Shoot the Woman First by Wallace Stroby

and saw Cordell. He met her eyes, and in that instant she knew. Then his hand was coming out from behind his back, from under the Bob Marley T-shirt, and there was a gun in it.
    She dove to her left, hit the table, then the floor, packs of money flying around her. She got the Glock free, was bringing it around, but Cordell was already firing, the gun jumping in his hands. Glass spun, as if turning away from the shots.
    She kicked at the table to get clear of it. Glass fell across her, and she saw the red and black hole under his right cheekbone. She pushed him away, saw Larry dive for the bag with the guns, Cordell still firing. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, and someone else there in the shadows, firing down over the railing at them.
    She snapped a shot at the stairs, then kicked the lantern closest to her. It hit the wall and went dark, and she fired in Cordell’s direction, kept rolling, knocking over the chairs, the room full of gunfire.
    She came up in a crouch below the bay window, her back to the wall, fired at Cordell again—too low—saw the bullet strike the vest on the back of the couch. She fired higher, but he was already dropping down. The bullet broke glass somewhere beyond him.
    She saw the second lantern beside the couch, fired at it. Metal spanged, and it flew to the side. The room dropped into darkness.
    More muzzle flashes came from the stairs, rounds striking the wall behind her. She fired at the flashes, raised up for a better shot, and then Larry was coming toward her out of the dark, moving fast. He slammed into her, an arm around her waist, and they went backward through the window, glass and wood giving way around them.
    They crashed into skeletal shrubs, then hard onto solid ground, the breath going out of her, the Glock flying from her hand. Larry was already scrambling to his feet, reaching for her, but she pulled away from him, lunged for the gun in the dirt, got it just as a silhouette appeared at the window. She fired at it, and then it was gone again.
    â€œCome on,” Larry said, and she turned to see he had the duffel slung over his left shoulder. He’d had it with him when they’d gone through the window. Their money.
    She fired again into the dark window, then rolled to her feet on the wet ground, started across the driveway at a run, Larry beside her. Cover ahead, dead hedges bordering the next yard.
    As they reached them, there were popping sounds behind, more shots from the house. Larry fell to his knees. She stood above him, twisted, the Glock in a two-handed grip, and began to fire at the window. Three shots and the slide locked back, the magazine empty.
    He was struggling to his feet, out of breath. She dropped the gun, grabbed his arm, and then they were pushing through the hedges together. One of the duffel’s straps snagged on a branch, and he pulled to try to free it, the bushes shaking.
    â€œLeave it,” she said.
    â€œNo way.” The strap came loose all at once, and he started to fall again. She caught his windbreaker, pushed and pulled him through the rest of the hedge and into the next yard.
    The house here was almost identical to the one they’d left, dark, the windows and front door boarded over. No place to hide. Behind them, two more pops, wild shots. Still gripping his jacket, she pulled him along as they ran. On the other side of the yard was a blacktop driveway, then a low stone wall, trees beyond.
    She slipped on the wet ground, landed hard, and then he was pulling her up. They crossed the yard together. She reached the wall first, rolled over the top, thumped into the dirt below. He came over behind her, landed on her with a grunt, drove the breath from her again. They rolled clear of each other, and she came up onto her knees, keeping her head below the level of the wall.
    Another shot sounded behind them, but muffled, fired inside the house this time, not through the window. Then two more. Then silence.
    Larry was