between crates, and I see he’s brandishing a knife now. One of those survival models, long and unwieldy, with a serrated blade. His face is a picture of anger and frustration.
“Come out of there, you split-tail bitch!”
I get on all fours, back away. There’s a breeze coming from my left – the broken window. Maybe I can make it outside. I crawl toward it, keeping low.
He pushes through ahead of me, cutting off my escape. He’s only a few feet away. He grins, baring yellow teeth.
“There’s my girl. Stay down. I like that position.”
If I got scared by creeps talking trash, I would have quit the Job after a week. Threats don’t bother me much. Knives, however, do.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask. I hold out a hand, touch the wall, keeping an eye on the blade.
“Casualty of war.”
I keep my voice even, keep the fear out of it. He seems like a guy who would be turned on by fear. “You don’t seem too upset about him dying.”
The man smiles. “He knew the risks.”
I stretch up onto my knees.
“Is that was this is?” I ask. “A war?”
“Life is a war. We have to fight for every little bit we get.”
“War is for soldiers,” I say. I shift my weight back onto my toes. “You’re not a soldier.”
He points the tip of the knife at me. “I AM a soldier!”
I lean back into a squatting position. “Soldiers don’t kill innocent people. They don’t threaten girls with knives. What’s your real job? Construction worker? Assembly line at a factory?”
I see that hits a nerve. The sniper snarls and rushes forward, slashing. I leap at him rather than away, getting inside the swing of the blade, throwing a hard right into his stomach and then driving him backward with my shoulder. We get tangled up, push through some boxes and up against the workbench.
I latch both hands on to his wrist, keeping the knife away. The Ravenswood sniper fights against my grip, then suddenly seems to realize he has more than one hand, and uses his free one to punch me in the face.
I hold on tight, tucking my chin into my chest. He hits me on the side of the head – in the ear – and my legs give out. Then he connects with my cheek and I release his knife hand, falling backward, my consciousness slipping away.
“I don’t work in no goddamn factory, bitch!” he screams. “I’m the best goddamn soldier you ever met!”
He switches his hold on the knife so it angles down, raising it up over my head.
I’m in no condition to stop him.
11:53 P.M.
KORK
I’VE GOT HARRY in my sights. He engaged in a brief tussle with the remaining sniper, the sniper shot at him, and Harry fell onto his back, right on top of Mom. I can’t tell if either of them got hit or not. He’s still moving, but doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, which might indicate an injury.
I consider where the first bullet should go. Foot? Knee? Balls.
No. His other hand.
I aim, adjusting for the wind, visualizing the shot like I learned in basic training.
Then a patch of grass explodes just a few feet to my left, accompanied by a
He obviously can’t shoot for shit. I’m less than a hundred yards away. Hell, with these guns a blind preschooler could shoot the shine off a penny from three quarters of a mile. I switch position, sight his blond head in the rear window of the Bronco, and squeeze the trigger a fraction of a second after I see him ducking down.
Crap. Miss.
No problem. He got lucky. And luck doesn’t last forever. Jack has learned that particular lesson well to night. Phin will learn it too.
I eject the round, seek out the backpack full of clips that the snipers have so graciously left me. Without taking my eyes off of Phin I select one, my fingers feeling to make sure it’s loaded. It’s empty. I try another. Also empty.
The whole bag is filled with empty clips.
Phin fires again, and it kicks up a clod of dirt only a few inches from my hip.
Rather than dwell on the misfortune of unfolding events, I decide to get proactive. I detach the night scope and stick it in my pocket. Staying on my elbows and toes, I inch backward down the slope of the small hill I’m perched on, stopping periodically to tuck down and roll left or right. Phin keeps shooting at me, keeps missing, and then I’m out of his line of fire, on my feet, and sprinting toward the woods adjacent to the road.
Shooting isn’t the only thing the marines taught me. I can also sneak like a cat.
I cut right, make my way through a hundred yards of trees, then circle back and head for the Bronco, slow and low, silent as death.
11:53 P.M.
MARY
MARY OPENS HER EYES.
She’s lying on the floor, and there’s tremendous pressure on her leg, accompanied by a dull ache.
“I need a fucking vacation.”
“Harry?”
That’s the pressure. Harry’s fallen on top of her.
“Mom? You got those codeine pills on you? Gimme about ten.”
“Were you shot?” Mary asks.
“I don’t think so. Only holes I got in me are the ones that are supposed to be there.”
“You’re on my leg, dear.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Harry moves, and the pressure is replaced by the pins and needles sensation of blood returning. Mary sits up and rubs her leg with both palms.
Gunshots. From the garage.
Mary looks around, spies the large handgun on the floor next to the dead man. She crawls over to it, clasps it between her hands. She tries to curl her fingers around it, but they won’t cooperate.
“Give it here, Mom.” Harry takes it in his left hand and points it at the refrigerator door. “Stand back.”
Mary obeys. Harry fires at the door handle, and it shears away, releasing his prosthetic claw.
“Should have done that to begin with,” he says. “Where’s Jack?”
“Garage, with the other sniper.”
Harry puts a protective arm around Mary, hustles her into the kitchen.
