his lip. He screamed, spun to see the wretched woman in the crossfire, crawling, her face wild with terror. He fired again, watching the bullets rip up the room. The man upstairs came to the landing to give covering fire, his big FAL jacking out heavy 308s that exploded chairs and set curtains aflame. But Herman could see nothing to fire at, had no idea where the shot had come from that had hit him. He pushed his way up the stairs, slipped once, felt the blood on his arm, and then the pain erupted, freed from its sheath of shock. He’d been hit before, but not like this, in the bone; the pain was awesome, huge, enveloping. He tried to switch the Uzi to his good hand as the blast of covering fire gave him the time, but now he saw shapes in the window. They were firing fast, and the man above him pitched forward and slammed down the steps. Herman turned, dropping his Uzi, and clambered up, clawing for his pistol.
“My babies, my babies,” the woman was screaming, “Oh, God, don’t hurt my babies.”
“Go after him,” wheezed Delta Three. “I don’t think I can move anymore.”
Uckley was all right. He’d been hit three times in the first burst, but the Kevlar, combined with the subsonic velocities of the silenced 9-millimeter ammunition of the Uzi, had saved him. He felt as though he’d had the shit beat out of him, which, in effect, he had, for the vests, which will stop a pistol bullet, won’t absorb its impact entirely, and the strikes had been like well-delivered punches to the midriff. Delta Three, on the other hand, was much unluckier. One of the bullets had hit him high in the leg. He was bleeding badly, even though he’d been able to fire a magazine, hitting the big one once as he ran up the steps and completely taking out the small one at the landing where he’d stood firing randomly into the room.
“You okay?” asked Uckley. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go after the vanished big guy.
“Go after him, goddammit,” said Delta Three, busy trying to get a tourniquet around his leg. “Go, go
Uckley knelt, thumbed the cylinder free on the now empty Smith, and ejected the shells. Then he dropped a speedloader into the cylinder, the six slugs held in a metal disk. He spun the release knob on the device, depositing the six 125-grain Federal Magnums in their chambers. He snapped the cylinder shut, shucked off the rain slicker.
“Here,” wheezed the Delta operative. “Take this too.” He held out what appeared to be some kind of customized.45 automatic, with a fancy wraparound rubber grip. Uckley took the new gun, wedging it into his belt in the small of his back. It was cocked and locked.
Breathing hard, he said, “Okay, I’ll go get him.”
He lurched by, but Delta Three grabbed him.
“Be careful, Uckley. There’s kids in there.”
Beth Hummel saw one of them with a big pistol like a cowboy dip gingerly through the door and peer around, his eyes wide with excitement. She could hear his ragged breathing. He seemed to pause, gather himself up. Nimbly he dashed past her, stooped to the man on the floor, satisfied himself that he was dead, kicked his rifle away, then ducked back.
“Are you hit?” he whispered hoarsely.
“My children! God, please, my chil—”
“No. I–I don’t think so. My children are upstairs. Please don’t let them get hurt.”
“Listen, you crawl to the door and out. There’s medical personnel outside.”
“My children. Please—”
“Your kids will be all right. I’m FBI, Special Agent. I can handle this.” But she didn’t think he could. He seemed very young and frightened. She watched him go to the foot of the stairs.
“Uckley!” The call came from outside.
The man paused. “Yes?”
“The guy’s dead in the kitchen, but so’s Delta Two; Delta One is hit. You’re on your own.”
“Check,” said Uckley. “Get the goddamn state cops here.”
She had the terrible sense of a man not wanting to do what he had to do but doing it anyway. With the gun as a kind of magic device, as if he could draw his strength and power from it, he threw himself up the first flight of steps to the landing, whirled up the second flight, pointing with his big silver gun.
Oh, Jesus, she thought, oh, Jesus, let my babies be all right.
Uckley reached the top of the stairway and looked very quickly down the hall. Using the two-handed grip, he thrust the Smith in front of him, searching for a target. He just saw doorways, some opened, some closed, all more or less dark.
They told you never, absolutely
But Uckley didn’t have much choice, he figured. The whole thing had teetered out of control in that first crazy second of gunfire, and now the only thing was to stay alive and not to kill anybody wrong. He didn’t really think he had the grit for this. This was supposed to be a Delta thing, all these special operators, and where were they? Out on the porch.
“Hey!” he called. “This is Special Agent James Uckley of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The house is surrounded. Give yourself up.” He heard his voice bang around the empty walls of the old house.
He thumbed back the hammer on the Smith.
Herman was hardly conscious. He kept slipping in and out, as if the gears weren’t holding in his mind. He cowered in the lee of the doorway in Jack and Beth Hummel’s bedroom. He was trying to keep a tight grip on the pistol, a Czech CZ-75, with his weak left hand. His right was useless; the bullet had smashed into the shoulder. He was sitting in a pool of blood. His head ached; he was very sad but not especially frightened.
“Give yourself up,” the call came again.
Now, that was a laugh. He knew what he had to do. It was very simple what you did in enemy territory to save yourself the horror of interrogation and the danger of compromising yourself. You always knew.
But Herman thought, why not one more? After so many, why not one more, why not this blundering policeman who shot my men. He edged his way up until he was on his feet. He cocked the CZ. All right, he thought, all right, Mr. Policeman.
He slid to the doorway. He thought he could make out the man at the end of the hall, low. How many others would there be? There’d be hundreds, hundreds and hundreds. So many. But just one more for now. Then he heard cars pull up in front of the house, sirens blaring. Red and blue light pulsed through the windows.
He lifted the pistol with the weak hand at what might have been the man but might also, in his blurry eyesight, have been a shadow. He fired.
Uckley panicked as the bullet came plowing his way. It smashed against the wall behind him, showering him with dust. Two more shots came and he drew back. Then he plunged forward, firing wildly, insanely, six fast blasts with the Smith until he’d reached a doorway across the hall. He got out a speed loader, popped open his cylinder, ejected six shells, set the nose of the new rounds in their chamber, twisted it to free them, then snapped the cylinder shut. He got out the.45 from his belt and thumbed off what he took to be the oversize safety. It was a new gun to him; he wasn’t especially sure how it worked, and so it scared him. He peeked down the hall, saw only darkness.
“Mommy,” somebody called. “Mommy, help me.”
Oh, shit, Uckley thought. Then in his peripheral vision something flashed and he flinched, ducked back, aware from the buck and the blast that he’d fired the.45, one reflex shot (it had been so easy).
It was the mother. She’d come up the steps. He hadn’t heard her, it wasn’t his fault! He’d told her to get out. He looked at her. She’d sat down against the wall, her legs weirdly akimbo. Her head hung forward in a way no living person’s would hang. There was a lot of blood on her.
Oh, no, goddammit, goddammit, oh, shit, I shot the woman!
He stared at her, ashamed and disgusted. The gunsmoke reached his nose, acrid and dense.
