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From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the muzzle blasts coming from the front room. Just a few feet from where Remi had to be hiding.
“Give it up, Fargo!” Colton called out. “You’re only making it worse.”
“For who?” He pressed up against the bricks between the open door and the window, moving the Browning to his left hand. Reaching inside the doorway with his other, he felt the wall, searching for the light switch. There were two. He switched off the motion lights, was about to withdraw, then froze. Finger still on the switch, he moved back as far as he could without losing contact, pointing the Browning with his left hand toward the window. He pressed the switch. A brass light fixture over the dining table lit up, casting light into the front room. Sam sidestepped across the porch, looked in the window, saw two men. Oren near the foot of the stairs, a gun held down, and his hired help, Colton, aiming his gun at the back door.
When Colton realized his mistake, it was too late. Sam fired, grazing his left side. Colton whirled around, ran for the stairs, as Sam fired twice more, driving both men back up the stairs. He fired off a fourth round into the grass as he slipped into the kitchen, to make them think he was at the window. Once inside, he saw Remi’s open briefcase on the table. The kitchen was empty, no cupboards large enough for her to hide in. “You’re surrounded!” Sam called out, though, in this case, who was surrounded was Chad, on the rooftop, with Bill and Oliver listening in the van to direct the police—when they finally got there. “There’s nowhere for you to go.”
Unless they wanted to try to get out the upstairs windows, they were momentarily trapped. His weapon aimed at the stairwell, he quickly looked around, saw what looked like a closet door at the back of the stairs, and crossed the room.
“Remi?” he whispered.
She opened the door, a sight for sore eyes. “Took you long enough.”
He grinned. “Where’s your gun?”
“Briefcase. Barely made it here in time.”
He glanced back toward the table. Getting to it meant risking exposure to the stairwell. Instead, he pulled his Smith & Wesson from his holster and handed it to her, as the faint sound of sirens drifted in from the open door. “Hear that, Oren?” he yelled. “You’re going to lose. The police are on their way.”
It was Colton who responded, shouting from inside the stairwell. “If you want any witnesses alive to testify that Albert’s innocent, you’ll let me walk out of here. The case is ironclad. You need them.”
Before Sam had a chance to respond, they heard Oren’s voice, tense. “Are you insane? You’re just as guilty.”
“Only if they catch me. Drop the guns, both of you, or I’ll blow your heads off . . .” It was a moment before Sam realized Colton wasn’t talking to him. Two handguns landed on the floor at the foot of the stairs. “We’re coming down,” Colton shouted. “If you want your witnesses, you won’t shoot.”
Two hands popped out past the wall, fingers splayed. Bruno said, “Don’t shoot . . .”
Sam and Remi, guns at the ready, watched as Bruno emerged, hands raised. “Stop!” Sam said. “Kick the guns toward me and get down on the ground.”
Bruno shoved one, then the other, toward them across the bare wood landing.
“Facedown,” Sam ordered.
Bruno complied. Oren stepped out next, hands up, with Colton using him as a shield, gun to his head. “Nice and slow,” Colton said, blood running down his shirt. “They’re yours, once I’m out the door.”
“Can’t let that happen,” Sam said.
Remi, finger on the trigger, took aim.
Col
ton looked right at her as he jammed the gun against Oren’s jaw. “Risk losing your star witness?”
She squeezed.
The shot grazed Colton’s skull. He stumbled back, momentarily stunned, as Oren pulled away, diving for the floor. Exposed, Colton looked at Remi, raising his gun.
Sam fired twice. One to the gut, one to the head.
Colton crumpled to the ground. While Remi covered him, her gun aimed at the other two men, Sam moved in, checking to see if he was dead.
“Show-off,” Remi said, as he picked up Oren’s gun, handing it to her, then picked up the other two weapons from the floor, placing them on the table out of reach, as sirens blared out front.
He nodded at his Smith & Wesson. “We might want to tuck that away for now. In case any of those police are armed.”
She returned the gun to him. “Bad time to mention we need to smooth out that trigger pull? I missed a perfectly good head shot.”
“Or,” Sam said, holstering his .38 before the police walked in, “you knew we wanted to avoid an inquest over bringing firearms into the country?”