Doors opened, interior lights flooded the snow swept scene. Men stepped from the vehicles. Men carrying assault rifles and wearing flak vests over black uniforms.
“Damn!”
Caitlin moved beneath the covers. Her bare skin touched his side. The connection was made, and her emotions swept into him. She was afraid. Her dreams were troubling, dark and foreboding. He wanted to wake her gently, to hold her tight until the fear subsided.
But there wasn’t time for anything.
He flipped the covers back and shook her roughly.
“What?”
“Time to go. We’ve got company. You have about thirty seconds to dress. We have to leave now!”
John switched on the nightstand lamp, hit the floor, and grabbed for his clothing. There wasn’t time, he ignored his briefs, but pulled on his pants, stepped barefoot into his boots, tugged them on, and pulled a tee shirt over his head without releasing his handgun.
“They’re here?”
“You bet, lots of them. They’ll be at the front door in less than a minute.”
Caitlin got out of bed, and John tossed clothing toward her. “Dress fast. Let’s go, no other lights, we’ll have to feel our way downstairs. We’ll wait for them in the hall.”
She pulled her pants over her bare buttocks and slipped into a wool cardigan. As her head popped out, John tossed her boots toward her. She caught them, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled them smoothly on.
John tugged on his shoulder holster with its spare magazines and went to the door. When he touched the door handle, the alarm sent another jolt through his finger. He took it off the door, safed it, and jammed it into his pants. Opening the door, he waved for Caitlin to hurry up, and then moved to the top of the stairs.
Caitlin took the Mossberg pump from beside the bed and hurried after him.
In his shades, John could see the rear Suburban pulling to the side of the driveway and slowly moving past the lead vehicle that had run across his makeshift road barricade.
“Hurry. They’re going around the barrier. We don’t have much longer.”
Wordlessly, she followed him down the stairs.
John opened the closet in the foyer, removed both their coats and passed them to Caitlin as she went around him into the hall.
“They’re wearing flak vests; you’ll have to aim for their legs or head, preferably their legs.”
“Why? I don’t mind killing a couple of them. They didn’t mind killing Scott or the cabby.”
“That’s not the point. Wounded men scream, usually a lot, it’ll add to the general confusion and make the others warier. It’s demoralizing to listen to the screams of wounded comrades. They’ll start to wonder if they’ll be next. They’ll hesitate, fear will make them cautious, and they won’t be in such a hurry to rush after us.”
Outside there was the sound of an engine. It died as soon as they heard it.
John took the Remington autoloading shotgun and shell bag from the closet. “They’ll flank the house, wanting to cover all the exits, and then they’ll hit the doors simultaneously. They’ll probably lead off with stun grenades. Get your sunglasses and ear protectors on.”
He entered the hall and could just make out Caitlin’s form as she set the Mossberg down and tipped the mattress over the lower half of the kitchen doorway. John pulled his sunglasses back on, then removed the ear protectors from the ammo bag, and adjusted them over his ears. He crouched next to her, his hand moved to touch her, joining their emotions. She was nervous, scared, but almost eager for the confrontation. He tried to relax her, to take away some of the nervousness that could make her hesitate, make mistakes, and spoil her aim.
“You really do get a thrill from this,” she transmitted.
“No, I ... Well, all right, I guess I do.”
She gathered his emotions and reflected them. He was surprised at the intensity of his own feelings. He’d enjoyed adrenaline rushes ever since the Canyon. It was an addiction, but he’d never realized how strong its hold on him was. His anticipation of the coming fight was frightening for he held no fear of death or maiming in his emotions. Rather there was an unhealthy pleasure filling him. For once, he could see his addiction for what it was. He’d heard drug addictions referred to as a monkey on your back, if that was so, there was a five-hundred-pound gorilla riding him.
“Scary isn’t it? How do you live like this?”
“I didn’t realize.”
“You need counseling. It’s not healthy to need this sensation, this danger.”
“Yeah? Well, talk to me later about it, right now we’ve got things to do.”
She didn’t reply, and he let his hand drop from her shoulder. The connection broke. He’d accomplished what he’d intended, she was no longer nervous about the fight, but he was afraid that if they’d stayed connected much longer, he wouldn’t have been prepared. This wasn’t the time to be thinking of counseling, of career changes, of addictions.
He shook himself and felt the gorilla reach down and take a firm grip on his gut. Adrenaline coursed through him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reveling in the rush. That was more like it. Let them come; it’d been too long since he’d been in a firefight.
Glass shattered throughout the house.
It rained onto hardwood floors and ceramic tile with a musical chime. The heavy thud of metal accompanied it.
“Party time,” he transmitted.
The house rocked with the nearly simultaneous detonation of a half dozen stun grenades. Even crouched behind the mattress with his eyes firmly closed he could see the bright flash against his retinas. The booming was nearly deafening, like a volley of Smerch rockets going off. Then there was
