She surged toward Mixell, grabbing the pistol in both hands, attempting to wrest it from his grip. She pulled and twisted the gun with all the strength she could muster, and it finally came free. But the blood-coated pistol slipped from her hands, spiraling in the air across the dining room, landing on the floor where it slid to a halt against the far wall.

Mixell freed his legs and tossed Harrison aside, pushing himself to one knee, the knife still in his hand. His gaze went to the pistol, then to Christine, their eyes locking. She was closer to the gun, halfway between Mixell and where it lay.

Christine leaped toward the gun, landing on her stomach as she grabbed the pistol. She twisted onto her back and swung the gun toward Mixell, firing as he sprinted through the dining room opening toward the back door. She got off one round, missing him, putting a bullet into the doorframe instead.

She followed him from the dining room as he rammed into the back door, the frame splintering as the door sprang open. She fired again, hitting him in the shoulder. But Mixell kept going, disappearing into the darkness.

Christine returned to the dining room as Harrison crawled toward Angie, propping her head and shoulders onto his lap. Her eyes were wide and frantic, filled with tears of pain and fear, her legs kicking weakly as she struggled to breathe.

Pulling her phone from her purse, Christine dialed 911. After being informed help was on the way, she called her protective detail, in case Mixell hadn’t killed them before entering the house. There was no answer.

As Angie looked up at her husband, she tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a rivulet of blood that ran down the side of her face. Christine sensed the despair in Harrison’s voice as he talked softly to her. He had undoubtedly seen many wounds in combat and knew her fate.

Christine turned her attention to Harrison. His shirt was saturated with blood from the two gunshot wounds. His face had turned pale and his breathing was labored. He’d been seriously wounded, with one or both lungs likely punctured.

Angie’s legs stopped moving and her body went still, and the light slowly faded from her eyes. Harrison kept consoling her until she died in his arms. He pulled her close and held her tightly as tears streamed down his face.

Harrison looked slowly up at Christine, who was kneeling beside them with Mixell’s pistol in her hand. He had a look she would always remember; of indescribable anguish.

He placed Angie’s body on the floor beside him, then tried to push himself to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Christine asked.

“Going after Lonnie.”

“You’re in no condition to pursue him. You’ll be lucky to survive just sitting here.”

Christine could see the emotions playing on his face — anguish, rage, and hate — along with the realization that she was right.

“I’ll go after him,” she said.

He grabbed her arm. “You’re no match for him.”

“He’s wounded and only has a knife, while I’ve got a pistol. I can kill him, and I will.”

She pulled from Harrison’s grip, then, without further debating the wisdom of chasing down a former Navy SEAL, moved swiftly to the back door, stopping to peer into the backyard. The light from the house illuminated a barn in the distance, the door swinging slowly shut in the rain. As she prepared to sprint across the grass, she removed her high heels, then glanced at Harrison one last time. He had pulled Angie onto his lap again, cradling her head against his chest, tears running down his face as he rocked her gently back and forth.

Christine’s resolve hardened, and she slipped through the doorway into the cold night rain.

76

SILVERDALE, WASHINGTON

Mixell stood just inside the barn door, peering back toward the house as he assessed his wound. He had taken a bullet in his shoulder, but the injury wasn’t serious. He moved his arm around. It was painful, but he had full mobility.

As he tried to figure out how to get to his car without getting shot again, he spotted Christine emerging from the house, armed with a pistol, moving swiftly toward the barn. He still had his knife, but after noticing a flat-bladed shovel nearby as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he sheathed the knife, picking up the shovel instead.

* * *

Christine stopped by the corner of the barn, then worked her way toward the entrance. She hesitated near the door and questioned again the wisdom of chasing down a trained killer. Then the images of Mixell thrusting the knife into Angie’s neck and of Harrison holding his dying wife in his arms erased all doubt. Tightening her grip on the pistol, she slowly entered the barn.

There was a flash of movement, which Christine noticed too late. The flat side of a shovel slammed into her head, knocking her to the ground.