Page 87 of Cowboy Heat

I think he’s misspeaking until I look at the thing.

The lid, like the rest of the toilet, is porcelain. Unlike the rest of the toilet, it’s detachable.

I think I’m picking up what he’s putting down. “Yes.”

The footsteps have made it to the hallway on the second floor.

“Use the lid, Kissy,” Lee urges. “Most people split up in a search grid when they think they’re the only ones armed. Get behind the bathroom door and wait for one of them to come in, and hit them with that as hard as you can.”

It’s a lot to say in a limited amount of time, but I make sure the other door leading into the next bedroom is locked and then pull the dang toilet lid up with as much grace as I can afford, given the nature of the situation.

I’ll give it to the lid, it’s a heavy son of a gun. It scrapes lightly against its holder, and I nearly drop it. My adrenaline is the only thing that keeps my muscles sturdy.

No one starts running toward me, so I assume they don’t hear my clumsiness.

I move behind the only open door left and press the lid against my body so I can palm the phone. “Got it.” I’m not even sure he hears my whisper until he responds, just as quiet.

“Envision you’re swingingthroughthem and then grab their weapon. Run if you have to. Now, put me in your pocket.”

I follow the last command.

The phone goes into my back pocket, and there I am, holding a toilet lid longways like it’s a bat.

This could go so wrong.

What if they both come in at the same time?

What if I go against the guy with the gun, and he just shoots?

What if—

I see his red hair first as Grant steps into the bathroom. I don’t even look for the knife.

Instead, I listen to Lee Great-Advice Montgomery.

I try to hit the wall on Grant’s left.

By goingthroughhim.

Specifically, his head.

The poor man never sees it coming, either.

If I thought my shoe hitting the window was an awful sound, hitting a grown man upside the head with a porcelain toilet lid has it beat a hundred times over.

I feel his weight stop me and the lid, but Grant crumples after a solidcracksound—a sound I’m sure I’ll throw up thinking about later—echoes in the bathroom around us.

He goes to the floor like he’s been liquified.

I drop the lid against the tile to keep my balance and not fall with him.

The knife hits near my right foot.

His friend yells his name with a question after it from somewhere else on the second floor.

I start to scramble for the lid again but stop short.

Grant’s jacket is open and askew.