Sherlock dropped to her knees, keeping a clear view up the stairs to the second-floor landing. She didn’t have much patience. It drove her nuts to hold herself still and not run up the stairs, listening to her own heartbeat, the thump of her pulse in her throat, wanting to scratch an itch, but not daring to move. They waited, until her feet were numb and her stomach was growling. She looked at Dillon, still motionless as a shadow on a still night. Like her, he was partially hidden behind a newel post, the one Julia’s bullet had blown apart on Saturday night.
Savich was thinking of his father, a man who’d marveled at this ability in his son because he, Buck Savich, had been a live wire, never still, always on the move. Savich looked over at Sherlock. He could practically see wild waves of energy jumping off her. He knew she was well-trained, an excellent shot, and blessed with great reflexes, but he couldn’t help feeling the familiar punch of fear in his gut whenever she was in danger. He doubted it would ever fade. What amazed and pleased him was that she felt the same way about him.
Why wasn’t there another sound? Maybe because there was nothing there. But he didn’t believe that for a second. He’d wager Makepeace was standing still as a rock, like they were, listening as intently as they were. He had to know they were in the house. Did he also know about the cops outside? Probably. Ah, but he couldn’t be sure they were on to him. He had to come out of the corridor and onto the second-floor landing. He had to make a move, it only made sense. Surely he was waiting for Julia to come upstairs. Did he have any idea why they were here? Savich bet he knew exactly why they were here—how, he didn’t know, but Makepeace knew.
One eternal minute passed, then another. It seemed like a decade. Makepeace had to know something was wrong by now. It had been too long since anyone had made any noise. Then Savich knew why. “Down, Sherlock!”
An explosion rocked the house. Smoke and flames shot at them from the upstairs, debris spewing onto the landing and stairs from the corridor to the left. Smoke billowed down the stairs, blanketing them. This wasn’t for show—not like at the Mariner, mostly smoke and noise—this was a huge blast, meant to destroy, meant to kill. There was another explosion more distant, from the corridor to the right, probably from Julia’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Her bedroom was right over the kitchen.
Plaster fell in large chunks from the ceiling, walls heaved and bowed. Savich grabbed Sherlock’s hand and together they ran through the billowing black smoke gushing all around them. They heard the huge house shudder, the sound of collapsing ceilings and walls and the crackling of flames, gaining purchase now, spreading fast. Heat swooped down from the second floor, swallowing the air.
The kitchen ceiling was crashing down in big chunks, the beams still holding, but now in flames. Black smoke was filling the room.
They saw Cheney and Julia running toward the back door, wet dish towels pressed against their faces, Cheney trying to keep Julia behind him.
“We’ve got to cover them!” Savich shouted and raced toward them.
Cheney and Julia burst out of the screened door, and were running, bent over, toward the flower-covered brick patio, when a bullet struck Cheney in the chest and knocked him back against the house. He lurched sideways, managed to grab Julia and flatten her against the house, twisting to slam his body against hers.
Another bullet struck him in the center of the back. They heard him grunt, but he still pressed hard against Julia, covering her as best he could.
Outside, Savich peeled to the right, Sherlock to the left, separating themselves as targets, trying to get Makepeace between them, firing steadily toward the back of the property, the only place where Makepeace could have found cover.
“Get down!” Savich yelled as Cheney began to turn, his gun in his hand.
“No, Cheney, stay with Julia! Get down!” Savich shouted again, still firing. He saw Cheney and Julia sliding down the wall onto the patio, between two big ceramic flowerpots that provided them some cover. A bullet struck one of the pots, shattering it, spewing dirt, primroses, and shards of ceramic into the air.
Flames and smoke billowed out of the upstairs windows and through the open back door. Chunks of burning wood crashed down onto the patio behind them. Savich and Sherlock emptied their clips into the lower branches of the oak tree at the back of the property, and slammed in new clips. Savich raised his hand after a moment. They were both on their knees, hidden behind thick wooden trellises, covered with wisteria.
Everything was quiet again.
Savich listened. Above the crackling flames, he heard cops shouting, a couple of guns firing, and sirens wailing in the distance. His breath was pumping out. It burned from breathing in smoke.