Go, go, go, go… Her heart pounding, she forced herself into action. Legs bunched under her, she propelled herself out from behind the cabinet and toward her target. Shoulder slamming into the wall, she half slid down it as she grabbed up the gun and the severed hand. A small part of her brain yammered away as she tore the still-warm fingers loose and dropped the hand. Clinical waste, she told herself. Not even an amputated limb since the body it belonged to was rapidly cooling, sans heartbeat, on the floor.
Go, go, go, go… Her hand closed around the cool metal of the grip, her finger on the trigger, as if she’d used a gun every day of her life.
“Stay right where you are,” she ordered, and tried to ignore her hand shaking.
He turned his head, his outline a silhouette against the light fr
