Lisa Gardner: The Survivors Club

Don't give him time to recover, their self-defense instructor had told them. Don't give your attacker time to think.

Meg lashed her foot out at David's groin; he blocked her with his thigh. She drove her foot down into his tender instep. He made a funny noise in the back of his throat. She went after the side of his kneecap and he finally went down.

She wanted his gun. She wanted his knife. She wanted to stick her fingers in his eye sockets and dig for his brain. But her fingers wouldn't move, her arms wouldn't obey.

Meg whirled toward the wooden staircase with her useless, bloody arms. She started to run.

Behind her, David yelled, “One more step, you fucking bitch, and I will blow you away!”

Meg didn't stop.

David opened fire.

Griffin was easing along the front of the house, approaching the front door, when he heard the first gunshot. It was quickly followed by many more. He ducked low, grabbed the doorknob with his left hand while holding his Beretta with his right. Twist, turn, he rolled into the front entryway and came up in time to see David Price standing at the top of the basement stairs only four feet away. David was bellowing, “I'M GONNA KILL YOU, BITCH!” and brandishing a gun that matched Griffin's own-apparently David had armed himself courtesy of his state police escorts.

Griffin squeezed the trigger just as David spotted him, dodged right and returned fire. Shit! Griffin hurtled himself into the room on the left, getting off a few wild shots while David splintered the floorboards at his feet. Another shape suddenly appeared on Griffin's left-Fitz, emerging through the side patio door.

Griffin yelled: “Down!”

David raised the barrel and squeezed off another shot as Fitz hit the ground.

Griffin fired again. David whirled around the corner into the kitchen, where he had access to the next flight of stairs.

“Damn!” Fitz swore into Griffin's ear, crawling to his feet. “I think he took out the last of my hair.”

“Where's Meg?”

“I don't know, but he shot the hell out of something in the basement.”

“You go down, I go up.”

“And let you have all the fun?”

“You get the girl.”

“Oh yeah. Enough said.”

Griffin scrambled across the floor, on his hands and knees now and finding the shattered flooring the hard way. He drove four splinters into his forearms before he finally arrived at the entranceway to the kitchen. He reached in with one hand, toppled a small table onto its side and dove behind it for cover.

Then he waited, letting his eyes readjust to the gloomy interior. A light glowed from the bottom of the basement, but apparently that was the only light on in the tightly shuttered house. Griffin blinked, worked on catching his breath, then turned his gaze to the ceiling above him.

Not a sound from overhead. Not a footstep, a scuffle or a muttered curse.

Seven-oh-five P.M. The house was deathly still as the sun began its final descent, and the combatants prepared for round two.

Jillian was trying to drive and read a printout from maps.com detailing how to get to Price's former address, which she'd found listed in old news stories detailing his arrest. The first time she drove right by the street. She went to do an illegal U-turn, then realized it was better this way; she would have a better chance at surprise if she approached the house on foot.

She had one canister of pepper spray in her hand, another in her pocket. Spray worked best up close. Go for the eyes and nose, get it in the mucous membranes. For someone like her, that would require stealth. David was looking for the police, after all. He probably had his hands full battling seasoned professionals like Griffin. Maybe he was even having difficulty controlling Meg. They would be the distraction.

She thought of Trish's apartment again. The man's weight pressing her to the floor, pinning her in place while her sister suffocated and died on the bed. The man laughing at her futile efforts. The man promising to fuck her good.

But she needed to keep those memories at bay. She needed to focus on the sidewalk beneath her feet, the cool metal canister in her hand and the house looming near.

Trish had died, the man had won. You couldn't change the past. Time to move forward. Focus on Meg. Think of the lessons she had learned.

And then return home to her mother, who truly needed her.

Jillian homed in on the house. She was still trying to figure out how to approach, when she heard a low moan, then a male voice shouted, “Jesus Christ, Waters. Oh man. Oh… Jesus… Hang in there, buddy. Oh man, we need a doctor quick! ”

Meg was breathing hard. Her body had started trembling uncontrollably and she had to remain plastered to the bedroom wall or she was afraid she'd shatter into a million pieces. As she'd raced up the basement stairs, she'd heard gunfire behind her. At first she'd ducked instinctively, dodging imaginary bullets, then she'd realized that even more gunfire came from behind David. Someone had penetrated the bulkhead. For one moment, her spirits had soared. She was being rescued! The cavalry had arrived. Then she had heard a man's sudden, sharp exclamation. A stranger's voice. Someone else, not David, had been hit.

She had run and run. And still she had heard shots, coming steadily closer and gaining fresh intensity in the foyer. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. No more shots, just David's harsh exclamation as he careened up the first-floor stairs.

If the police had come, then he'd shot them all. Because David didn't seem to be running away. Instead, from what she could tell, he was now on the second floor with her. Somewhere down that shadowed hallway, he was looking for her.

Her gaze went around the dusky bedroom, now searching for some means of escape. The blinds were pulled, casting the room into a deep gray pall that made every shadow sinister and every piece of furniture a hulking monster waiting to attack. She spotted the bed in the room's far corner. Her first temptation was to crawl underneath, push herself to the back and curl up her legs and hide. He would look under the beds, of course. And once he found her, she'd be trapped, helpless. He'd grab her by the ankles and drag her out, his knife already in hand.

She couldn't get boxed in. She needed to preserve her options. She was trying to think: What would Jillian do?

The bathroom. Maybe she could find a razor or hairspray. Of course, a razor didn't exactly compete with a hunting knife and hairspray hadn't been known to checkmate a gun. Halt or I'll spritz you to death!

She almost giggled, then realized she was becoming hysterical and bit her lower lip. The movement pressed the gag deeper into the corners of her parched mouth. Her eyes teared.

What if she could make it to the bedroom window? She could open it, maybe get onto the roof. Or if the house didn't have a first-story overhang, she could always just jump. It would probably hurt. She might break a leg or worse. But given the alternative…

She heard a sound. It was a whisper, slithering down the long dark hall.

“Oh Meg, pretty Meg,” David crooned softly. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Fight or flight? Not much time left…

Poor beaten Meg made her decision.

Griffin had to get up to the second story. He wasn't sure how. As in so many small New England homes, the staircase was narrow and steep. With his build, he'd be a walking target all the way up. All Price had to do was hear him coming, turn the corner and open fire.

Then again…

Floorboards creaked up above. Price was on the move.

And then Griffin heard another sound. More old wood groaning, then the telltale squeak of a window finally giving way. But this noise came from the opposite corner from the first noise.