Free Perfect Victim, The by Castillo Linda

fear settled over her like cold fog.
     
    The knob squeaked . Randall stopped , took a step back . An instant l ater the door swung open and slammed against the wall . Shock crashed through Addison when a man stepped into the doorway. In an instant , she took in the full-length coat , black leather gloves, and knit ski mask. A tiny chrome pistol glinted like a cheap trinket in his hand.
     
    In her peripheral vision she saw Randall scramble back. The intruder glanced toward the front door. Addison stood frozen at the end of the bar : Her heart rocked hard against her ribs when he raised the gun and leveled it at her .
     
    Then she was be i ng shoved violently to the floor. A gunshot snapped through the air. She fell flat on her back hard enough to take he r breath. Randall came down on top of her. Before she could move , he sprang to a crouch, cursing as he worked an ugly pistol from beneath his parka. To her utter amazement, he took aim and fired .
     
    The blast deafened her. She sat up, pressing her hands to her ears. Her bra i n screamed for her to run . Before she could move , Randall gripped her arm. "Stay down! "
     
    Addison watched helplessly as he tossed the bank bag toward the rear door . "What are you doing? " she cried .
     
    "Saving your life. Stay the hell down! "
     
    As if in slow motion, the man in black loomed into view from behind the end of the bar . Legs apart , he aimed the pistol at Addison.
     
    She screamed. A bullet pinged against the bar stool next to her . Randall fired four shots in quick succession . The intruder ' s pistol flashed in respon s e. Addison ducked . Bullets zinged past her . Bits of wood and plastic pelted her .
     
    Then, as suddenly as the chaos began, an eerie silence fell over the shop. Traffic hissed beyond the shattered front door. Cold air streamed in, enveloping her with icy hands.
     
    Vaguely, she was aware of Randall rising. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he jogged to the rear door. She wanted to rise, ordered herself to move, but she was trembling so badly, she didn't trust her legs to support her.
     
    For a full minute, she crouched next to the bullet-damaged stool, grappling for control, trying in vain to stop shaking. She didn't hear the footsteps behind her. She cried out when a pair of strong hands closed around her shoulders.
     
    "Easy." Randall's voice broke through the haze of shock. "He's gone. It's only me."
     
    Addison's ears tang from the gun blasts. She shivered, feeling disoriented and dazed. Thoughts rushed at her in senseless order.
     
    "Oh, my god," she heard herself say. Gripping the bar, she somehow managed to get her legs under her.
     
    Randall looked at her through narrowed eyes, then cast a glance toward the back room. "Stay here. I'm going to call the cops."
     
    She stared blankly after him as he strode to the back room. She listened, stunned, as he dialed then relayed to the police what had happened. It hit her with sudden incredulity that he was talking about her shop. Her shop. Her refuge. Outrage jolted through her at the thought of such a violation.
     
    A moment later, Randall reappeared. Setting the phone on the bar, he strode toward her, assessing her the way an emergency room doctor might assess a trauma patient. “Are you hurt?"
     
    Despite the fact that her senses were still reeling, Addison shook her head. "No. I'm not hurt." She thought about it a moment. "I'm scared. And I'm really pissed off."
     
    "That's good, Ace. I'll take pissed off over hysterical any day."
     
    She blinked at him, the sudden realization of what had almost happened slamming into her like a lead weight . "Jesus, he was going to kill us."
     
    "Yeah . " Randall raked an unsteady hand through his hair and blew out a curse .
     
    Blood glistened on his cheek. Vaguely, she remembered the flying shards of plastic and glass , and realized he'd been cut . He looked dangerous standing there, a wicked-looking pistol in his hand, a streak of blood