By the first shot, Leon already had me down behind the piano. The second round grazed the lid and sprayed splinters across my face. He shielded my head with one hand and returned fire with the other. He didn't even break cover to aim—going only by the attackers' muzzle flashes, he fired twice. Someone hit the floor.
"Two at three o'clock. One at the kitchen door. Another shooter upstairs," he said against my ear. "Stay here and count to 20."
As he pushed to his feet, I felt warmth spreading across his lower back.
"You've been hit."
"It missed the bone." He tore off his tie and bound my wrist to the leg of the piano. "Leon?" "I'm sorry." For the first time, something uncertain came into his voice. "Someone could pretend to be me in the smoke and lead you off. If I'm not back in 20 secon
