"Stavros!"
I don't scream it in panic. I scream it as a warning.
I raise the pistol. My hands are rock steady, anchored by a calm that feels terrifyingly natural. I don't look at the chaos below. I look at the man on the catwalk. I look at the sniper rifle aimed at my husband's heart.
Exhale.
BANG.
The recoil snaps my wrist back. The shot goes high, missing Marcus's head by inches, but it clips his shoulder. He jerks violently, his rifle discharging harmlessly into the ceiling. He spins around, his eyes locking on mine through the smoke. For a split second, he looks shocked. He sees the girl he stole twenty years ago holding a smoking gun.
Then the rigging groans. The explosion compromised the supports. With a screech of tearing metal, the section of catwalk beneath him gives way.
M
