***

Brooke did a quick check around the abandoned building’s perimeter, looking for any signs that her sister might be inside, but it was too dark, and there were too many objects that obstructed her view. They could be in there, they might not. But she wasn’t leaving until she was absolutely sure.

There were only two points of entrance on the first floor that Brooke could see: the front door and the back door. She wrapped her hand around the knob and slowly twisted. She opened the door slowly, wedging her face into the sliver of space to peek inside.

What she couldn’t see was the gingerly stacked boxes that almost touched the ceiling just behind the door. She nudged the box of materials, and they crashed to the floor. She jumped from the noise and rushed into the building, aiming her gun at the mess she’d made, then quickly ducked for cover. If the bounty hunter was here, then she had just given away her position. She scooted across the dust-covered floor, scraping her knees and palms against the worn wooden floors.

Brooke kept the revolver in her hand, maneuvering around the boxes and pieces of furniture littered on the floor. Her breaths were short, slow, and quiet. She made sure to take extra care with the placement of her arms and legs. She became more aware of the motions of her body. She didn’t want to give herself away again.

Finally, in the center of the building, behind a counter, was a staircase. If the bounty hunter was here, then Brooke knew that the upstairs window would be the perfect position to scout who was coming and going into the hospital’s entrance. But with the noise she’d made and the narrowness of the staircase, she’d be a sitting duck trudging up that thing, and a bullet in her head wouldn’t do her family any good.

Brooke needed to draw him out, but how? The bounty hunter had the high ground, he had the hostages, and most likely he had some very precise weapons, along with the skill to use them very effectively.

The cruiser.

Brooke reached into her pocket and pulled out her keychain. From the bottom of the staircase she could see her cruiser through the building’s front windows. She aimed the key chain and hit the alarm button. The horn hocked, and the lights flashed, causing the people walking by on the sidewalk to jump. Brooke kept the pistol aimed at the top of the stair and she made her ascent.

Each step upwards was swift and quiet, and with the clamor the cruiser was making it was enough to give her some noise pollution to hurry up the steps. Toward the top she could see Amy and Gabby tied up in the corner. And as she looked to the right she could see the bounty hunter staring out the window looking down into the street.

Before he could turn around Brooke squeezed the trigger and the bullet entered the bounty hunter’s left shoulder. He instinctively spun around, clutching the rifle in his hands and recklessly fired a few rounds in Brooke’s direction. The force from the gun, and the weight of the man’s body sent him flying backwards through the thin single-paned glass. Two distinct thumps sounded from the bounty hunter hitting the overhang from the first floor, then the ground.

Brooke rushed over and peered through the broken glass to see him limping away toward the parking lot. She then turned her attention to her sister and niece. “Are you guys okay?” Both of them were crying, too hysterical to form any words. Brooke ripped the duct tape off the two of them and brought them to their feet. “C’mon. We need to get out of here.”

Amy held onto Gabby tight as Brooke descended the staircase first, still aiming the pistol downstairs just in case he decided to come back. She came down slowly, signaling Amy and Gabby to hold at the top until she saw that it was clear. When she looked out the front door the bounty hunter was no longer in the street.

“Okay, it’s safe,” Brooke said.

But once the girls were halfway down the steps two high-beam lights from an Audi A4 lit up the dark building as it came speeding toward them. “Run!” Brooke motioned for the girls to head back upstairs. The rev of the car’s engine roared louder as it barreled down upon them. Brooke tried following the girls up the staircase, but the car crashed through the front entrance before she had a chance to make it all the way to the top.

Brooke’s body slammed against the wall next to the staircase as the Audi cut through the wooden pillars holding the second floor up. Wood, glass, and metal exploded as portions of the second floor collapsed, coating the first floor in a thick layer of dust and debris.

A steady, high-pitched din filled her ears. She groaned, absentmindedly touching her head with her fingers. She winced from the touch. She felt disoriented. The headlights from the car were still on, illuminating the damage to the entire store. Her hand was empty. She looked around for the gun, but couldn’t find it. She crawled around on her hands and knees, swaying a bit. The room felt like it was spinning. The sharp, throbbing pain in her face continued its assault on her senses.

The ringing in her ears was slowly replaced by the sound of a voice. It was a girl’s voice, and she was crying for help. Gabby. Brooke forced her left foot forward, then her right, and repeated the simple process in her mind with all the willpower she had. She followed Gabby’s growing cries up what was left of the staircase.

She traced the cries to a large piece of wood covering a corner of the second floor that had remained intact. She lifted the wood up and pushed it to the side. Gabby was covered in dust. Next to her was Amy, who was unconscious.

“You all right?” Brooke asked, holding the young girl’s tear-streaked face. Gabby nodded, and Brooke turned her attention to her sister. She pressed two fingers into Amy’s neck, checking her pulse. She felt the slight thumps lift her fingertips then made sure she was breathing. Amy had a few cuts on her face and arms, but other than the fact that she was unconscious, she seemed fine.

Brooke had stretched out her arms to pick Gabby up when the thunder of a gunshot exploded behind her and she felt a stinging, numbing pain strike the back of her left shoulder. The force of the bullet and the pain that followed sent her tumbling back down the stairs.

Her head, shoulders, back, legs, and arms all struck the edges of the stairs with wild force and uncoordinated rhythm. She rolled onto the floor at the bottom, leaving a trail of splattered blood behind her. Brooke flipped herself onto her back and cried out from the sharp, piercing pain from the gaping wound on her shoulder. The spot where the bullet had entered felt warm as the blood spilled from her body onto the floor.

“You. Fucking. Bitch!” Terry said.

Brooke tilted her head up to see Terry with his left arm slack, blood pouring from his forehead, gripping the revolver he’d stolen from Brooke at the house with his good arm. He was covered in dust and debris. A bloodstain sopped his shirt. He stepped forward, limping from a twisted ankle.

Brooke forced herself to crawl forward as Terry pursued her. The thump of his boots grew louder until she felt the toe of a boot ram into her rib cage. Her body buckled from the blow. He repeated the vicious blows over and over until he became winded. Through her gasps of breath she could see the pistol hidden under a piece of the second-floor debris.

Get the gun.

Brooke continued to claw across the ground as Terry towered over her, spitting his curses and continuing the brutal assault on her body. A streak of blood trailed her with every inch she dragged herself forward.

“You think you’re going to get out of this alive?” Terry asked then smashed the heel of his boot into Brooke’s right ankle. The loud crack of bone sent a jolt through her body, stopping her dead in her tracks.

She lay there, body shaking, bleeding, with every cell in her being screaming from pain. Her arm slowly slid forward with her fingers trembling. She clawed into the floor, scraping her nails against the wood in her tireless pursuit to the pistol.

“You sniveling, whining BITCH!” Terry yelled, stomping on Brooke’s ankle again.

Brooke screamed. Every blood-curdling octave that left her throat was a condemnation of every moment since the exile. All the pain, loss, and suffering culminated in one piercing howl. It was more than just a cry of pain; it was one of determination, anger, and finality.

Terry ground his heel into Brooke’s ankle. The crunching of bone against bone and tissue was unbearable, but the moment he let his foot up, Brooke made one last drive toward the pistol.

“You’re dead. Your family’s dead. Everything you love is dead!” Terry said.

Brooke snatched the pistol, turned, and before Terry could raise his own gun, she emptied the magazine into his chest. Terry’s grip on the gun loosened and it hit the floor with a thud. He stumbled backward then collapsed.

What energy remained in Brooke immediately vaporized. Her head and arm hit the ground, her hand releasing her own grip on the pistol. The warm sensation the gunshot wound had given off earlier was being replaced by cold. Her whole body felt cold. She felt her eyelids become heavier. And in the night air, she could hear the faint wail of sirens.