At the same time, various possibilities to explain the shooting ricocheted through his head. The first was a positive one: Could the gunman be a cop sent here to rescue him?
That possibility took a huge hit when the long-haired man dropped like a stone. The possibility was completely blown away a second later when Gabrielle went down too.
It was a slaughter.
Keep moving. . . .
But where? He was in a basement, for crying out loud. There weren’t a whole lot of hiding places. He commando-crawled to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Chris Taylor leaping up toward the window. The gunman came down the stairs and took a shot. With surprising speed, Chris kicked his legs up and pushed himself through the window and out of sight.
But Adam heard Chris shout.
Had he been hit?
Maybe. It was hard to tell.
The man with the gun hurried all the way down the stairs.
Trapped.
Adam thought about surrendering. The gunman might, in a sense, be on his side. He, too, might very well have been a victim of Chris’s group. But that didn’t mean he was about to leave around any witnesses. This guy had, in all likelihood, been the one to kill Ingrid and Heidi. He had now killed Merton and the long-haired man. Gabrielle, he thought, was still alive. Adam could hear her moaning on the ground.
The man was at the bottom of the stairs now.
Adam rolled again to his right and found himself under the very stairs the gunman had just come down. The gunman started toward the window, probably to check on Chris Taylor, but he stopped when he heard Gabrielle groan. The man looked down at her and barely broke stride.
Gabrielle lifted a bloody hand and said, “Please.”
The gunman shot her dead.
Adam almost screamed out loud. The gunman didn’t hesitate. He kept walking toward the window where Chris had escaped.
That was when Adam spotted Merton’s gun.
It was across the room, not far from the window. The gunman’s back was turned. Adam had two options here. One, he could try to run up the stairs. But no, that would leave him too exposed for too long. He’d be a sitting duck. So two, if he could just make a sudden move toward the gun, if he could just get there in time and reach out while the man was distracted. . . .
Or wait, there was a third option. Should he just stay right where he was? Should he just stay hidden under the stairwell?
Yes. That was it. Stay out of sight. Maybe the man hadn’t seen him. Maybe the man didn’t know he was here.
No.
The man had shot Merton first. Merton had been standing right next to Adam. There was no way he could have seen Merton and not seen him. The gunman just wanted to make sure no one escaped. He wanted them all dead.
Adam had to go for the weapon.
These calculations didn’t take seconds. They didn’t even take nanoseconds. All of it—the three options, the computations, the rejections, the planning—happened in no time, as though the world had been frozen just so he could sort this out.
The gun. Get the gun.
It was, he knew, his only hope. So with the man’s back turned, Adam leapt from his spot toward the weapon. He stayed low, diving for it, coming closer. His hand was just inches away when a black shoe came out of nowhere and kicked the gun away.
Adam landed on the concrete with a thump. He watched helplessly as the gun skittered underneath a chest of drawers in the corner.
The gunman looked down and, just as he had done with Gabrielle, took aim.
It was over.
Adam knew that now too. His brain had gone through the various options again—roll away, grab the man’s leg, try to attack—but he could see that there would not be time. He closed his eyes and winced.
And then a foot came through the window, kicking the man in the head.
Chris Taylor’s foot.
The gunman stumbled to the side, but he regained his balance fast. He aimed the gun out the window and fired twice. No way to know if he had hit anything. The gunman started to turn his attention back to Adam.
But Adam was ready.
He leapt to his feet. The bike chain was still attached to his wrist. Adam used it now, swinging it blindly like a whip. It landed flush and heavy on the man’s face. He cried out in pain.
Sirens. Police sirens.
Adam didn’t let up. He pulled the chain back toward him as his free hand came forward in a fist. It, too, landed on the gunman’s face. Blood gushed from his nose. The gunman tried to push Adam away, tried to free himself.
Uh-uh, no way.
Adam kept his body close. He wrapped the gunman up in a bear hug, his momentum still pushing him forward. They fell hard on the concrete, forcing Adam to let go. The gunman took advantage of the moment. He connected with an elbow to Adam’s head.
The stars came back. So did the nearly paralyzing pain.
Nearly paralyzing.
The gunman tried to roll away, tried to put just enough space between them so he could free his gun hand. . . .
The gun, Adam thought. Just concentrate on the gun.
The sirens were getting closer.
If the man couldn’t use his gun, Adam could survive this. Forget the pain. Forget the shots to the body or the head or anything like that. He had but one mission: Grab the man’s wrist and stop him from being able to use the gun.
The man tried to kick his way free, but they were still tangled up just enough. The man kicked at him again. Adam’s grip loosened. The man was almost free now. He was on his stomach, slipping out of Adam’s grasp.
Just grab the wrist.
Without warning, Adam let go of everything. The man, thinking he was free, started to scoot away. But Adam was ready. He leapt toward the gun hand. He grabbed the wrist with both hands, pinning the arm to the concrete but leaving himself otherwise exposed.
The man took advantage of that.
He punched Adam hard in the kidney. The blow stole his breath. Jolts of hot pain surged through his nerve endings. But Adam didn’t budge. The man punched him again, harder this time. Adam held on, but now he could feel his body start to shut down.
Another blow and he wouldn’t be able to keep his grip.
No choice now. He would have to be more proactive.
Adam lowered his mouth toward the gun hand. He opened wide and bit down like a rabid dog on the inside of the man’s wrist. The gunman howled. Adam held on with his teeth and twisted hard, ripping the thin skin.
The gun fell from the man’s hand.
Adam dove for it like a drowning man after a life preserver. His hand clasped around the weapon as he felt the man punch him yet again.
But the punch was too little too late. The gun was Adam’s now.
The gunman jumped onto Adam’s back. Adam rolled backward toward him, swinging his gun in a big arc. The butt of the Sig Sauer landed on the man’s already broken nose.