Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

“Not long enough,” she said. “It’s got a wrinkle.”

“It didn’t have any wrinkles when she started,” Grandma said. “Maybe we should all break for lunch.”

“Just give me a couple minutes,” my mother said. “I need to finish this.”

The back door banged open and two men barged in. They were wearing balaclavas and holding guns.

“Don’t nobody move,” the taller of the gunmen said.

The other grabbed Grandma and yanked her out of her chair. I jumped to my feet, reached for Grandma, and the tall guy squeezed off a shot that came as such a shock to all of us, including the gunman, that everyone froze for a beat. I felt searing heat rip through my arm and realized he’d tagged me.

My mother’s face contorted, and she produced a sound that rocked the kitchen and was somewhere between enraged mother bear and crazed hyena. She charged the man who shot me and swung the iron wide, ripping the cord out of the wall socket and smacking him square in the face with the iron. He crashed to the floor and didn’t move.

The man holding Grandma said “Holy Jesus,” released Grandma, and ran out of the house. I ran after him, he fired a shot at me, and I ducked back into the kitchen. When I peeked out a second time he was gone. I ran to the front door and looked out, catching a glimpse of a silver car racing down the street.

I returned to the kitchen, where Grandma and my mother were standing at a distance, staring at the guy who was motionless, toes up, on the floor. My mother was still holding the iron.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Grandma asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not getting close enough to find out.”

I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket and punched in Morelli’s number.

“Someone tried to kidnap Grandma,” I said, “but my mother clocked him with her iron and we’re not sure if he’s dead.” I realized blood was dripping off my elbow onto the floor, so I added that I’d been shot.

I hung up and wrapped a kitchen towel around my arm. The wound was throbbing, and I was feeling wobble-legged, so I sat down at the little table. I was joined by my mother and Grandma.

“Are you okay?” Grandma asked me. “Maybe you should lay down until the medics get here.”

“I don’t think it’s terrible,” I said. “I wasn’t shot in any vital organs.”

My mother had ice in a plastic baggie. “Try this on it. I don’t know what to do for a gunshot wound.”

She handed me the ice and put the iron on the table. We all watched the man on the floor. If he moved at all I was going to take the iron off the table and hit him again.

In minutes there were sirens and flashing lights and the house was filled with cops and paramedics.

“What must the neighbors think?” my mother said. “We have cars burning up and shootings. If this keeps up, we’ll have to sell the house and move where people don’t know about us.”

“You worry too much,” Grandma said. “It’s not like we’re the only ones with emergencies. Herbert Kuntz goes into cardiac arrest at least twice a month, and the whole street lights up with flashing lights.”

A paramedic had my shirtsleeve cut off and was working at the wound site. Sweat was beading on my forehead from the pain, but I was focused on the team of people tending to the guy on the floor. From the amount of activity, I assumed he was alive.

Morelli walked into the kitchen and shook his head at me. Not happy.

“What the hell?” he said.

“You were worried and you love me?” I asked.

He kissed the top of my head. “Yeah. How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad,” the medic said. “Looks like the bullet passed through the upper arm without hitting the bone. My guess is there was minimum muscle involved. I’ve got the bleeding under control, but she needs to go to the ER and get stitched up.”

Morelli looked down at the iron, still on the table. “Your mom really took him out with the iron?”

“Yep. She was awesome. Totally terrifying.”

Morelli cracked a smile. “Nice.”