bitten pretty deep. Her eyes narrow to slits, and her scar tissue flushes bright pink.
“Is that what you got your black belt in?” Alex says. “Biting?”
“No.”
I pivot my hips, whip my leg around, and reverse-kick her upside the head. She staggers, but doesn’t fall. I follow it up with a flying kick, knocking her backward over my bed.
“Hey, Jackie!” Harry calls. “Is your cat friendly?”
My extra handcuff keys are in the jewelry box, on the dresser behind her. My gun is in the closet, zippered up in my shooting bag. If I go for the gun, there’s a chance Alex might wrestle it away from me before I get it out. But if I leave the room, she might go searching for it.
Alex stands up. I tug open the closet door, grab the bag, and head for the door.
“JESUS CHRIST! THE CAT HAS MY JOHNSON!”
A shot comes through my bedroom window, making a hole in my sleeve but missing my arm. Alex and I both drop to the floor. I take the opportunity to unzip my bag, and Alex gets onto all fours, poised to come at me. I toss the bag onto the bed, into the line of fire. The sniper proves my hypothesis by shooting the bag. Alex doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I. Instead, I scramble for the door.
“HE’S BITING ME! HE’S BITING ME!”
I feel her hand brush my ankle. I twist free and run in a crouch. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.
Mr. Friskers has latched on to Harry’s crotch. Harry is unsuccessfully trying to yank him off.
“Don’t pull,” I say, running past. “It just makes him dig in.”
“HE’S GOT THE TWINS!”
Harry tugs on the cat’s tail, which Mr. Friskers
really
hates. He becomes a blur of fur and claws, hissing and scratching as Harry screams.
I search the floor for my purse, find it, dump the contents.
My handcuff key.
I snatch it up just as Alex appears in the kitchen.
Two more shots ping through the windows, both of them hitting the fridge. Rather than duck down, it looks like Harry is trying to stick his groin in front of the bullets.
Then Alex pounces, coming at me low, arms outstretched and eyes crazed.
I go at her even lower, aiming for her ankles. I hook my elbow around her foot, tripping her, then roll to the side, bumping up against the dishwasher. I still have the handcuff key. I fumble with it, trying to find the keyhole.
Another shot, very close to Harry. Mr. Friskers screeches, jumping high enough to hit the ceiling. He lands on the floor and streaks out of the kitchen, apparently having had enough. Harry, bleeding and pissed off, points a finger at me.
“Why would you have a cat like that? Why?”
I get the key in, turn it.
My hand pops free. I yank open the dishwasher, intent on grabbing a knife.
Alex kicks the dishwasher door closed, and I barely escape with my arm. I thrust the knife, stabbing at her leg, and realize I have a spoon instead. She hits me with a right cross that brings the stars out, but I’ve been hit harder and I gather up a handful of her shirt and deliver an uppercut that sends the bitch staggering.
Then I’m on my feet. On my feet, hands free, angry as hell. I swing lefty, not making a fist, catching her just above the eyes with the handcuffs hanging from my wrist. I open up a gash on her forehead, and the blood trickles into her eyes, making it hard for Alex to see.
I scan the countertop, see the apple pie. I pick it up, still steaming hot, and chuck it at Alex’s head.
She ducks. The pie hits Harry, in the groin.
“JESUS CHRIST, IT BURNS!”
He slaps at the apples, which must only add to his discomfort. I fly back to the counter, grab the coffeemaker, and bounce it off Alex’s chest. Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I’m not aiming to knock her out. I’m aiming to knock off her fucking head.
I release the cord. Alex puts up her hand to protect her head, and both her hand and the toaster smash into her face. Somehow she stays on her feet. I charge at her,
“Is that what you got your black belt in?” Alex says. “Biting?”
“No.”
I pivot my hips, whip my leg around, and reverse-kick her upside the head. She staggers, but doesn’t fall. I follow it up with a flying kick, knocking her backward over my bed.
“Hey, Jackie!” Harry calls. “Is your cat friendly?”
My extra handcuff keys are in the jewelry box, on the dresser behind her. My gun is in the closet, zippered up in my shooting bag. If I go for the gun, there’s a chance Alex might wrestle it away from me before I get it out. But if I leave the room, she might go searching for it.
Alex stands up. I tug open the closet door, grab the bag, and head for the door.
“JESUS CHRIST! THE CAT HAS MY JOHNSON!”
A shot comes through my bedroom window, making a hole in my sleeve but missing my arm. Alex and I both drop to the floor. I take the opportunity to unzip my bag, and Alex gets onto all fours, poised to come at me. I toss the bag onto the bed, into the line of fire. The sniper proves my hypothesis by shooting the bag. Alex doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I. Instead, I scramble for the door.
“HE’S BITING ME! HE’S BITING ME!”
I feel her hand brush my ankle. I twist free and run in a crouch. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.
Mr. Friskers has latched on to Harry’s crotch. Harry is unsuccessfully trying to yank him off.
“Don’t pull,” I say, running past. “It just makes him dig in.”
“HE’S GOT THE TWINS!”
Harry tugs on the cat’s tail, which Mr. Friskers
really
hates. He becomes a blur of fur and claws, hissing and scratching as Harry screams.
I search the floor for my purse, find it, dump the contents.
My handcuff key.
I snatch it up just as Alex appears in the kitchen.
Two more shots ping through the windows, both of them hitting the fridge. Rather than duck down, it looks like Harry is trying to stick his groin in front of the bullets.
Then Alex pounces, coming at me low, arms outstretched and eyes crazed.
I go at her even lower, aiming for her ankles. I hook my elbow around her foot, tripping her, then roll to the side, bumping up against the dishwasher. I still have the handcuff key. I fumble with it, trying to find the keyhole.
Another shot, very close to Harry. Mr. Friskers screeches, jumping high enough to hit the ceiling. He lands on the floor and streaks out of the kitchen, apparently having had enough. Harry, bleeding and pissed off, points a finger at me.
“Why would you have a cat like that? Why?”
I get the key in, turn it.
My hand pops free. I yank open the dishwasher, intent on grabbing a knife.
Alex kicks the dishwasher door closed, and I barely escape with my arm. I thrust the knife, stabbing at her leg, and realize I have a spoon instead. She hits me with a right cross that brings the stars out, but I’ve been hit harder and I gather up a handful of her shirt and deliver an uppercut that sends the bitch staggering.
Then I’m on my feet. On my feet, hands free, angry as hell. I swing lefty, not making a fist, catching her just above the eyes with the handcuffs hanging from my wrist. I open up a gash on her forehead, and the blood trickles into her eyes, making it hard for Alex to see.
I scan the countertop, see the apple pie. I pick it up, still steaming hot, and chuck it at Alex’s head.
She ducks. The pie hits Harry, in the groin.
“JESUS CHRIST, IT BURNS!”
He slaps at the apples, which must only add to his discomfort. I fly back to the counter, grab the coffeemaker, and bounce it off Alex’s chest. Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I’m not aiming to knock her out. I’m aiming to knock off her fucking head.
I release the cord. Alex puts up her hand to protect her head, and both her hand and the toaster smash into her face. Somehow she stays on her feet. I charge at her,
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