The engine cut off and she heard a car door open and close. No voices. Nothing. A shot! Two! Three! Four! How many guys out there? The doors would burst open any second and she had to be ready. She'd seen it on TV a hundred times. She got against the front wall, took a sturdy stance, holding the Glock with both hands. Which side of the door would open?
She widened her legs and held her breath. Waited. Panted. Her arms shook. She propped her elbow on her hip and struggled to keep her trigger hand steady. Sweat ran between her breasts.
After two lifetimes, her arm dropped to her side. All dead? Doubtful. Just waiting for her head to appear.
She glanced around. Light slanted from above, gleaming on Paolo's tan forehead. Other than the sagging roof, the barn seemed sturdy. Odd timing, but she remembered a similar barn. Darrell, unsnapping his overalls. Mmm. He was a hot treat, but being a country wife hadn't appealed to her, stoking the wood stove and snapping beans, chasing after grubby kids with their green-snotted noses. Church on Sunday. Hell, maybe coming back was all a mistake, not just the way she'd done it. There was life in LA.
She gave the door a kick, knocking it open a few feet. Nothing. She charged through and stopped fast in front of a rusty pick up with huge muddy tires. The windows were half down, a collie whining inside. “Sweet baby,” she said.