She had begun with three magazines—exactly full. She had fired out ten rounds from one of the magazines, firing on semiautomatic only now in order to conserve ammunition.
She assumed Michael had less than thirty rounds left.
There was the Winchester.
She picked it up, the unfamiliar shape in her hands seeming awkward to her.
She had watched old Tim load it.
Sarah Rourke, the M-leaning beside her against the sink cabinet, worked the lever—the hammer cocked.
She pushed herself up, a phalanx of brigand bikers rushing the house. She squeezed the trigger, the booming of the .- deafening, her ears ringing, her shoulder aching—one brigand biker went down.
She worked the lever again as she ducked down.
'Mrs. Rourke—I'm afraid.'
'So am I, Millie—don't worry,' Sarah answered.
She could hear the little girl crying, hear Annie saying, 'Mommie'll take care of us—everything'll be okay —you wait and see, Millie.'
Sarah smiled in spite of herself—as Michael was becoming a man before her eyes, so was little Annie growing—but all to die. She bit her lower lip, raised herself up and fired, working the Winchester's lever, firing again, levering, firing again, levering and firing again.
Each shot had been a hit but the lever was too slow to work.
She dropped down, picking up the Colt rifle, her bare knees aching on the cold kitchen floor.
She pushed herself up, pumping the Colt's trigger at the phalanx of bikers. One shot, one dead. Another shot, another dead.
But they were still coming.
'Mommie!' It was Michael.
'The curtains are on fire!' It was Annie, Sarah feeling her heart in her mouth as she saw the girl standing up. And beyond Annie, into the living room—the parlor as Mary Mulliner called it—she could see flames, 'Michael— get out of there!' Sarah was on her feet, running, Michael standing up behind the sheet of flame, firing the AR-from the hip, Mary Mulliner crouched on the floor beside him, one dead brigand half through the window, the glass shattering out the rest of the way as Michael fired—two rounds, the body twitching twice, the man's clothes catching on fire.
The man was screaming.
Sarah fired the M-, one round to the head. Mary Mulliner'screamed, Sarah wheeling around, Annie and Millie running from the kitchen, Annie holding the ..
'Mommie!'
Hands reached out from the kitchen doorway, a massive man in blue denim and black leather right behind them. Sarah fired the M-, shifting the selector to full auto, the burst running from the man's bare sweating midsection and up along his chest in a ragged red line, the eyes wide open, the body lurching back through the' doorway.
Sarah snatched the pistol from Annie's hands.
The other ammo—the Winchester. The spare magazines for the . and the M-—all in the kitchen.
Another of the brigands was coming through the doorway, Sarah pushing the children down as the man raised a shotgun. Sarah fired, the M-coming up empty as the man fell back, the shotgun discharging into the chandelier in the center of the ceiling, Sarah hearing it, feeling the glass as it showered down on her.
'Mom!'
Michael's voice.
She wheeled, Michael firing his rifle, a man coming through the window, the curtains barely gone now as the fire spread to the outside wall, the smoke acrid.
Sarah started to jerk back the .'s hammer, but Michael was firing again, the body spinning out, the hands—bloodied—reaching for Michael's throat.
The boy rammed the rifle forward, the flash deflector punching into the center of the already floundering man's face.
The man fell back.
'My gun—it's empty, Mommie!'
'Get over here,' Sarah shouted, drawing Annie and Millie against her skirt, holding the children with her left arm. Michael was beside her now, and so was Mary Mulliner.
The brigands would come—in a second, perhaps two—she would kill her children, kill Millie Jenkins, kill Mary Mulliner—she still didn't know if she could kill herself.
There were seven rounds in the pistol. Two for Michael and Annie. One for Millie. One for Mary. One for herself—five.
