No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

because dear, sweet Lars got jumpy and shot Darby without
permission.
Thank God she told the truth.
Ashley mashed the chattering keychain into his pocket,
lifted his cordless nailer from the snow, and raced back to the
entrance.
“Larson James Garver,” he howled as he ran, exhaling a
furious mist: “You just earned yourself an orange card—”
* * *
Darby fought for control of the gun.
Rodent Face was on the defensive now, stumbling
backward, hot blood pumping from his jugular to his own
frenzied heartbeat, trying desperately to shake her off, to gain
enough distance to control the Beretta.
Darby wouldn’t let him. She held onto the weapon, her
slippery fingers clasped tightly over his. Then she spun,
changing direction, and tugged away from him, counterclockwise,
twisting the pistol against the joints of his knuckles.
Lars was taller and stronger, but Darby was smarter, and she
knew how to use inertia against him—
Inside the trigger guard, she felt his index finger snap.
Like a baby carrot.
He screamed through his teeth. There was a wet whistle to
it; air leaking through the hole in his windpipe. Blood surging
up in strangled bubbles. They were both spinning now, a
whirling tango, hands locked on the firearm, crashing into the
coffee counter’s edge, tipping chairs, firing into the ceiling —
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK — showering plaster grit,
exploding a fluorescent light overhead, until the gun’s slide
locked empty and the trigger lost slack.
They slammed into the Colorado map, both still clutching
the Beretta.
Lars let go — knowing it was empty.