Lauren didn’t waste any time looking for a place to hide. She scuttled over to Paolo and jerked the .45 from his cold dead fingers. Okay, so they weren’t cold. What the hell.
Paolo had fired three shots. How many were bullets were left in the magazine? Four? Ten? A hundred? Lauren didn’t have a clue. She pointed the pistol at the doors.
One of the barn doors opened. A man poked his head inside.
Lauren pulled the trigger. The .45 slug tore through the wooden door about three feet to the left and a foot above where the man’s head had been. Lauren wasn’t much of a shot.
The door opened all the way, and the man stepped inside. He didn’t seem afraid. Lauren didn’t blame him, but she fired the pistol anyway. And missed again, still wide left.
The man didn’t even blink. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “My friend’s waiting outside, so even if you get me, which I doubt you will, he’ll come in and take care of you.”
Lauren pulled the trigger. The bullet went wide to the right this time. Over-correction.
“That pistol’s a Kimber,” the man said. “I heard four shots before, so that means you got one left. Wanna try again, or you just wanna come with me and Frankie? Jimmy wants to see you. Says you got something belongs to him.”
Lauren heard a low rumble. It was getting louder. She looked at the Kimber. It might as well have been a water pistol for all the good it did her. She dropped it to the dirt floor.