Fun and Games

And then his eyes lit up.

“The show. They forced me to run that show about those two. Oh, those bastards. They told me it was because of ratings, but that’s bullshit, I should have known it was bullshit. They forced me to do that show on those animals—”

and with that, he gestured at the shot and bleeding people on the living room carpet

“—to give them an excuse to come after my family.”

“They’re actors. This is all a performance. They planned this to the last detail.”

“Except for you.”

“Yeah. I guess—”

There was a loud noise. A bullet smacked into Hardie’s left arm, and then another hit the side of Hardie’s skull, which propelled his body through the plateglass sliding doors and down the stone steps leading to the backyard.

A.D.2 and Grip burst in through the door, with Grip going right, into the dining room, and A.D.2 charging full speed ahead down the hall. He saw Hardie, the stubborn old bastard, right away, so he aimed and fired. “Hardie’s down,” he muttered, then immediately moved to the left.

“Thank fuck,” Mann said through their earpieces.

There was much screaming and confusion—people running into the backyard, diving behind furniture. A.D.2 looked at Grip from across the hallway. Gesturing with their hands, they split the living room into two. Simple enough. A.D.2 would take the left, and Grip the right. Adults first, obviously. With the kids, they’d try to make it as clean as possible.

A.D.2 nodded.

Grip stepped into the living room, eager for a target.

As he fell, Hardie closed his eyes.

This was it, at long last:

Death.

He felt the burning hot/cool sensation throughout his brain, which he knew was strange, because the brain doesn’t have any nerve endings. Maybe what he was feeling was his soul departing, his life force ripping free from its physical prison.

Maybe it would all be over soon, and he’d be numb.

Maybe Lane would be there when he woke up, and she’d be patting his hand, telling him everything was over, he could rest now.

Right?

At least he told the truth.

The Hunters still had a chance…

No.

Of course he wasn’t dead yet. Sure, there was a bullet swimming around in his brain—he’d felt the impact, which was like a baseball bat to the side of his skull—and blood pouring out of his head, wet and hot, but he was still conscious, still alive. Because this was purgatory, and he still wasn’t finished atoning for his sins.

You were on the right track there, Chuck. You stopped those two fake crazies and set the record straight with the father about the hit-and-run. Really great stuff, Chuck. Much better than you sitting around drunk in your boxer briefs watching Jimmy Stewart movies. You’ve come a long way in a day.

But it’s not over yet.

Oh, no.

The family is still in trouble, so we’re not letting you off the hook that easily. You’re part of the bigger plan here. So open your eyes.

Hardie, against his better judgment, opened his eyes. He could still see. He could still breathe.

Now sit up.

You’ve got a gun in your hand, sit up and raise your arm.

No, God. I can’t sit up. I can’t move either arm. One is numb and the other feels like a bag of granola. The gun’s still in my hand but it might as well be my dick, because I can’t lift my arms to save my life.

This isn’t about your life. So sit the fuck up. I could make Lazarus rise from the dead, you think I can’t make you perform one measly situp?

God, please, that’s enough. Really. Send someone else down there. I’m through.

Sit up.

I can’t—

Sit up.

I—

Sit up.

So Hardie sat up.

A.D.2 was trying to decide if it was worth shooting through the couch, or if he should try to flush them out first. Because the father was obviously cowering behind the couch, no question about it. But the insides of the furniture might stop the bullet or, more likely, cause some weird ricochet effect, and it could get messy.

This was why A.D.2 didn’t see Hardie sit up, gun in hand. What clued him in was the tinkling of shattered glass falling from Hardie’s chest.

A.D.2 turned to see Hardie’s eyes glaring back up at him, and a blood-splattered face that now twisted into a wicked grin, and then there were three miniature explosions ripping through A.D.2’s body and he was floating in the air and the house tumbled around him and then, all too late, he remembered his gun, in his hand, which would have been really useful about two seconds ago.

Hardie heard the next one approaching long before he appeared in his field of vision. To Hardie, it seemed like he had a weird out-of-body thing going on, because it was all happening like slow motion. The second gunman was taking what seemed like forever to get to him, to his line of fire. And when he finally did, seemingly hours later, it wasn’t difficult at all to turn his wrist a few degrees and line up the shot. Two in the center of gravity. The first one exploded a lung, sent the gunman spinning, and the second shot really put the English on it, striking breastbone and knocking him backward through the air. But Hardie didn’t bother to see where he landed, because he was already collapsing backward himself, back onto the stairs.

There, God. Am I done yet? Can I come home now?

31

You know what the trouble with you is? You’re too violent.

—Sylvester Stallone, Cobra

JONATHAN HUNTER counted the shots—three, followed by some frenzied footsteps, then two more. He didn’t dare move. He was covering his daughter’s body with his own, praying incoherently yet fervently. Waiting for the right moment.

All of his night terrors, those three a.m. torture sessions where his eyes popped open and he was again