The radio falls from his hand. Swanson coughs, feels something wet come up. Everything is getting all topsy-turvy. He isn’t going to make it to the truck. He isn’t going to make it another foot. He wants to lie down, go to sleep. Swanson falls onto his face, and the universe explodes into a Technicolor panorama of agony.

Swanson moans, manages to roll off of his tortured chest and onto his back. He stares up into the night sky. Each time he inhales he wants to die. He wants, needs, to talk to Jen, to tell her he didn’t mean for it to work out this way. This isn’t the ending he planned on.

“Swanson?”

It’s not the radio. Swanson’s eyes drift to the right, land on Munchel, standing next to him.

“Jee-zus, man! You got yourself shot.” Munchel stares back at the house. “I knew she was good. Glad I only gave her three bullets.”

“Doc…tor…” Swanson wheezes.

“Hell yeah, you need a doctor. Shit, I can see blood bubbles coming out the hole in your chest. You are seriously fucked up.”

Swanson wonders why Munchel is just standing there. He should be dragging him to the truck, or shutting off the cell phone jammer and calling an ambulance.

“Hos…pit…tal…”

Munchel leans over. His face looks huge, and his expression is grim. “See, here’s the problem with hospitals, Greg. They have to report gunshot wounds. How quick do you think they’d connect a rifle slug in the chest with what happened to night in Chicago?”

“…won’t…”

“Sure they will.”

Swanson forces it out. “… won’t… tell…”

“Oh, I get it. We drop you off, and you don’t mention us at all. Even when you’re on trial for all of those dead cops that I killed. You don’t say anything at all about me or Pessolano. Is that right?”

Swanson coughs. His mouth feels hot and wet. He can’t believe Munchel wants to talk this much while he’s dying. The talk can come later. Right now he needs help.

“Do you promise you won’t rat out your buddies, Swanson? Can I get your word on that?”

Swanson thinks he nods. Or maybe he just imagines he nods. Either way, he feels himself being dragged. To the truck. To doctors. To safety.

He closes his eyes, hopes that Jen is there in the hospital when he wakes up.

Pain forces Swanson’s eyes back open. He feels like there’s an airplane parked on his chest.

It’s Munchel. He’s standing on Swanson’s rib cage.

“Can’t use a bullet,” he says. “Pessolano might hear.”

Swanson can’t draw a breath to answer. He tries to push away Munchel’s legs, but he has no strength left.

Death doesn’t come quick or easy. It’s takes close to five minutes.

Swanson feels every second.

I’M PRETTY SURE I hit the sniper, or at least came close. I set the rifle down, find the wall switch, and flick on the living room lights. They’ll have to change scopes again, giving me time to-

She comes at me in a blur. My mind registers the glint of a knife blade, and I instinctively throw both hands up over my head, forming an X with my wrists to block its downward path. Then I spin, sweeping my right leg out, tripping Alex.

Alex lands hard but recovers fast, rolling to the side, getting her feet under her. The knife is from the rack on my kitchen counter. A cheap set, flimsy blades, but they’re serrated and insanely sharp. She’s chosen a paring knife. Alex switches her grip to underhanded, blade up. She’s fought with knives before.

I cast my eyes around for a weapon, settle on a sofa cushion. It won’t do much, damage-wise, but it’s thicker than the knife blade.

Alex’s eyes are cool, dispassionate. She feints once. Again. Then lunges.

I block the knife with the cushion, feeling it puncture the fabric, twisting hard to try and catch the blade. She pushes harder, swiping at my face with her free hand, catching me on the cheek.

I stumble back, managing to keep hold of the cushion. She comes at me again, but this time I kick at her shin, driving my heel into the spot below her knee.

Alex roars. Then a gunshot thunders over our heads, making a divot in the ceiling.

Harry, in the hallway, pointing my Kimber at us.

“Hey! Mrs. Hyde! Hold still so I can hit you!”

Alex must not feel threatened by Harry’s left-handed shooting, because she ignores him and comes at me again. Personally, I feel extremely threatened. Chances are high Harry will shoot me instead of Alex. I’ve witnessed firsthand how bad he is lefty. Adding codeine and vodka to the mix isn’t going to improve his aim.

Alex strikes, hard enough for the knife tip to penetrate both sides of the cushion. She muscles forward. I double back, smacking into the wall behind me.

Another BOOM. A hanging picture of my mother shatters, Harry’s shot hitting her in the head.

Alex presses her whole body against the cushion. I feel the tip of the blade poke against my stomach. I shove back, but she’s bigger, stronger. I suck in my gut, trying to avoid being skewered. It isn’t working. The knife jabs me again, and I feel it break the skin.

“I’m going to gut you,” Alex says, spittle flecking off her lips. “And then feed you your intestines.”

Rather than push against her, I move sideways, letting her keep the cushion. The knife pierces the wall. I hit Alex in the ear with the heel of my hand, putting my weight into it.

She staggers. I pivot my hips and kick her, hard. Alex’s hands are still wrestling with the cushion, so she can’t block my blow. The top of my foot connects with her unprotected kidney, and I feel the impact in my fillings.

Alex drops the knife and the cushion, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. I advance, fists clenched, sensing my chance to put her down for good. I rear back and unleash a vicious right hook.

Alex recovers faster than I expect, and she sidesteps my punch. Then she grabs my extended arm and uses my momentum to hurl me across the room.

I kiss the carpet, look up, and see Harry aiming the gun right at my face.

“Wrong target!” I scream at him.

I roll away a millisecond before he pulls the trigger.

“Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.

I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.

“Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”

Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.

Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.

The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.

But the garage – I have power tools in the garage.

I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.

I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.

She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.

“Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”

I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.

I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.

Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.