Page 13 of Stone Coast (Tyson Wild Thriller)

A drenaline rushed through my veins, and my heart punched my chest. I launched into survival mode, drew my pistol, and crouched low behind the counter in the kitchen. There was no time for fear or panic.

Two masked thugs entered the foyer with Uzis.

Grayson lay on the tile, gasping and gurgling. His torso had been riddled with bullets, and blood seeped onto the tile. He writhed and moaned, fluid filling his lungs.

The sight was mortifying.

One of the thugs knelt down and felt for a pulse.

The other advanced down the foyer into the living room.

They both wore all black, except for their sneakers—Magnum Launch Pads . Colorful, expensive basketball shoes now speckled with blood.

I angled my pistol over the counter, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The 9mm hammered against my palm, sending shockwaves down my forearm.

Muzzle flash flickered, and smoke wafted from the barrel.

The tangy scent of gunpowder drifted in the air.

I acted without hesitation or thought. Pure instinct.

My bullets streaked across the living room, pelting the thug in the chest, spewing geysers of blood. His body twitched with each hit, then tumbled back and fell into the foyer, moaning and groaning.

It was enough incentive for his companion to back out of the house and take off.

With my heart pounding, I darted from the kitchen and advanced across the living room to the foyer. I kicked the Uzi out of reach, then knelt down and felt for a pulse in the thug’s neck.

Threat neutralized.

I holstered my pistol and advanced to Grayson. I felt for his pulse, but there was no thump against my fingertips when I touched his neck. My face and my stomach twisted with horror.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, put it on speaker, and set it on the floor while I attended to Grayson.

"911, what is your emergency?"

I told her what had happened and gave her the address. I'd made a note of it when we first arrived at the house.

Over the last week, I noticed myself habitually making note of small details.

I was extra observant. A collector of minutia.

I soaked up directions, remembered addresses, and observed people around me.

I made note of their appearance in my mind.

I'd catch myself testing my memory—what they wore, what they looked like, and whether they were a threat. In restaurants, I’d always sit facing the door.

Every building I entered, I always noted the exit routes and formulated a plan on how to get out in case of emergency.

I tried to predict where potential threats might come from and what type of threats I might be liable to encounter.

It was second nature. Something I did unconsciously.

It was a paranoid way to live.

But it seemed ingrained in my being.

My long-term memory may have been gone, but my short-term memory was phenomenal. Whatever training I had was embedded. Hardwired into my brain. Part of my physiology.

The operator said an ambulance was en route and told me to stay on the line.

I kept up with the chest compressions.

Grayson wasn't coming back from this.

I felt a deep sense of sorrow. My stomach churned, and my heart hung heavy. Part of me had been ripped away. On the surface, Grayson was a man I’d just met, but my body knew there was a deeper connection.

His warm blood seeped through my fingers, pooling on the tile.

I wiped my bloody hands on my pants, then moved to the thug, lifted his mask, and studied his face .

I’d never seen him before.

It sounds morbid, but I snapped a few pictures of his face with my cell phone for reference. Maybe I could get Tyson to help me figure out who this guy was.

I set my weapon on the kitchen table and unloaded it. I knew coming into this scenario, the police would have no idea who the shooter was and what happened. I didn't want to risk getting inadvertently shot.

The distant sound of sirens warbled, and soon, an ambulance pulled to the curb along with the fire department.

First responders rushed into the house.

They took over, but there was nothing for them to do.

Then came the questions.

I rehashed the grisly events.

By this time, I was in a daze. The place was pure chaos, and first responders swarmed.

A few minutes later, two Pineapple Bay patrol cars pulled up, red and blue lights flashing. The officers hopped out of the white squad cars trimmed with blue and gold accents.

The officers approached the house with hands on pistol grips, ready for anything. Once inside, responders pointed to me, and they started with the questions.

I went through the scenario once again.

"So, you don't live here," Officer Hoskins said.

"No."

"What were you doing here? "

"I was having dinner with my… I was having dinner with Grayson."

"Grayson is the homeowner?”

I nodded.

“Can you identify him?"

I nodded and swallowed. "He's the man by the door."

“And the intruder?"

I looked at him like it was a silly question. "I don't know his name. He didn't introduce himself."

The officer frowned. "Where were you when the incident occurred?"

I told him.

That's when Detective Dickhead arrived. He stepped into the house, observed the bodies, then made his way into the living room.

He was early 30s with slick brown hair, a high forehead, narrow brown eyes, and a medium build. He wore a dark gray suit and a navy blue tie. It wasn't an expensive suit, and it wasn't a cheap suit—somewhere in the middle.

By now, the crime scene had been contaminated—people walked in and out, stepping through blood spatter, even though they tried to avoid it. The forensic team hadn't arrived yet. If this was indicative of their department, it didn't give me a good feeling.

Detective Dickhead flashed his badge. "I'm Nick Scarborough. I just have a few questions for you. "

He shooed the plain-clothes officers away and started in with the same questions.

I caught him up to speed.

"Where were you when you shot the intruder?"

"In the kitchen," I said, pointing.

"And you just happened to have a gun on you?"

"Yes."

"You always carry a gun on a dinner date?"

I didn't like the question. "Is that relevant?"

He shrugged. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened here."

"I told you what happened."

"I just think it's a little odd that you're having dinner with a guy and you felt the need to bring a weapon. Have you been out with him before?"

The delivery guy from Anthony's showed up with the lasagna. He looked at the scene, and his eyes rounded. "Um, I got a delivery."

The delightful smell wafted through the foyer, but I had lost my appetite.

"This is a crime scene," an officer said.

"I'll just leave this here," the delivery guy said, putting the bag of to-go boxes on the porch. He backed away, taking in the morbid sight .

"What was your relationship with Grayson?" Scarborough asked.

"It's complicated," I said.

He lifted a curious brow. "I'm listening."

"Look, two men rang the doorbell. When Grayson answered, they shot him, stormed in, and I'm pretty sure they would have killed me, or worse, if I hadn’t returned fire. If I'm not mistaken, I'm well within my rights to do that."

"I don't mean to upset you, ma'am. I'm just trying to be thorough."

"Well, as you can see, I'm upset."

"You don't seem that upset. You seem to be handling this pretty well."

"Would you prefer it if I was a basket case right now?"

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm in IT sales."

"IT sales,” he said in a suspicious voice. “They teach you how to use a weapon at your company?"

What a prick.

"No.” I snarked back, “Self-defense is a personal hobby."

"You made a hell of a shot from the kitchen. Under pressure, fine motor skills degrade. Yet you put two shots, center mass, into that intruder,” he said, pointing to the dead thug.

“You know 90% of gunshots miss within 10 feet during police firefights. These are trained professionals, and they can’t hit the broad side of a barn when it counts.

Yet you dropped this guy with precision. "

"I stay calm under pressure."

"I see that. Do you have a military background?"

"Why are you focusing on me and not the intruders? One of them got away!"

"So you say."

Rage flushed my cheeks. "Check the video doorbell. You'll see them both approach."

"There's a video doorbell?"

My eyes narrowed at him. "Didn't you notice it on the way in?"

His jaw flexed. "There are a lot of details to take in when approaching a scene like this. My main concern is if the active shooter is still present. Where's your weapon now?"

"On the kitchen table," I said, pointing.

"I'll need to confiscate that, temporarily, of course. The lab will run ballistics, and we’ll determine who shot who." He paused. "How about you come down to the station and make an official statement?"

"I just made an official statement."

"I’d prefer if we did this by the book and got you on video."

"I'm going to decline your invitation at this time, but I appreciate your thoroughness," I said, glaring at him.

"I get suspicious when people are uncooperative. "

I bit my tongue, took a breath, and steadied myself. "I’ve been cooperative. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I've been through a traumatic experience, and I’d like a little time to myself."

"Of course," he said in an unsympathetic voice.

"By the way, how long had you known Grayson?"