No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

Lars’s stupid plastic A-10 Warthog off the dashboard, and
opened the Paslode’s hard case. Two latches to unclasp with
trembling fingertips.
He knew he’d heard Lars fire four gunshots in the scuffle.
He was certain of this. One-two-three-four. Plus the five shots
he’d fired at Sandi’s truck, equaled nine. The Beretta stored
eight in the single-stacked magazine, plus one in the chamber.
How could Darby have willed another .45-caliber cartridge
into existence? The floor of the van, maybe; he recalled Lars
opening the Federal box upside down and dumping fifty
clattering rounds to the floor—
He finally hurled the case open. The lid banged against the
glove box.
The first battery box was empty, so he grabbed another.
Ripped off the tape. Dumped it into his palm. Opened the
Paslode’s trapdoor panel, dropped out the spent battery—
He froze.
He hadn’t heard anything, but somehow he just knew.
Something about the way the hairs on his neck lifted and
prickled, like static electricity …
She’s behind me.
Right now.
He turned around, slowly, slowly, and yes, there was
Darby.
She’d caught up to him, standing outside the Astro’s ajar
driver door. Beretta Cougar aimed at him in knuckled hands.
He’d bought this very pistol for Lars as a gift six months ago,
and now it was pointed at his heart. Un-freaking-believable.
Here she was — the girl he’d tried to suffocate with a Ziploc
bag six hours ago, back with a furious vengeance. A ninefingered,
black-winged angel of death. She was here for him,
drenched in his brother’s blood, fire glowing on her sweaty
skin.