Arno inched the drawer open, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that somehow it would not squeak as it usually did. The air in the kitchen felt thick, as though the pressure of it was dangerously close to being able to crush him like a grape. He was sure he had seen a gun in this drawer last time he was here; if it was still there, then he might still have a chance of getting out of this alive.
There was utter silence from the next room, but he strained trying to hear anything, anything at all, that might indicate the sleepers there were waking. He had to get this drawer open without waking them, had to get the drop on them somehow. He was pretty sure he had heard three distinct voices from his hiding place behind the refrigerator. It might be more than he could handle if they were all packing.
But he had to handle this: the only way out of here was through that room, and Ronit was waiting for the sugar. He knew what a bad idea it was to keep her waiting, and excuses like “home invaders killed the Randolphs and I had to shoot my way out in the dark with a borrowed Smith & Wesson” never really did much to mollify her. Next time we need a last-minute ingredient, he thought, I am just going to go to the store.
