Authors: Matt Hilton
‘Everyone get inside.’ I began to hurry back to them. They were all bunched around Millie, asking questions in a rapid-fire manner and not one of them even glanced my way. ‘Now!’ I shouted. ‘Get inside the house!’
The family group all turned as one, gawping. Little Ryan even took a couple of hurried steps away, and it was only then that I realised I was gesturing with the barrel of my gun. I quickly lowered it so that it was hidden by my hip.
‘What is it?’ Don was moving in the wrong direction, towards me instead of the house.
They’re here
. I wanted to shout out loud, but knew to do so would panic the children. Keeping calm, I went to the old man and gripped him by his elbow. ‘Get your family inside, Don.’
Don’s tightening features said it all. He grabbed at the children and pulled them to him, at the same time ushering Adrian and Millie towards the front door. He glanced back at me but I gave him no mind, once more turning my attention to the woods. I was in a semi-crouch, unconsciously offering a smaller target. Little good it would do against a man with a scope on a rifle, but it was as much a natural reaction as it was a product of my training.
‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Adrian was torn between pulling the children out of Don’s grasp and racing for cover. Neither won out, and he swerved round Don to demand answers.
‘Get back inside,’ I hissed at him.
Adrian had no idea of the danger he was in.
His first inkling would have been when the high-velocity round punched through his upper torso. His flesh and bones were no impediment to a steel-jacketed round, and the bullet only flattened when it hit a wheel of Don’s Lexus.
Adrian barely staggered.
Then he looked down, mouth hanging open in shock as he saw the hole in his shirt that had opened up like a blooming rose.
Very, very slowly he blinked.
Around me time and motion had slowed.
A guttural moan arose from Adrian.
It felt like I was wading through a bog. Adrian’s eyes widened perceptively as he registered the dismay on my face as I looked at the crater in his chest. His mouth moved but I could hear nothing but my own moan emanating from somewhere deep inside. Then I turned away and my hand came up as slowly as a feather in an up-draught.
Crack!
The sound imploded within my skull, pushing down the moan for the briefest of seconds.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Flame – beautiful, blue, edged in yellow – shot from my gun in time with the jarring staccato rhythm.
My vision zeroed in on the glorious colours, which in the next instant were replaced by a seeping scarlet that clouded like ink in water. The red zone enfolded me.
Reality crashed to life around me.
Adrian fell face first on the driveway and didn’t move.
I fired another volley of shots, but I was shooting blind. No way could I tell where the bullet that killed Adrian had come from. Then I turned and rushed towards the others. Seeing Adrian fall they’d all stopped. Shock dominated them.
‘Get inside,’ I yelled.
Wishing to draw fire towards me, I ran from the family as they clambered for the front door, went over to Adrian and clutched at the man. I’m no doctor, but I’d seen enough dead bodies to know that Adrian had joined their ranks. Still, I grasped Adrian’s arm and began dragging him towards the cover offered by the parked cars. A round caromed off the roof of the Audi, the spent bullet spinning away into the woods on the far side. I pulled Adrian between the two vehicles. Judging by the direction from which the last bullet was fired, I was now out of the shooter’s line of sight but that meant nothing. A round from a rifle could pass directly through the body of a vehicle with little problem. Ducking low, placing the front wheel between us and the unknown rifleman, I rolled Adrian over on to his back. Adrian’s glassy eyes confirmed my initial prognosis, but I still pressed the tips of my fingers to the pulse point in his throat. There was only the putty-like feel of death.
‘Fuck sake,’ I sighed. Not very articulate, but it about summed up my feelings. I’d barely met Adrian Reynolds, and though I didn’t necessarily care for the man the senselessness of his death weighed heavily on my shoulders. It was a growing burden.
I popped up from cover, fired a short group of three rounds. Ducked low again.
A bullet shattered the windscreen of the Audi. Another punctured the front right tyre, thankfully the one on the far side.
I’d been counting my bullets. Eleven of seventeen were gone already. Feeling for a spare magazine, I found one tucked into my hip pocket. All the others were locked in the boot of my car. No way could I reach them without giving the shooter a clear target.
Crabbing to the rear of the car, I bobbed up again and fired the remaining six rounds in the clip. I swept my arm in an arc that took in twenty yards of the treeline in a little under two seconds. Even as I was ducking, my thumb worked the release on the gun and dropped the depleted magazine, and I rammed the other one in place. Then I was up and running, only vaguely aware of the scar tissue tugging horrendously in my thigh.
Bullets followed my trajectory towards the house, streaking by a foot behind as the shooter tried to adjust his aim on my charging figure. Then I threw myself at the door that the family had slammed behind them in their haste. The door crashed open as I thrust my way through it. I spun and kicked it to. A bullet cut through the wood, tugged at my shirtsleeve.
Swearing again, more savagely than before, I realised that this bullet had come from another direction. Evidently we were up against more than one attacker.
The door wasn’t solid enough to stop a bullet, but it would halt a man for a while. Risking another round, I twisted the locks and threw a bolt in place. Then I sprinted for the back of the house following the babble of voices and crying children.
‘Get away from the windows,’ I shouted, even before I reached the kitchen where they were gathered.
There was a splintering bang at the front door, someone ramming against it with a shoulder.
I twisted and fired a shot through the door and was rewarded by a shout of surprise. There was no pain in the words, which meant I’d missed, but at least the attacker fell back.
I’d still no idea how many were out there, or who they were. It didn’t matter now. The time for pondering such nuances was over and all that mattered was doing everything in my power to stop them getting inside. Millie and the children were, and always would remain, my priority, though, and I wanted to check that they were safely tucked away. Last thing I needed was for a stray shot to find its way to them. I headed for the kitchen.
What I found didn’t bode well for getting them to follow instructions. Millie had the two children enfolded in her arms as she crouched low behind a granite-topped island in the centre of the room. Both children were hysterical, screaming for their dead daddy who they’d watched gunned down. Millie was crying too, but her tears were more for the children than their father. Don was grabbing at his shirt front with both hands as he paced back and forth, muttering to himself.
‘Don,’ I snapped. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man. We have to . . .’
Have to what?
I wasn’t sure.
If it was just me, I’d take the fight to my enemies and show them the folly of their attack. But my actions now had to be governed by the need to keep the children safe.
I asked, ‘Where’s your gun? Did Millie bring it with her?’
Don looked to Millie who glanced up from the crying children. She looked forlorn. Lost. ‘I left it in the car,’ she moaned. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
I moved towards the back door. Threw the bolts in place. Turned back to Don. ‘What about Adrian, did he have a weapon?’
Don shook his head. ‘No, not that I know of.’
‘Check,’ I told him. ‘He may have one hidden somewhere so that the children couldn’t get their hands on it. A strongbox; possibly in his bedroom.’
‘You want me to go upstairs? I’m not leaving my family!’
‘OK. But at least grab a knife or something. If they get inside, we have to be ready to fight them.’
Even as I said those words they proved more than prophetic. It wasn’t a case of
if
but
when
the attackers stormed the house. They’d be coming soon, that was for sure.
‘Now, Don. You as well, Millie.’
‘But the children,’ she said.
‘They’ll be safer if you have some way of defending them.’
Don rushed across to a counter and opened drawers. He pulled at utensils, sorting through a clutter of silverware, and came out with a broad-bladed knife. He held it out to Millie who took it from him tentatively. Then he rattled through the drawer until he found a meat cleaver. Neither knife looked like they’d seen use in the past.
Taking my own advice, I dipped a hand to my left ankle to retrieve the military KA-BAR sheathed in my boot.
I glanced at the motley bunch of defenders. Knives wouldn’t do much to halt the concerted attack of enemies coming with rifles and handguns but they were better than nothing. Hopefully my SIG would even up the score a little.
Fleetingly I wished I’d thought to call Rink sooner. My big friend would have been a welcome ally just then.
I looked for a telephone. There was one on the wall next to the cooking range.
Not that I had the time to call Rink but a rapid 911 emergency wouldn’t go amiss. All I’d have to do was stab in the numbers and the emergency call would be picked up. Even if there wasn’t an opportunity to speak to the operator, I could leave the line open and the situation would be overheard. The cops would be coming.
Probably too late to help us, but I had to try.
Don had forbidden Millie from calling the constables, but that was under different circumstances. Fuck him, I thought as I reached for the phone.
‘We’ve already tried,’ Don said. ‘The line’s dead. I think whoever’s out there cut it.’
Ignoring him, I picked up the handset. Listened to empty sound. Slammed down the receiver.
‘You must have your cell?’ I said, but recalled Don throwing it on the dashboard of the Audi on the way here, and the phone clattering in the footwell. In his anger, the old man hadn’t picked it up again. ‘Millie? What about you?’
Millie shook her head slowly. ‘I rang my dad from the house. I didn’t remember to bring mine. I was in too much of a panic and I just grabbed the cat and the car keys and got out of there.’
‘Shit,’ I growled. And I could just bet that if Adrian had a cell phone it would be in his bloody trouser pocket and as inaccessible to us now as all the rest. Of course I couldn’t complain about any of the others’ short-sightedness, not when my own phone was mounted in the hands-free holder in the Audi.
The cops wouldn’t be coming. It was solely down to me to save these people from a brutal death. It wasn’t a job I’d envy any man.
And judging by the crashing at the front door, I’d be called to task very soon.
Chapter 13
Samuel Gant strode back and forward just inside the treeline that bordered Adrian Reynolds’ home, directing the attack over a radio he brandished like a flaming torch. None of the others disputed his position.
He wasn’t the largest of men, but there was more to him than the assault rifle he carried that won him the respect of his followers. He was a proven killer, but again so were the others, so that wasn’t why he commanded them without question. He looked quite sinister, with his pale, almost yellow eyes and skin like wrinkled parchment, an intricate pattern of tattoos beginning above his right eyebrow and extending down below the collar of his coat. Hidden amongst the Celtic symbolism was a repeated pattern of numbers: eight-eight inked in scarlet over a stylised swastika. Normally, strangers didn’t get close enough to spot the hidden numbers. But he made no secret of them; anyone who met him knew that he was a white supremacist, and anyone who didn’t get the message early on found out soon enough. Usually at their own expense and paid for in agony.
Gant was supremely vicious. He would kill for the most minor reason, and sometimes his fury was even inflicted on those who considered him an ally. But he was also shrewd and a born leader. That was why Carswell Hicks had elevated him to his right hand, and why Gant had commanded his army while Hicks had been otherwise detained.
He had ten men at his disposal. A further three, plus that punk rocker bitch joining them soon. Fifteen of them against Don Griffiths and his family. Ordinarily that would be ample, but that was before the stranger had arrived with Griffiths. Gant had no idea who the man was, but he knew he was going to be trouble. It was almost as if the man had sensed the rifle Gant aimed at him. For some unknown reason Gant had pulled his aim away, swung it on Adrian Reynolds instead. Maybe he just wanted to find out what kind of man Don Griffiths had at his back.
When the stranger had responded, Gant had been forced down on his belly. One of the retaliatory bullets had come so close to his head that he’d felt the disturbance in the air beside him. By the time he’d made it back to a firing position, the man had dragged Reynolds to cover between the parked cars and he’d missed the opportunity to finish him.