This story started here.
The building was a tenement, three stories tall, with a shuttered storefront at the street level. The steel curtain was pulled down, covered with graffiti, and it seemed that this was where the noise had come from, but it had been muffled and hard to locate.
Ron and I were motionless, as if waiting to see what would happen next, and then she said, "That was a gun. Wasn't it?"
I was tempted to lie to her, to try to keep her away from whatever it was, but I said, "Yes, I think it was. Please step over there, and I'll–"
I had motioned for her to step aside, to the other side of the stone steps that went up to the front door of the building, but she shook her head. "We should–"
We looked at each other, and there was no point in even having the argument we were about to have. She knew I would try to get her away from the danger, and I knew she would try to go in with me. So, we just looked at each other, each of us trying to figure out the argument that would convince the other one.
Meanwhile, of course, we had no idea what was going on inside, though there had been no more shooting (no sounds at all, in fact), but protecting her was my biggest priority right then, no matter what sort of carnage was going on inside the building.