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terror spread across Tania's face as she saw the gun he was reaching for. "But
if you won't be a good little girl-I'll have to-"
Ross didn't even think; he just grabbed for the gun, desperately, reaching
right through the kidnapper's back and somehow getting his hands on the gun-
grip and the trigger. And realizing that he couldn't take it away. That in
fact, there wasn't much he could do. Except-maybe-
His next move was pure instinct. He cocked the hammer, and, as the kidnapper
started in surprise at the telltale click, pulled the trigger.
The gun went off in the shoulder-holster, the bullet tearing its way through
the leather and down his side, with a roar and a muzzle-flash that would have
blinded and deafened Ross if he had been alive. The jacket blew away like a
rag in a hurricane, and the man's body whip-cracked against the opposite wall
of the alcove. Tania jerked back, screaming, then spun and bolted for the
street.
The kidnapper clutched at his side, nearly doubling over as his legs and torso
went slick with hot, red blood.
Tania made it across the street, just as the firefight began. Gunmen appeared
from nowhere, the pimps and pushers he'd seen before, firing wildly; and Ross
realized as he ducked out of sheer reflex that none of them knew why they were
shooting. But they certainly knew what they were shooting at; the kidnapper,
as the originator of the first shot.
The kidnapper went down, blood spraying, in the crossfire; Tania ducked into
an alley, and sirens began to wail in the distance.
The firefight continued as Ross dashed across the street after her, while the
red and blue flashes of approaching cop cars lit up the sky in both
directions.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tania's side was afire, pierced with pain, but she ran anyway, gasping for
breath as her lungs ached and her throat rasped. Behind her, sirens split the
night air with unearthly wails, though the crack of gunfire no longer echoed
down the alley. She didn't care; or rather, she had no room in her mind for
anything but the desperate need to run, run until she was somewhere safe.
She couldn't see at all; her eyes were still dazzled by the flash when the gun
had gone off. She lost her balance when she stumbled over a trash-can and fell
face-first in the slimy alley, ripping the knees out of her tights and
scraping the skin of both palms. She was up again in the next heartbeat-
dashing out of the alley and into the lit street, across it, and into another
alley again. She ran into a dumpster she hadn't even seen, pushed away from
it, and stumbled off into the dark. At the end of this alley she slowed, then
stopped, doubling over with one hand on the brick of the wall beside her,
sucking in huge gulps of breath, her belly heaving as if a dull knife carved
at it deeper every time she breathed.
Panic ebbed, slowly. Her palms burned, and so did her knees. She stood up,
slowly, as the blinding white light of pure fear flickered and went out,
freeing her mind, letting her think again.
This wasn't the first time she'd been approached by a pimp, but they'd never
come after her before. No one had ever pulled a gun on her. If it hadn't gone
off like that-
She started to shake, and not just from reaction to her narrow escape. The
gun-the gun had gone off, in the guy's holster-before he even touched it. He'd
just pulled his jacket open to show it to her. He had been reaching for it,
but he hadn't actually gotten his hand on it, when the hammer had gone click,
he'd gotten a startled look on his face, and the gun had flashed and roared.
It had misfired. She had to think that. Anything else was too weird.
Besides, she didn't want to think about it at all. All she wanted, she
realized desperately, was to get home. Back to the apartment, where she could
soak her knees and hands before they got infected, soak her tired body in a
hot bath, hide in her bed with a book, and never, ever come out again.
She stood up, still shaking but determined to get home, knees and palms
sending little stabs of pain up her arms and legs every time the raw skin
flexed.
She ignored that, and the distant ache in her side, and stepped out into the
dim light from the streetlamp, trying to muster a show of courage. She
couldn't help but glance over her shoulder, up and down the street; trying not
to be obvious about it, but looking furtively to see if there was anyone else
likely to make a grab for her. It wasn't just that she was afraid of another
muscle-boy coming after her. In her current disheveled condition, she knew she
looked like prey, easy prey. Even someone who might ordinarily leave her alone
could be tempted to go for her the way she looked right now. And there were
muggers, rapists, kids just looking to make some trouble, and she was all too
obviously a good target. She started to shake again.
She saw only a couple of people on her side of the street, and neither of them
looked terribly dangerous. One was an old bag-lady who tottered down the
street peering into corners, clucking and muttering to herself; the other, of
indeterminate gender, wandered all over the sidewalk, clutching a bottle in a
paper sack.
That didn't mean there wasn't someone lurking around the corner, or in the
mouth of an alley; someone she couldn't see. But at least she'd see them and
have a head start if they came after her. . . .
She started up the street, in the direction of the apartment, forcing herself
to walk normally, with her head high. The wino stared at her as she passed
him, but he didn't seem to really see her; the bag-lady ignored her entirely
in favor of an old sneaker she'd just found.
Nothing happened; no one jumped out of shadowy doorways to grab her, and no
one pulled any more guns. One or two kids, alone, dressed in variations on
jeans and gang-jackets, looked her over carefully, but evidently decided she
wasn't worth hassling.
By the time she made it back to the apartment, she was ready to pass out from
fear and from exhaustion. But at least tonight there was a lightbulb
illuminating the staircase, however faintly. There was no way that there could
be anyone lurking on the landing, waiting to ambush her. She took the stairs
slowly, carefully, pausing every few stairs to catch her breath. It took her a
long time to fumble the key out of her tiny purse, and even longer to unlock
the door.
The apartment was completely empty.
In a way, she was glad; that meant she wasn't going to have to explain what
had happened to anyone until she'd managed to sort it all out herself. But the
emptiness of the apartment meant she was going to be alone for a while. What
if that pimp had friends? What if they knew where she lived? What if they'd
been following her?
They couldn't know where she lived, she told herself, as she shut and locked
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