Round 10 Transcript

Jeane Cromwell stands in the dark living room, her heart pounding so hard she feels it in her throat. The heavy brass lamp sits on the side table within arm's reach, its cool metal a comfort against her sweat-slick palm. She grips the iron poker tighter, knuckles aching. Behind her, through the hallway leading to the kitchen—something scrapes. Metal on tile. Deliberate and slow. They know I'm here now. They're making sure I hear them coming. The streetlight outside casts long shadows across the floor, making every corner of the room seem like a hiding place. I won't go out there. Not into the open kitchen where they can see me. I need to control this. She backs up until her legs hit the arm of the upholstered chair, then slides down onto it, keeping the poker ready across her lap. The scraping stops. Footsteps now. Heavy on the linoleum floor. Closer. Jeane's voice comes out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible even to herself: 'I know you're there. Come out where I can see you.' Her finger tightens on the poker, ready to strike at anything that moves into the hallway.*

I am under the kitchen window now, pressed against the cold brick. The rain is heavy enough to cover most sound, but the wind picks up and I hear it—the drawer opening again, slow and deliberate this time. Metal scraping against tile. I have a good guess where she is. The question is what she has. Knives, probably. Or a gun if she's lucky or prepared. I check my own weapons—both loaded, safeties off, barrels pointed down. The flashlight in my left hand casts a thin beam ahead. The window above me is dark. She's trying to be quiet now, but the drawer keeps rattling. Bad sign. Means she's arming up, getting ready for a fight instead of hiding. I need to get inside before she comes out looking for one. The back door is ten feet away, unlocked probably. But breaking in makes noise, announces my position. Better to go around, use the front. Move faster through the sitting room, flank her position from the other side. I slide along the wall, keep low, and then I'm at the corner of the house. The living room window is open a crack—careless or deliberate? Doesn't matter. It's an opening. I holster one gun to use both hands, push the window up slow and quiet until I can fit through. The frame creaks minimum, barely noticeable over the storm. I swing one leg over the sill first, then the other, landing soft on the carpet inside. The room is dark except for streetlight through the front windows, gray shapes of furniture. I draw both guns again, point them forward. My heart rate is up but steady. This is what I'm paid for. I move fast now, crossing the room in five steps. The kitchen doorway is ahead, to my right. I hear her moving inside—footsteps on tile, the fridge door opening and closing. She's still there, still alive, still armed. Good. The hunt continues.