Everything was destroyed. Stuffing from the couch flew across the room—the wood from the banisters of the stairs had fallen into sharp piles of nails and chipped paint.
“Go,” Laird whispered, pointing to the basement door underneath the stairs.
“What about you?” Asher whispered from behind him.
“I gotta go back up for my ma,” Laird replied. “If I’m not back in five minutes, you lock that door and get in the crawl space.”
Asher gave a fearful and hesitant nod. This kid wasn’t a soldier. He was a drone pilot and behind-the-scenes type of guy, not unlike Laird, but at least Laird had rigorous SEAL training and field experience to back him up.
Snowman unloaded the gun again, more shots ripping through the house, destroying what was already past the point of destruction. He was screaming something underneath the gunshots that they couldn’t make out.
Laird pushed Asher’s leg with one hand, pointing frantically toward the basement door. His pant legs slid along the wood, catching on a nail. He panicked, unhooked himself and managed to crawl his way toward the door, reaching for the handle from the ground, narrowly avoiding another smattering of shots.
Laird waited, crouching by the stairs, almost underneath the legs of the lawn chair that he’d once sat in to greet Asher and Snowman the first time they’d stopped by.
Finally, after another full minute of shooting, Snowman stopped again to scream.
“Fine!” Snowman screamed.
Laird heard boot falls outside, approaching the door that was now filled with so many holes that the sun was coming through it like a flashlight through a colander. He sprinted up the stairs, his feet slipping several times on the destroyed wood.
“Ma!” he hissed.
“Stop,” Snowman said from behind him.
Laird froze three-quarters of the way up the stairs. Slowly, he turned around with his hands by his head, looking down the staircase at Snowman. His face was covered in dust and rage, streaks of yellow bits of Texas across the dark skin on his forehead and neck. Beads of sweat were dripping off of him, every muscle in his body flexed around the submachine gun in his hands.
He still had so much ammo, a string of it jutting out from the magazine. The farmhouse didn’t stand a chance. They didn’t stand a chance. He was going to kill them all.
“Where’s Asher?” Snowman asked, pointing the gun at Laird’s chest.
“Who?” Laird asked.
“Don’t play dumb,” Snowman growled.
“I’m not.”
“So you just are dumb?”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Laird muttered.
“Shut the fuck up, jackass,” Snowman screamed. He laid out a couple of shots on the bottom of the stairs. More wood flying up as Laird covered his eyes with his arm. “I know he’s here. You don’t have to die, Laird. Where is he?”
Laird thought, staring down the stairs. “Where’s who?”
Snowman let out a scream of anger, giving Laird just enough time to dive up the rest of the stairs and into the hallway as he unleashed more gunshots where he’d just been standing. Scrambling through the hall, Laird threw open the doors, searching for his mother. He whispered for her, crawling along the floor, keeping his head down. He found her curled up in the master bedroom, ducked down in the closet. Maybe, she was actually safer than anyone else up here. Laird couldn’t get her out now unless he sold out Asher.
There was a moment when he considered it, selling out the son of a terrorist in order to save his mother’s life.
After a frustrated growl, he heard the boots coming up the stairs.
Shoving his way into the closet, Laird set himself in front of his mom, closing the slotted doors in front of them.
“Laird!” Snowman called, stomping his way down the hallway, kicking open doors.
With each kick, his mom whispered, “Oh Lord. Dear God. Christ in Heaven.”
Laird threw a shush over his shoulder as he put one arm in front of her, holding it behind him as another bullet barrier. All he could hope was that Asher could get out from this, run to the Ferrari and escape across the desert. He could follow the Rio Grande and escape into Mexico—start a new life away from all of the Reader shit and his parents and Weick.
Laird didn’t fear death. He hadn’t feared death for a long time. It was the supposed desensitization of being a SEAL who’d watched dozens, hundreds, of people dying through a computer screen. The things he’d seen were ingrained into his mind so much that—even in the last moments of his life—he couldn’t think of anything but the image of bits of Snowman’s, Cameron’s father’s, brain and blood dripping across a plain tile floor through a grayscale monitor.
The boots got to the bedroom, punting their way inside. The door flung open, cracking against the opposite wall.
Laird crouched closer to his mother, her nervous, hot breath against the back of his neck. Through the slotted light of the closet doors, he watched Snowman walk around the room, tearing up the bedcovers and crouching to look under it. The submachine gun teetered by his side, hanging loosely in his fingers.
Maybe, he could get to it first.
Laird leaned forward, bringing his knees up into a crouch as Snowman made his way toward the closet, reaching for the handle.
And just as his fingers wrapped around the handle, Diana Weick came flying into the room, tackling Snowman so hard that they both went flying into the wall, both bodies landing with a heavy crunch against the plaster.
Laird threw open the closet.
“Go, Ma!” he yelled. “Go now!”
Nodding frantically, she made her way to her feet, struggling and limping across the bedroom but going as fast as she could. The gun fired off into the ceiling as she got to the door. Snowman and Weick struggled against each other, rolling in a challenge of strength and evasiveness. Snowman trying to grab at her and Weick ducking out of the way and
