Melinda Di Lorenzo - Worth The Risk

There was a pause. “Good point.”

Sam stifled a snort. He was at the edge of the stair now, and he closed his eyes for a second, trying to recall how the stairs were configured. Every eighth step, like the one where he stood now, was a wide one. Then a turn. Every sixteenth step ended in a landing at a new floor. If Sam had to guess, he’d say the shooter was on the second-floor landing. There was no way to come at the other man without getting shot first. He’d proven that already.

I need to get myself some kind of advantage.

“How about you put down your weapon and no one will get hurt—for real?” he called, opening his eyes and scanning the limited area.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, either.”

“The thing is, unlike you bad guys...we good guys ask questions first and shoot later.”

“Hilarious,” the shooter responded.

“What can I say? The art of conversation is underrated.”

Sam spotted the exposed bulb on the wall. Right. One of those hung at every eighth step, too.

All right, then.

He lifted his weapon, aimed it, then thought better of it. The man above him could fire at will because no one would be the wiser. Sam’s own weapon was far from silenced and would alert every person on the block.

Thinking quickly, he holstered his gun and reached to his boot. He pulled out his knife, then drew back his arm and took aim again. With a practiced flick of his wrist, Sam released it.

The light shattered. Shards of glass flew in every direction, and a curse echoed from above. Sam made his move before the surprise could wear off. He leaped up the stairs. Just as he expected, he found the shooter on the next landing. The man’s gun was on the floor, clearly dropped in the mad attempt to brush off the exploded glass that had already dotted his face with flecks of blood. The second he spotted Sam, he stopped flailing and dove. Not for the weapon, but straight at Sam himself.

Instinctively, Sam sidestepped the attack. But his balance had already been thrown, and instead of moving smoothly out of the way, he stumbled. He reached for the wall and he caught himself. Barely and briefly. For a breath, he hung at an angle, one foot on a stair, one hand on the wall. Then he tumbled sideways and followed the shooter down the stairs.

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