by Scott Blade
The worse news was that I was outnumbered and outflanked.
The worst news was that they had the high ground and they had Romey.
I ran up the stairs, loud, but my sound was muffled by theirs. I had listened to their boots running and stomping and busting through the front door. I heard them stomping into the huge living room.
I stopped at the door between them and me.
I knew the hallway beyond the door was tight. It was too tight for all of them to stand in there. Danner or Millie, whichever was the real leader here, wouldn’t let them get bottlenecked in there. That would do them no good.
They could kick open the basement door and lob a grenade in. If they had grenades. Which I doubted. Maybe there were some that were somewhere on the property, but I doubt it. Grenades aren’t meant for resale to the private sector. Then again, I wasn’t sure if Lexigun had a government or military contract to begin with.
I waited. I had no other choice.
Finally, a voice said, “Widow.”
It was a muffled voice, but distinguishably a man’s voice, not Millie’s.
It was far from the door. It sounded like it came from down the hall, back in the living room. I assumed it was Danner’s.
I took a chance and called out. I said, “Michael Danner.”
He said, “That’s me. You’re in my house. You know? That means I can shoot you.”
“Try it,” I said to myself.
He called out, “Widow, we have your women.”
He had said, women, plural. He thought that I believed Fatima was innocent and not Millie Malory.
I closed my eyes. Recalled the mapping of the living room in my head. Couch, sofa, and chairs. The front door opened up into it. They had walked past the kitchen, past the dining room set. They were probably facing the hallway in a half-circle pattern. Spread out.
Good, I thought.
Danner said, “We know you are armed. Why don’t you open the door? Toss out the weapons.”
I said, “How do I know you won’t shoot me when I open the door?”
Danner said, “You don’t. But don’t worry. No one’s outside the door. I’m sure that you can hear all of us from down there. You know we are in the living room. This is my house, Widow. I grew up here. I know you heard us all stop in here. If one of us were in the hall, near the door, you’d have heard it.”
I listened to his voice, noted the pitch and tone. He was telling the truth.
I didn’t respond.
He said, “Widow. We’ve got the women. We’re going to shoot them.”
I said, “Shoot them.”
Silence.
I said, “Especially Millie.”
Silence.
I heard Millie’s voice. She called out, “You know?”
Keep them talking. Maybe Romey had made that call before.
“Of course.”
“How did you know?”
I said, “Your father.”
Silence.
She said, “He knew then? Good. I wanted him to know.”
I didn’t respond. I kept my eyes closed, tried to picture where they each stood. Millie was the farthest back. She was probably near the slider. The giant had the heaviest footsteps. I could hear him to the west, standing with his back to the fireplace. Danner was smack in the center of the room.
Danner shouted, “You have till the count of three, Widow. Then we kill her. Throw your weapons out.”
I went to the door, kept the Ithaca ready. The basement door opened inward. I jerked it, quick and crouched down. I was ready to blow a hole in the first face I saw standing there, but there was no one there. I pulled the Ithaca back and checked down the hall, fast—quick lean out and lean back.
Danner had told the truth. There was no one there. I saw them all standing in the living room, just how I had pictured.
I didn’t see Romey, but I pictured here behind the group, being held at gunpoint by Millie.
Danner said, “Three.”
Silence.
“Two.”
I said, “Okay. Okay.”
I tossed out the Glock, not close enough for them to pick up without stepping forward.
Danner said, “Toss the G2 out!”
They must’ve scared Romey to death for her to give up my second weapon.
I said, “Romey?”
“She’s here. Toss out the gun.”
“I want to hear her voice.”
Silence.
“She can’t talk.”
I peeked out and said, “Why not?”
I saw Danner. He was a regular-looking guy. Average height. A muscular build, but not more than three days a week in the gym. He was standing between the two young guys from earlier. Next to the white guy, was another white guy. He was the same age as Danner. He was tall, but shorter than me. He had a good build. He was holding an M4 Carbine with a scope on it, which would cause him problems at this close range. It looked like a small to medium range scope. In such a tight hallway and short distance, it would take an extra second to aim through it. Then again, he probably would simply look over it. I was only around thirty feet away.
Behind him and a little to the ten o’clock position, was the giant I had seen this morning. He was standing in front of the fireplace. He had a shotgun as well—a Remington 870. It looked like a Marine special purpose. He had it leaned against his shoulder, casual. The three more experienced guys were playing it cool. The younger two were nervous. I could see it in their eyes.
I couldn’t see Millie or Romey.
I said, “Why can’t she speak?”
“Show him. Take a look.”
I constrained my back to the open door and stopped. I breathed in and breathed out. I was a little nervous about sticking my head out again.
I looked at my arm. I stopped and pulled the forearm sleeve off. Tossed it onto the floor inside the basement. I didn’t want to give away that I had the Ithaca. Although, I suspected that Danner one hundred percent knew about it.
I stepped out halfway and back again—faster than before.
I cringed at what I had seen in that fraction of a second.
Danner had stepped aside and let me see Romey. She was behind him, about ten feet. Her back to Millie.
Millie stood behind her like I had thought, but she wasn’t holding her hostage with a gun to her head.
She was pulling on a garrote that was tight around Romey’s neck.
Romey couldn’t talk because she couldn’t breathe.
CHAPTER 57
A GARROTE IS a vicious weapon. It is made from a simple wire; usually piano wire works best. It is a tool simply made for silent killing. There is no other use of a garrote.
It’s not like a survival knife or a firearm, which have multiple purposes: self-defense, hunting, or survival.
A garrote like the one that Millie had was more in the same category of a gas chamber or an electric chair. Its sole purpose is to execute.
I clenched my eyes shut, tight. All Millie had to do was pull tight enough and Romey was dead in seconds. The wire on a garrote is so sharp, I’d even heard of guys accidently slitting the throat of the target open. Often victims would bleed out before strangling to death. It was horrible.
Danner said, “Toss it out. Make sure it gets closer to my guys this time.”
I said, “How do I know you won’t just shoot me when I step out?”
Did you get Kelly on the phone, Romey?
“You don’t. I promise if you give up you’ll both live longer.”
That didn’t reassure me, not one bit. Living longer in the hands of ISIS or ISIS wannabes was equated to dying a slow, painful death.
I said, “Okay. Just don’t hurt her.”
I tossed the G2 down the hall to their feet.
I heard one of the guys walk over, bend down, and pick up the G2.
Danner said, “Moment of truth. Come on out, Widow.”
Which I did. I stepped out with the Ithaca M37 in my hands, stoc
k buried deep in my shoulder. And my eye aimed down the sight.
Danner saw it, recognized it, and he started laughing.
So did the other, nameless guy I had seen before, and so did the giant.
I stepped slowly down the hall. I tried to get closer.
Danner looked up at me, saw the shotgun, and laughed even harder.
The walk down the hall was a nightmare. It was like walking down the long mile on death row to your own death. It was like walking to your own funeral. It was like walking into the light and finding out that the light was actually hell.
I felt my nerves. I felt my insides tightening up. I felt that tiny, deep voice that we all had speak to me. It was that voice that kept us alive, that warned us before danger, before death. It was the voice that prevented us from pointing a loaded gun at ourselves. It was that voice that told us to keep our hand out of the fire.
I kept walking. The walls seemed to close in on me. My fatigue had slammed me straight in the gut and the chemicals of walking to my own death combined with my fatigue to confuse my mind.
I tried to concentrate on breathing. I was taking the risk of my life. I was taking a leap of faith. I was counting my odds, and with every step they got worse.
There were six enemy combatants in the room ahead of me. There were seven guns in the room ahead of me at least. There were six triggers and six fingers on them.
Danner slowed his laughing and looked at me. I was twenty feet from them, halfway down the hallway.
Keep walking. Keep moving. Keep them laughing.
I asked, “What’s so funny?”
I already knew the answer. I knew why he was laughing. I knew why he thought I was a fool.
He said, “That gun.”
Keep walking. Keep moving. Keep them laughing.
I kept the Ithaca aimed at them. I swiveled it from side to side, imagined shooting each of them—fast. Imagined getting the drop on each of them. Seven shells. Six targets.
I said, “What’s so funny?”
The two young guys were the only two with their hands on guns that were pointed in my direction, but they didn’t fire. They were more confused than I was, but the thing was I wasn’t confused at all. I already knew why Danner was laughing. I knew why he didn’t shoot me. I knew why he let me walk this far.
Keep walking. Keep moving. Keep them laughing.
Danner said, “That old gun.”
Ten feet.
He said, “You can’t shoot that.”
Six feet.
Danner smiled and said, “That old collection down there. There are no bullets. That old thing isn’t loaded. My father never kept it loaded and he always kept the bullets at his office. He never kept them in the house. He was afraid I’d kill myself. Joke’s on him though, isn’t it? I killed him. And I didn’t need bullets.”
I gave them a look like I was defeated, like I thought the gun was empty. I lowered it and dropped my head.
Danner laughed again. The giant laughed. The other guy laughed. Millie laughed behind Romey. And the two young guys lowered their guns and they started laughing.
Then, in a sudden burst of life I jerked the Ithaca back into its position, stock buried deep in my shoulder, and my finger on the trigger and my eye down the sights.
I smiled and said, “I loaded it. I took the slugs from the white truck outside.”
CHAPTER 58
THE THING ABOUT OLD SHOTGUNS, like the Ithaca M37, was that they were a lot like modern shotguns. They had the same pump action. They had the same design. They had the same grips. They took the same ammunition. Some of the modern versions even still had the loading bay on the underbelly.
The one thing that was great, that was awesome about the older shotguns, like the Ithaca and a handful of others, was something called slam fire.
When a modern shotgun fires, the handler has to pump the action and pull the trigger. Then he has to release the trigger and repump and pull the trigger again. He repeats this slow cycle. That’s how modern shotguns work, a basic concept. But not the Ithaca M37.
The Ithaca M37 can slam fire, which means it follows all the same steps as the modern shotguns, except one. The shooter doesn’t have to depress the trigger and pump again and then pull the trigger again. Once he fires the first time, the user can simply hold the trigger down and repump the action, hard and fast.
Doing this will fire the weapon without having to pull the trigger again. It’s like a rapid-fire shotgun. This results in all the power and force and destruction of a shotgun without all the fuss of pumping and squeezing the trigger.
I had heard of a guy who could fire a fully loaded shotgun, using slam fire in less than one second. I had personally never seen it and I wasn’t sure what the world record was. I wasn’t even sure that there was a world record.
I wondered if I could beat it.
Everything turned into slow motion.
I pumped the Ithaca. A loud CRUNCH! CRUNCH! sound echoed and it was soon drowned out by the loud BOOM! from the blast of the first slug.
I aimed to the left and squeezed the trigger. The young Arab guy blew apart like spontaneous combustion. Blood splattered back on me.
I swiveled on my feet in a clockwise position. The second guy was the guy I had never seen before. He was fast. He actually started to raise the M4 Carbine up, toward me. But I was faster.
CRUNCH! BOOM!
He blew apart, same as the first guy. His torso exploded. A shattered ribcage exploded from under his skin.
The young white guy had been standing close to him. He was also blown apart, only a little less of him left his body and a little more remained.
The giant had only enough time to open his mouth wide, which was the last thing I saw of him because the next slug tore his face off and the top part of his head. His brains exploded onto a framed portrait above the fireplace.
CRUNCH! BOOM!
I’d like to say that I looked Danner square in the eyes. I’d like to say that we had a man-to-man talk. Good guy versus bad guy. Maybe slug it out like two characters at the end of a movie, but that didn’t happen. Can’t face off with a man who’s torn in half.
CRUNCH! BOOM!
Danner exploded right from his center mass. His body was still attached in the way an outline is drawn before an artist fills in the color of a drawing. He actually blinked once before he was dead.
He fell back onto the coffee table. He landed on the Koran. I could see the leather-bound cover of the book exposed through the hole in his chest.
I flicked up fast and aimed at Romey and Millie.
Millie wasn’t screaming like a normal person would’ve been. Romey couldn’t scream, but I could see she was horrified. And I couldn’t blame her.
The room looked like a whirlwind of death had swept through and exploded five people. Which was an accurate recount of what had happened.
I released the trigger and pumped the last live shell in and ejected the last empty casing.
CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
Millie didn’t scream, but I could see terror in her eyes, which I wasn’t sure was because of what I had just done to her crew, or because she knew that she was next, or both.
I said, “It’s over, Millie.”
She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
I could see fear in her eyes.
I said, “You got no way out.”
She jerked hard on Romey with the garrote. They both moved backward, toward the open slider.
I saw Romey’s eyes roll back. Her face started turning blue.
I said, “You kill her and you’re going to get worse than your boyfriend.”
Millie said, “We’re getting out of here. Stay back.”
I said, “Who’s we? There’s no we left. Just you.”
She said nothing.
I kept my aim on her. She stepped back and I stepped forward. She continued to step back, towing Romey with her. And I continued to move closer.
She moved outside. I moved outside
.
The snow fell gently around us. She kept going. The pool was right behind her. It was maybe ten feet and then five.
I said, “Your dad. He killed himself tonight. You got them all. Let go of her. No one else needs to die.”
“He wasn’t my father! My ab was!”
Ab was the Arabic word for dad or papa, I wasn’t sure which, but I knew it was one or both.
“Al-Zarqawi?”
“Yes! He was my real ab!” she said. That accent finally came through. It was a mix between British and some Middle Eastern dialect. Which made sense. She had been ten years old and living in England.
I heard sirens in the distance. They were faint, but I knew that sound, well. Romey had gotten through. Kelly was on his way, a little late, but better late than never.
I looked at Romey; she was a deep shade of blue. If I didn’t do something now, she wasn’t going to make it to see Kelly ever again.
I said, “Al-Zarqawi was a nobody! He was a goat-loving nothing!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I’m glad he’s dead! Do you know how he really died? You must. Your real father killed him. Shot him in the head!”
“You shut up! Malory wasn’t my father! I’m glad that old man is dead!”
I looked at Romey again. I was out of time.
Just then the sirens blasted from the driveway to the house and blue lights flooded the sky above us.
Millie saw them and looked up.
I charged. I moved as fast as my weary body would move. I ran full speed at them both.
I released the trigger and raised the Ithaca up in the air. I held it like a spear and rammed it straight up and over Romey’s shoulder.
Turned out that Danner, Sr. had kept more than the Ithaca in good condition. He also kept the bayonet razor sharp.
The long, ancient blade flew over Romey’s shoulder and square in the face of Millie Malory.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t scream. She didn’t react. She didn’t have time. I don’t even think that she saw it coming until it had already stabbed through her cheek and pierced her brain.
I let go of the Ithaca and the bayonet stayed in her face. Blood had splattered out and across my face, only I hadn’t felt it. Probably because I was already covered in blood and human fragments.