by Matt Hilton
‘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.
Now he wondered if he’d made the wrong decision in killing Reynolds first. This man knew about guns. He also had the finely tuned senses of a warrior and though he’d initially moved as though in pain, he definitely looked like someone capable of holding his own in battle.
Gant cursed to himself. The hit on the Griffiths family should have been a sure thing, but now he wasn’t so confident. It was going to be more difficult than anticipated. He glanced around at the crew he’d assembled. To hell with them, he thought, they’re expendable. As long as I’m still standing, who gives a flying fuck?
Gant watched as one of his men, a tall skinhead called Howard, expended bullets through the closed front door of the house, then had to dive clear when the stranger fired back. Give the idiot his due, Howard went back at the door like he’d been ordered and started butting it with his shoulder.
Gant called to the others over his radio. He sent some round the back. Others were dispatched to deal with the Lexus and Audi, setting the cars aflame so that the family had no quick way out. Then he ordered a full-frontal assault on the house.
As he charged across the lawn towards the back of the house, he said: ‘Let’s see just how dangerous this asshole really is.’
Chapter 14
I didn’t know it at the time, but the Reynolds house was erected over one hundred years ago, built by an English gentleman who desired a reminder of his homeland deep in the Pennsylvanian mountains. He’d brought in master architects and craftsmen, and had used the best of materials to create a house that would stand firm against the elements. Over the intervening decades it had defied the storms and blizzards that occasionally shrieked through the northern Alleghenies, resisting with the stiff-upper-lip character of its creator. But extreme weather was one thing. The house didn’t stand a chance against assault rifles and explosives.
Rounds blasted the hinges of the front door, and then someone threw their weight against it. The heavy door crashed back against the inner wall, the sound echoing through the house like the tolling announcement of Doomsday, which would prove apt if I didn’t get my arse in gear.
‘Don! Millie! Get round this side of the island.’ I gestured to the granite-topped counter, indicating the side least exposed to the back door. ‘Keep your heads down and only use those knives if you have to.’
‘We’ll be trapped here,’ Millie croaked as she ushered the children to their hiding place.
I nodded sharply. She was right, but at least the granite would stop some of the bullets. Then I swung to the door jamb, pushing against it with a hip as I aimed my SIG at the men hurtling along the vestibule at us. I picked my target, calm and measured. Crack! Crack! Crack!
A tall skinhead led the charge, and it was he who took all three rounds. He crumpled, fell and the H&K assault rifle he dropped rattled along the hall towards me. Not quite f
ar enough, but its position was noted for later. I fired another two rounds, and the two men following let out yelps of pain, both throwing themselves out of the line of fire. One of them was lucky to find an open doorway, but the other caromed off the vestibule wall, taking a family portrait down with him. He scrambled, tried to place himself behind a chest of drawers, but I shot him again, taking the heel off his left foot, and the man screamed in agony.
Another figure appeared at the front door, a quickly moving amorphous shape in my peripheral vision. I fired once, causing the attacker to fall back and I rushed out, scooping up the dead skinhead’s H&K. Encumbered by the SIG in one hand and KA-BAR in the other I merely tucked the rifle under my armpit and kept walking.
The shrieking man cradling his blasted foot deserved barely a second’s notice. I just swung sideways with the razor-sharp KA-BAR and the screaming stopped. In the next action I’d jammed the military knife into my belt and transferred the SIG to my left hand. The skinhead had thoughtfully primed the rifle. I moved into the room where I’d so recently spoken to Adrian Reynolds. The man I’d forced there brought up his gun but I ripped him to tatters with a controlled burst of the assault rifle. I went and plucked his rifle out of his grasp, swinging it over my shoulder by the carrying strap.
It sounds perfunctory, the way I slaughtered those men, but I was on autopilot, doing what was required. Emotion wasn’t necessary. All the interlopers who’d made it thus far were now dead. But this was just the beginning and it could very well be me who was a steaming corpse in the next few seconds. Like emotion, I couldn’t allow that; not if I hoped to save the children.
Returning to the door, I propped the assault rifle round the jamb. Two more men were coming inside. I rattled a storm of rounds at them and saw one of them dance a jig before collapsing beneath a red mist. The other cried out and back-pedalled quickly. He fired as he went, and this time I was the one who had to jerk out of the line of fire. Beside me the door jamb was chewed to shreds. When next I poked my head out, the man was gone, seeking cover outside.
Beyond the open portal were flickering orange flames and gouts of black smoke; the cars were no means of escape now. Had to find another way out. I went into the vestibule and began backing up. ‘Don. Millie. Bring the children. You have to get upstairs.’
Just as I said it, there was a detonation from outside. One of the cars exploding? No. That wasn’t it. Someone had thrown an explosive device against the side of the house. The blast was followed by the tinkle of glass shattering, the rumble of falling masonry.
Diversionary tactic, I decided. Why would they bother blasting a way inside when there were so many windows and doors to come in by? Whatever the reason, it didn’t bode well. My initial thought was to take the family to an upper floor where I’d have more chance of defending them. Little good the high ground would do, though, if grenades were thrown in through the windows at us.
Someone popped into the open front door, a bird-like figure with a hawk nose and large Adam’s apple. He fired, and so did I. Neither bullet found its mark as both of us jerked away. Then I was back at the door to the kitchen. I met Don and Millie, each carrying a terrified bundle in their arms. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Get back behind the island.’
‘We can’t stay here!’ Millie cried.
There was a thump at the back door, proving her right. I unslung the second rifle from my shoulder, while passing the first to Don. Encumbered by Beth hanging tightly to his neck, and the meat cleaver in his hand, Don almost dropped the rifle. He allowed the cleaver to fall instead and brought up the gun.
‘Don’t know how many rounds are left,’ I told him, ‘so use them wisely.’
There was another splintering thud on the door, and I snapped my gaze that way. Why were they using an axe when they had grenades that would blast the door into fragments?
The thought was fleeting. What did it matter? An axe would get them inside soon enough. Lifting the rifle, I flicked it to semi-auto and fired a short burst directly through the door. It was gratifying to hear another thud, this time as a dead weight fell to the ground.
Glass tinkled, someone lifting a gun through the hole he’d just smashed in the kitchen window. The gun rattled and pots and pans lifted off a counter next to Don. The old man returned fire, but his aim was panicked and wide and drilled holes in the ceiling. Bethany squealed at the rapid chatter of gunfire so close to her face.
‘Get out! Get out!’ I yelled as I swung to offer covering fire.
I shot at the window, blasting it to smithereens, but also forcing the attacker to throw himself down to avoid being cut to ribbons. Don, Millie and the kids all scrambled past me to get into the vestibule. I swung after them: the hallway was a shooting gallery if another attacker had made it inside.
Luckily the front door remained open and no shadow lurked there. Perhaps the bird-like man who’d ducked outside moments before had gone off in search of a safer route of ingress. I wasn’t familiar with the layout of the house, but it was an easy guess that the door opposite led into a utility room. I didn’t bother with the handle, just booted the door open and shoved the others inside. I followed, slamming the door and putting my back to the wood. If nothing else I’d stop the bullets before they reached the children.
Shouts filtered into the room. Men were climbing into the kitchen via the shattered window. If I’d urged the family into a dead end . . . well, we were supremely fucked. However, I found that my assumption held some logic. We were in a room furnished with a washing machine, dryer and a dishwasher. From a water heater on the wall pipes led away to the ceiling and floor. I gestured at a small hatch in the wall. ‘Through there, quick.’
Millie glanced down at the SIG in my hand. ‘Give me a gun.’
‘Forget it; just get everyone through the hatch while we have time.’
‘But I can help.’
‘You can help by doing what I ask. Go, Millie. We’ve only got seconds before they come through that door.’
Millie opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. She turned, hitching Ryan in her arms, even as Don placed Beth down. The little girl was crying, her face as pale as virgin snow. She looked down at the tomcat huddled by her ankles. She stooped and picked it up, and the old tom allowed her to cradle him without complaint. It blinked slowly at me, and I spared a moment to frown back. I’d idly thought that the cat and I had much in common. Well, nine lives would come in very handy.
Don lifted the assault rifle and used the butt to slam open the plyboard hatch. A draught washed over us; smelling the tang of petroleum I sighed with relief. The hatch had once opened into an anteroom that had since been converted to a garage connected to the side of the house. Brook’s vehicle had been reduced to a tangled burnt-out wreck, so I could only hope that the Reynoldses had been a two-car family.
Don lifted Beth and her charge through the hatch, followed by Ryan, then there was a moment of pushing and shoving until Don finally went first. He squeezed through the gap, his big body defying the dimensions. Millie turned back to me. Her eyes flashed before she swung round and went through the gap more easily.
The door shuddered behind me. The lock was already burst from my injudicious entry. My weight held the attacker back, but that would only last for so long. Hearing muffled voices, I knew that I didn’t have much time left on earth if I didn’t get out now.
I ducked across the room expecting to be cut apart by bullets, or ripped into chunks by a frag grenade. Instead I made it to the hatch, just as the door burst inward. I caught the flash of a face – a crazy pattern of tattoos up one side, framing a pinched yellow eye. Then I was through the hatch, thighs bumping painfully on the edge as I flung myself bodily into the garage beyond. Ignoring the pain, I lurched back to throw the hatch closed again. Once more I saw the tattooed face, and caught the glare of hatred its bearer shot at me; but my own return look was equally ferocious. To the right was an old cabinet, like the Welsh dresser that had been in my parents’ house when
I was a boy. Adrian had reclaimed the old item of furniture to hold the tools he used when he tinkered with his vehicles.
Without urging, Don joined me and together we muscled the dresser in front of the hatch, just as the pounding began on the other side.
I would have cheered if I’d had time, but Millie was already helping the two children and the cat into the back seat of Adrian’s vehicle: a minivan that he’d undoubtedly used to transport the kids to and from school. Please, I prayed, let the keys be in the ignition.
They were, and I started the minivan even as Don scrambled into the passenger seat. I revved the engine, looked at the closed door. It was a tin-sheet roller shutter. No time to open it. ‘Everyone . . . get your heads down,’ I said through gritted teeth. Then I released the brake and the minivan bolted forward.
The door resisted the onslaught, but couldn’t withstand it for long. The minivan burst through, the buckling door gouging stripes in the paintwork. The wheels sent up plumes of gravel and shells, and the vehicle slewed to the side before I got it under control. Ahead of us were the flaming carcasses of the Audi and Lexus, and I had to yank on the steering to avoid them. I caught a glimpse of Adrian’s body burning like a flare between them and hoped that the kids weren’t looking. ‘Keep down,’ I yelled again. Not to ensure that the children didn’t have nightmares – it was already too late for that – but because the bird-like man was rushing towards the minivan lifting a rifle. I’d jammed my guns inside with me, but had no way to shoot the man, not without letting go of the steering wheel, and I saw that Don was equally hindered. Our only chance was to keep going, trust to speed and hope that the man was a lousy shot.
The engine was roaring too hard for me to hear the shouted command, but I saw the man respond. The gun dipped away, and the man just watched in futile fury as we drove past.
I couldn’t decide why the man had been denied his shot unless the tattooed leader wanted our deaths to be more personal – or permanent.