Read an Excerpt
This excerpt comes from Chapter 21, Seven Pounds, when LeighAnne and Lucien go in to serve a warrant.
The closet door to my right creaks. It’s a small sound. A nothing sound. I turn.
A shadow moves in the hallway. Not a shadow—a man. A man steps out. He’s young. Skinny. Meth-teeth and wide, terrified eyes. He’s struggling to hold a .50-cal Desert Eagle like he doesn't know how to use it.
Time does that thing—it stretches. It slows down to a frame-by-frame reel. I see his finger on the trigger. I see the barrel shaking. I see the panic in his eyes. My training screams at me—the part Lucien tried to jumpstart—Drop! Move! Fire! But the LeighAnne who downs a bottle of rum each night just... goes quiet. The part that is tired of fighting alone—hesitates for a fraction of a second. A micro-second of apathy.
Lucien is five feet away. Miller is down the hall. If I drop, I’m safe. But I don't drop. I stand there, flat-footed, staring into the black hole of the barrel. And for a split second, I don't feel fear. I feel relief. Finally. The silence I’ve been chasing... it’s right there. Just one squeeze away. I don't duck. I don't raise my Glock. I just look at him.
Do it.
Pop.
The sound is small, insignificant. The impact is not.
It feels like a sledgehammer swinging into my upper left thigh. My leg buckles. The floor rushes up to meet me. The burn starts a second later—white-hot, searing, sickening.
I hit the linoleum. My gun skitters away. The shadow is standing over me as I clench my thigh.
Pop.
Then, the world explodes. My side immediately feels hot. I smell burning flesh.
“LEIGH!”
Lucien’s scream is louder than the gunfire. It’s a sound of pure, animalistic horror.
Then Lucien is there, a blur of charcoal and absolute, murderous intent. He isn't taking cover. He steps right over me, a god of vengeance in tactical gear.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Three shots. Controlled. Precise. Final. The kid with the Desert Eagle drops.
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