he loved her, the fact that he'd insisted she learn how to defend herself.
But he hadn't loved her. He'd betrayed her—
No. Those memories had no place in this moment. Not if she hoped to escape.
Ever since she'd come back to San Francisco, thoughts of Kai had surfaced too often for comfort.
Scuttling back along the hardwood floor, she jammed herself into the corner. The mattress offered a whisper of protection, but it also blocked her sight line. She'd known that, of course, because she'd run this drill dozens of times, just in case. So she'd angled the full-length mirror to give her a perfect view of half the living room and the front door of the apartment.
Both hands circling the butt of the gun, she thumbed off the safety and held her place.
Silver linings, my little love. Look hard enough and you'll always find one. The words reached across the barrier of time. There had been no silver lining the night Kai died. Only heartbreak and horror and despair. And layered on that, the awareness that he'd sold her out, and she would never know why.
Seconds scraped past, too slow for comfort. Her skin prickled. Her mouth felt like she'd been drinking sand. A part of her just wanted to bolt.
Hunters, her mother had called them. There were at least three of them out there, and they were playing cat and mouse with her.
She was one hell of a clueless mouse.
She'd run right into the trap. She'd ignored her sixth sense. There had been that split second when she'd paused on Market, the streetlights casting the Flat Iron Building bright and almost white against the black of the night sky, the moon full and round. A breathtaking scene.
But that wasn't the reason she stopped. She'd been wary of the three guys across the street. They had passed her, heading off along Sutter. She'd tracked them and, once they were a block away, dismissed them. Until she'd seen them again in the line to get into the bar below her apartment.
In her dictionary, there was no such thing as happenstance.
She could have turned and run, but they would have chased her. Caught her. Getting upstairs and getting her gun gave her a better chance. They might not realize she'd spotted them, or expect her to be armed.
They hadn't been looking her way as she'd unlocked the door and headed upstairs, but in her gut, she'd known. They would come, and she'd made herself an easy mark.
It wasn't the first time she'd slipped up, just the first time in recent memory. After Kai, she'd been so damned careful.
Keeping the gun level now, she eased one hand under the bed and closed her fingers around the straps of the small black knapsack she always kept packed and ready. Change of clothes. Cash. ID. First-aid kit.
There was nothing else in the small apartment that couldn't be left behind. Time to move forward, move on. She'd stayed too long already.
In fact, she should never have returned to San Francisco. She'd left her heart here once before, and she'd been a sentimental moron to return. There were plenty of cities in this world. From here on out she'd stick to the ones she'd never been to before.
She slid the straps of the backpack over her shoulders, one then the other, keeping a close watch on the front door. She wasn't trapped. The window to her left was an alternate exit. But, again, it boiled down to witnesses. There could be a guard down there. She wasn't of a mind to shoot someone while the line of bar patrons snaking along the sidewalk watched.
So she waited, gun in hand, pulse racing, and she hoped to hell she was making the right call.
They took so long that she almost allowed herself to hope that they weren't coming. Then, in the mirror, she watched as the apartment door vibrated and bulged inward. Her stomach turned a sickening roll. The door flew open, the old wood around the lock splintering under repeated impact, the screws of the double chains she'd installed pulling free. The accompanying crash was all but obliterated by the truly lousy rendition of "Devil Inside" carrying up from below.