Swanson lets it go. The sooner they get out of here, the better. He presses the talk button.
“We’re just going for the woman cop. The others are innocents.”
“This is my team!” Swanson shouts into the radio. “I say we leave the civilians out of this!”
There’s a pause. Then Pessolano says,
Swanson wonders how far he’ll get if he climbs into the car and just takes off. Will he make it to Mexico? Will these jokers track him down? Over the previous weeks, meeting and planning and training, Munchel and Pessolano had become his friends. But now they seemed like entirely different people. Crazy people.
“Fine,” Swanson says. He doesn’t have a choice. “We go on my mark. Get ready.”
Swanson squints through the scope, guesses where the head is in relation to the shoe he sees. The suppressor screwed into the barrel makes the rifle almost a foot longer, and more than a little unbalanced. Pessolano lectured them during the car ride over, saying that the suppressor won’t silence all of the noise. Silencers are fictional, because nothing can completely muffle a gunshot. The suppressors will also throw off the aim and reduce the bullet’s speed.
Earlier to night, they wanted the gunshots to be heard. They wanted the media attention. Now, working as quietly as possible is the way to go, because they have no idea how long this is going to take.
“One…” Swanson says, “two…”
Someone fires before he reaches three. That asshole Munchel. Then Pessolano is firing too. Swanson takes aim and squeezes the trigger.
The shot is off. Way off. And it’s still pretty loud, even with the suppressor. He loads another round, searches for a target, and can’t find any. He seeks out the radio.
“We get them?”
But Munchel hoots, so loud he can be heard without the radio.
9:07 P.M.
JACK
Mom has been asking me that since we moved in. But whenever free time came along we used it to see a movie, go out to dinner, or catch up on the TV shows we recorded. I always assumed that Mom didn’t push the issue because she liked seeing woods on all sides of her.
Now I wish she had pushed the issue.
After the first two shots rip through the house, I tip Mom’s chair over, intent on dragging her into the hallway. While our house has a lot of windows, the hall bathroom boasts the smallest one, and the glass is frosted for privacy.
“Save Latham first,” Mom says.
I look at my fiance, see he’s taken cover behind the sofa. The large bay window offers a wide view of the entire living room. I can’t get to him without making myself an easy target.
“He’s in the line of fire,” I tell her. Then I grab her chair leg and pull.
The chair doesn’t come easy. It keeps catching on the carpeting, and my movements are restricted by my bindings. But I find a rhythm and inch by inch I drag Mom out of the living room.
Halfway to the hall, all hell breaks loose. Bullets tear through the couch Latham is hiding behind. Windows shatter. Walls shake, the plasterboard throwing off powder like smoke. I cover Mom’s body with my own, realize that makes us a bigger target, and get on my knees and pull for all I’m worth.
I feel the impact vibration in my hands, know that Mom has been hit, and a moan/growl leaves my throat. Shots whistle past my head, and I tug Mom all the way into that bathroom, afraid to look at her, afraid not to look at her.
“Mom! Are you hit?”
Her eyes are closed. I can’t tell if she’s breathing.
I find scissors in the medicine cabinet, hack away at the duct tape, see the smoking bullet hole in the chair’s wooden seat.
“I think I’ve got splinters in my keister,” Mom says.
I cry in relief, give Mom a hug. The shooting stops.
“Latham!” At the top of my lungs.
“I’m okay!”
“I’m okay too!” Harry yells. “If anyone cares!”
I use a Dixie cup to get my mom some water from the sink. Then I holler at Harry, “Where’s Alex?”
“Don’t you care that I’m okay?”
I use the scissors on my legs, cutting away the tape.
“Dammit, Harry, do you see her?”
“I don’t see her. But her gun is in pieces.”
I stare down at my wrists. My handcuff keys are in my purse, in the kitchen. But I have extra handcuff keys, and an extra gun, in my bedroom. Unfortunately, it’s a handgun, and won’t help against the psychos outside. But it will help against the psycho in the house.
“Stay here!” I order my mother.
Then I rush out into the hallway, and bump right into Alex.
She stands there, hand bleeding, eyes wild, apparently unconcerned that she might get shot at any moment.
I still have the scissors. I thrust them at her, and she grabs my wrist with one hand and swings at me with the other, a round house punch. I bunch up and take it on the shoulder, then jerk my head forward, aiming for her nose.
I connect solidly, and Alex releases me, staggering back, hitting the hallway wall directly behind her. We face each other. A bullet whips through the small space between us.
“Lock the door!” I scream at my mother.
“Jack…”
“Dammit, Mom! Listen to me!”
I hear the door close, feel it press against my back. A bullet digs into the ceiling, raining bits of plaster on Alex and me. Her face twists in a half smile.
“What are you going to do with those scissors?” she asks. “Give me a haircut?”
I have other ideas. Gripping the scissors with both hands, I hold them before me like a sword, and feint a poke. She moves to dodge the fake attack, and I launch my real attack – a spin kick aimed at her ribs. Alex spins away and I miss, my foot making a dent in the wall.
“Jack!” Harry yells. “I think Alex is in the hall!”
I turn around, feel a breeze, and blink as a bullet passes in front of my face. Alex kicks my wrists and the scissors go flying. I throw myself at her, driving my shoulder into her side, using all of my 135 pounds.
Alex stumbles, falls. I sprint for my bedroom at the end of the hall. I open the door and see my cat, Mr. Friskers, sitting on the remains of a down pillow, surrounded by feathers. We keep him locked up in the bedroom because he has the tendency to destroy things and attack people. The shooting must have agitated him, because all the hair on his back is sticking straight up, as is his tail.
