PESSOLANO WATCHES the fat cop die.

It’s bloody.

Counting the woman cop by the window, this brings Pessolano’s death toll to three. Not the eighteen confirmed kills he lied to Munchel about back at the bar, but not bad for his first day as a real-life mercenary. Not bad at all.

He points the Gen 3 starlight scope at the large bay window, looking for number four.

THE SMELL OF AMMONIA spikes up my nostrils, and I wake up to the worst headache I’ve ever had. I open my eyes, squinting against the flashlight in my face, realizing I’m on my bathroom floor.

Mom stares down at me, her face a picture of worry.

“You okay?” I ask her. My throat is really dry, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“I’m fine, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy. Wake me up in a few hours.”

I close my eyes again, get another whiff of ammonia.

“Mom! Quit it!” I reach up to push the smelling salts away.

“Harry says you shouldn’t sleep after a head injury.”

Harry?

“You need to wake up, sis,” he says. “We’re still in a lot of trouble.”

It comes back to me in a big, ugly rush. Alex. The snipers. Finding out Harry McGlade might be my brother. I raise my hand to my head and gently probe the spot that hurts the most. I touch matted hair and tape, and what might be a staple.

“Did I get hit in the head?” I ask.

“You were shot,” Mom says. “You’ve been out for over half an hour.”

“That long? I remember turning off the circuit breaker. But nothing after that.”

“You’re lucky,” Harry says. “I’m going to remember this last half hour for the rest of my life.”

I cough. “I’m thirsty.”

Harry sticks his hand out the bathroom door, and comes back with a bottled water from the refrigerator. Mom shines the flashlight on him, and I can see that he’s been crying. I take the water, oddly touched by his concern. He must really be worried about me.

Mom puts her hand on my face, strokes my cheek.

“One more,” she says.

Harry vigorously shakes his head. “No. Please. Thirty-eight is enough.”

“Just one.”

“I can’t take it,” he says. “I’m one big hematoma.”

“Don’t be a baby. You have plenty of blood left. Let’s try your leg.”

Mom holds up a syringe. Harry tries to back away, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

“Not that leg!” Harry cries. “The veins are all collapsed!”

My mother doesn’t heed him, jabbing him in that leg.

“Holy hell, it hurts so bad!”

Fresh tears flow down his cheeks. So much for him worrying about me.

“Harry’s such a brave boy,” Mom says. “Aren’t you, Harry?”

He moans. “I need aspirin. A shitload of aspirin.”

That seems like a good idea. I sit up, intent on visiting the medicine cabinet. Vertigo kicks in, making everything lopsided, and the pain gets so bad I see spots. I sip some water, try to get my vision to track correctly.

“Is Jack okay?” Latham, from the living room.

“She’s a bloodthirsty demon!” Harry moans. “Draining me dry!”

“I’m okay,” I call to him. “How are you doing?”

“Getting drowsy.”

“Maybe he needs a transfusion,” I say to Harry.

“Don’t worry.” Mom yanks out the needle and pats his thigh. “Harry’s a universal donor.”

“Harry needs some pain reliever,” he says, “because he feels like he just doggy-styled a cactus.”

Harry reaches into the vanity over the sink and finds the Tylenol bottle. He pries off the cap with his teeth, pours a bunch in his mouth, then washes them down with a beer he liberated from my fridge.

“This might hurt,” Mom says to me.

She sticks the needle into my arm, next to dozens of other marks. I look like a junkie after a bender from hell. There isn’t much pain, though. My throbbing head is too much competition.

I drink more water, Harry tosses me the Tylenol, and I swallow three. Mom finishes shooting me up, and then takes a few pills herself. We help each other up. I’m still a little dizzy, but I can function. I give Harry a pat on the shoulder and he shouts.

“Sore! Very sore!”

I consider myself a kind person, but showing kindness to Harry McGlade takes Herculean effort.

“Thanks for the blood, Harry.”

His eyes soften. “Hey, that’s what family is for. We already share the same blood, right?” Then he adds, “And if you develop any kind of itchy rash in the feminine area, I’ve got some cream left over from my last doctor visit.”

I don’t want to think about that.

“What next?” Mom asks.

I finish the water, toss the empty bottle in the trash can. Sort of a silly gesture, worrying about being tidy when there’s a shot-up refrigerator sticking out of the door.

“I’m going back to the bedroom, to get my gun. Then I’m going to find a way outside.”

“They can see in the dark,” Mom says. “They have those scopes.”

That makes sense. The lights were out and they still managed to hit me.

“I’ll move fast. They can’t shoot what they can’t hit.”

Mom hugs me. I hug her back. She’s trembling.

“I thought…” Her voice cracks. “I thought I lost you.”

I want to say something meaningful, something poignant, but I’m getting pretty choked up too. So I settle for kissing her on the forehead and telling her I love her. Then I disengage, heading for the door.

Harry blocks my way.

“Gotta go,” I say.

He holds open his arm.

Oh God. He wants a hug.

I brace for it, stiffening as he encircles my waist. But rather than the sleazy feeling I normally get when Harry touches me, this time it isn’t too bad.

“Be careful, sis.”

I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, and he whimpers in pain.

“Your back too?”

“She stuck me everywhere I had skin.”

I pull away, saying, “Keep an eye on Mom.”

He doesn’t say anything glib or smart-ass. He simply nods.

I slip past him, switch off the flashlight, and duck into the hall.

I OPEN MY EYES and wonder where I am. I try to lift my hands, and see I’m chained under a sink. My body hurts all over.

I must have been a bad girl. Father punishes us when we’re bad. He calls it Penance. I’m afraid of Father, afraid of his punishments. I feel like crying.

Then my mind clears. I’m not ten years old anymore. I’m all grown up. And this isn’t our house. It’s Jack’s.

I’m in the kitchen, all alone.

Anger replaces fear.

My eyes sting. I rub my face on my shoulder, wipe away some blood. My forehead is cut. My head aches. My right hand still stings from when the gun was shot from my grip. None of the damage is serious.

I test the pipe I’m chained to. It’s cold, metal, two inches thick. A drain trap, under the sink. I give it a hard yank. Then another. It’s solid.

I scoot up closer, rest my head on the bottom of the cabinet. It smells like dish soap and moldy sponges. I can’t see very well – so I work by feel, palpating the U pipe, seeking the joint. I think righty tighty, lefty-loosey, and lock both fists around the octagonal coupling. It isn’t a pipe wrench, but it’s all I have.

I twist. My hands are strong, from thousands of fingertip pushups while in Heathrow. My arms are bigger than most guys’. But the pipe doesn’t want to cooperate. It refuses to turn, preferring instead to dig a nice trench of skin out of my palm.

I twist and twist until it feels like my veins are going to burst out of my temples. The joint won’t budge.

I stop, then spend a few minutes trying to use my handcuff chain as a tool, levering and turning and pulling.