One Wrong Move by Shannon McKenna Page A

sharply defined rays of light that sliced through the closet. She stared up at them, too shocked to scream.
    The gun blasts jerked Aaro up from the entryway. He darted up the stairs, clambering over the stiff, his heart stuck high in his throat.
    Eight shots. Nina Christie was dead for sure. He’d called it wrong, gotten the chick killed by racing in here like a cranked-up asshole, freaking the bad guys into a panic. He should have come up with something sneakier, smarter. Goddamn them all, his so-called friends, for putting him in this position. Like he didn’t have enough to feel like shit about every fucking day of his life.
    He slapped the bedroom door open. Window gaping, curtains fluttering, stench of gunpowder. He lunged for the window, caught a glimpse of a big bald guy, staring up at him. Pale snake eyes. Another man, tall and dark, was clambering over garbage cans.
    Aaro yanked out the .45, squeezed off two shots. Two more at the bald one. Bullets pumped into the garbage bins, whinged off a parked car as the bald guy dove for cover. The dark guy jerked, stumbled, and kept on going, ducking out of sight into the alley.
    Grazed. No pursuit possible. He had bigger problems now.
    He pulled his head back in, holstered the gun, and faced the closet. It gaped open. Clothes were scattered on the floor. The back panel was splintered with bullet holes. Now came the ugly part. His mess, his failure. Calling EMTs for a woman who was dying because of his poor crisis-decision-making skills. Explaining himself to the cops, too. And then to Bruno and Lily. Well, then again. Maybe he could arrange to get himself hit by a bus, and just skip that part.
    “Nina?” He was disgusted by the hitch in his voice. “You there?”
    No answer. Hadn’t expected one. Not after eight bullets.
    He put his hand against the holes in the back panel. His legs shook. “Nina? You in there? I’m not one of those guys who attacked you. I’m Aaro, the guy who pissed you off on the phone, remember? Bruno told me you were in trouble. Are you shot?”
    He clenched his jaw, hating the goddamn silence. Hating it.
    “Aaro?” It was just a squeak, barely audible. “You’re Aaro?”
    “Nina?” Hope jolted his insides hard, and a hot rush of mois-ture fogged his eyes, making him blink. “Nina? Are you shot?
    Are you hurt?”
    “I think, ah . . . I think I’m OK.”
    He rattled the panel, pounded it. “How do you open this thing?”
    “Just a minute,” she faltered. “I have t-t-to undo the latch, and I’m kind of wedged in here, so . . . um . . . hold on while I . . .”
    He heard a scratching and shifting inside. Then a rattle, a click.
    The panel slid open. Nina Christie was huddled inside, stark naked. Curly dark hair draped over her face and trailed over her shoulders. She blinked up at him, her aqua-green-and-gold eyes huge and haunted. She had long lashes. The dark waving hair over her face was snarled in them. Her parted lips looked bluish.
    “Nina Christie?” he prompted, feeling stupid. Who else could she be? But he could think of nothing to say to the naked chick who had just dodged death. Not like he had a lot of clever conversational gambits floating up to the surface of his mind in the best of circumstances. He just scooped up whatever was floating on top of his mind, like pond scum, and plop, there it was. No filters. What you see is what you get.
    He squatted down so that they would be eye to eye, and peered into the dark recesses of the closet. A heap of boxes. Piled one on top of the other. They looked like textbooks. She’d wedged herself behind them. So that was what had saved her life. It was no thanks to him.
    Her blinking shook loose the tears that had gathered in her eyes. They flashed down her cheeks, glinting. “A-a-a-aro?”
    Uh oh. The way she stared up at him gave him a twinge of dread. All big-eyed and misty, as if he were God, her saviour, her hero. She was in for a rude shock when the truth became