A quavering voice shouted out, “Drop the gun!”
I peeked over the back of the sofa to see a security guard confronting Jondin. Both hands gripped his pistol, and he had it thrust out at her. Unfortunately the barrel was shaking like a branch in a strong wind. I wanted to shriek at him, Shoot her! Just fucking shoot her! but I couldn’t force air through my constricted throat, and then it was too late because Jondin brought the Uzi up to her hip, and fired off a burst. She was definitely getting better at controlling the gun. The security guard was slammed backward by the force of the bullets. I choked back a cry, dropped down, and looked across the set in search of an exit. I saw Jeff huddled behind an armchair. He was hunkered down, arms wrapped protectively around his head. I felt a flare of disappointment.
Not an action hero. Just an actor. A terrified human, just like me. The room reeked of cordite and blood, and tendrils of smoke from the Uzi drifted like witch’s hair.
In the center of the set various crew members and Michael Tennant were down on the floor bleeding. Consuela, clutching her first-aid kit, came scrabbling out from behind the set to reach them. Even though her back was to her, somehow Jondin was aware of the EMT. Her head swung around and she studied the woman. From my hiding place I could see her face framed by the long white, green, and gold hair and utterly devoid of expression. A few wisps of hair were caught in her lips. She casually brushed them away.
Connie struggled to open the first-aid kit, but her hands were shaking so badly that it took her three tries before she succeeded. She slapped a pressure bandage over the wound in Tennant’s chest. I couldn’t believe she had done this incredibly brave thing.
Jondin dropped the Uzi so it hung on its neck strap, reached into the waistband of her trousers, and pulled out a pistol. She began walking toward the EMT with slow, deliberate steps. It looked like the actress intended to shoot the girl from point-blank range. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t just stand by and let this girl be killed.
I looked around for any kind of weapon, but there was nothing. All I had was me. And she had a gun. Actually more than one.
A flash of memory etched itself against my mind. Mr. Bainbridge, my vampire foster liege, taking me out and teaching me how to shoot when I was twelve years old. His usually genially smiling round face was unaccustomedly serious.
“You’re almost a young woman, Linnet, and your greatest predator will be men. They’re stronger than you, and more violent, so I’m going to teach you how to even the odds.” He had then smiled and added, “In the words of the old adage, ‘God didn’t make men and women equal. Colonel Colt did.’”
Then he taught me how to shoot. How to break down a gun. How to clean it. How not to treat it as a toy. He had taught me one other thing. That most people missed, even at close range. If I could distract Jondin, maybe the little EMT would run, and maybe we would both survive.
I jumped up and ran around the sofa, cutting across the set on an angle designed to take me between Jondin and Connie. The actress watched me, eyes following, and I felt like one of the little rabbit figures in the shooting gallery of a midway carnival. Soon Jondin would knock me down and win a stuffed toy. The image of the Álfar woman standing over my bleeding body while holding a giant panda bear made me giggle. A hysterical reaction if ever there was one.
The barrel of Jondin’s gun swiveled away from Connie and sighted on me. Every muscle in my body tensed as I prepared for the coming bullet. Instead there was the sound of tortured metal from overhead. I looked up just as a giant light hurtled down, clipping Jondin’s wrist and hand as it passed. The pistol fell from her hand. Whimpering, she gripped her clearly broken wrist. The light hit the ground with a horrendous crash, and the lens exploded, sending glass in all directions. One chip gouged my shoulder, but the bulk of the shards hit Jondin in the face. She transferred her hands to her face and the whimpers became screams.
The pistol lay on the floor just in front of her. I wondered if I could reach it before her. I decided to try. I changed course and ran straight at her. Behind the set a huge electrical panel spat sparks like a roman candle. As I passed Consuela I screamed out, “Run!”
She did and then I stumbled on the metal track that was laid across the floor. Arms windmilling I tried to keep on my feet, but gravity won. I went down. The edges of the track dug painfully into my neck and back. I faintly heard the whining of a motor. Jondin strode over and only stopped once she stood directly over me. Blood pumped from the myriad cuts on her face and stained the front of her shirt. She was standing between the rails of the track.
She raised the Uzi on its strap. The barrel lifted, sighted down at me. Because of her broken wrist she had the gun balanced on her forearm. It would affect her aim, but not enough: the Uzi fired a lot of rounds—there was no way they were all going to miss. I considered just closing my eyes so I wouldn’t see death coming, but I couldn’t. I struggled to regain my feet. A shadow loomed against the wall of the set. I looked past Jondin: the remote camera was running down the track at an alarming clip.
Jondin’s finger tightened on the trigger just as the protruding lens on the camera slammed into the back of her head. The shots went wide. Then the body of the camera hit her heels and back and knocked her flat. The camera tried to roll over her body, but lost balance and crashed onto its side.
Jeff came running past me, yanked the Uzi out of Jondin’s hands, and flung it aside. He then landed hard on her back, and searched her for more guns. He found two—both pistols, one a tiny lady’s-handbag derringer. Then Connie rushed back out and began treating people. Outside sirens were wailing, drawing ever closer. The electrical panel gave one final massive spark and every light on the soundstage went out.
People screamed again. Then the stage door slammed open allowing in the sunlight, and I saw the silhouette of a fireman. Within moments the stage was filled with EMTs, firefighters, and security guards. Eventually the real police arrived. That’s when I allowed myself to start crying.
Being present at the scene of a hideous mass murder with a world-famous actor means you don’t get dragged down to the police station to give your statement and you get treated with kid gloves. Which is how I found myself seated in a large, deep armchair in the office of Chip Diggins, current head of Warner Bros. Plush carpet underfoot, an acre-wide desk that looked like it had been tiled with pink message slips, and a pile of scripts walling off one side. More scripts, and a selection of current bestsellers filled a bookcase. The office was on the top floor of one of the historic buildings, and the windows looked out toward the back lot and the park.
Lights were beginning to flick on across the studio as night slunk in. Out in the park Christmas lights twinkled in the trees. They were either filming some kind of Christmas movie or really lazy about taking down decorations.
Diggins himself was on the phone talking in hushed tones. If I had to bet, I’d say it was the studio lawyers or PR people. Either group was going to have their hands full dealing with the situation.
I shivered and took a sip of tea. The mug was warm comfort against my palms, but even the hot liquid couldn’t ease the cold terror that still gripped me. I had come so close to dying. Again. If that light hadn’t fallen … if a power surge hadn’t sent the camera careening along the track … if, if, if.
My shoulder had been cleaned and bandaged by a sympathetic EMT, but my blouse was a complete loss. To keep me decent Diggins had sent his assistant over to the company store. I guess she’d just grabbed the first thing she found, because what I was now wearing was a large T-shirt sporting a picture of the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote.