Chuck Logan - Homefront

“Nina?” Broker gasped, filling the doorway, face turned to wax, staring into the barrel of the rifle.

She snapped the muzzle off target, held it at the ready, poised, eyes darting to the patio door. “Get in, quick, they’re out there, in back”-a hoarse iron whisper of command.

For another fraction of a second Broker stared at her. Kit stood behind him, eyes wide with incomprehension, not yet fear, holding her bunny and her school pack.

Seeing Kit’s expression, a corner of her vision collapsed, and she started to sink.

When her eyes moved off Broker toward the patio door, he was on her in a blur, knocking the rifle barrel up and away with his right hand, coming on through and shoving her chest hard, stepping in and tearing the pistol from her waistband. Stripping the slung rifle off her shoulder. One swift complete movement. The rifles clattered to the floor, the.45 secure in his right hand, he wrapped her in a bear hug. She heard his voice; high, uncertain, scared: “Kit. Stay in the garage. Shut the door.”

As the kitchen door swung shut, Nina pushed back at him. “Broker, man; I’m not kidding, two guys…she shouldn’t-”

“Calm down.” He was almost shouting.

“ You calm down! Listen, goddammit!” Her eyes burned at him, but already the controlled fire was starting to sputter.

Broker dropped his arms, stepped back carefully, stuck the.45 into his belt and stooped quickly, snatching up the AR-15. Part of him was still reeling in shock, the other part, the street part, gauged her tense posture-the way she balanced on the balls of her feet, arms floating up. Personal overruled practical. He grabbed her arm and pushed her into the living room. Saw the splintered cabinet. The maul.

“Aw, Jesus, Nina,” he said, releasing her arm.

The way he said it caused more sinking.

As they panted, glaring at each other, his hands were busy, removing the magazine from the black rifle, clearing the action. The tidy lethal.223 round ejected with a brass twinkle and plinked to the floor. He popped the pin behind the trigger assembly, breaking it open, removing the bolt, stuck it in his back pocket. Locked the trigger housing back together, secured the pin. The loose operating handle rattled. His hands were shaking.

Practical again, he realized she was gathering herself, sizing him up. Heard Kit’s fists banging on the kitchen door, her voice muffled, urgent, “Mom, Dad; let me in.”

“There’s two of them,” Nina said patiently. “In winter camo, ski masks, pistols; like Serbs…in the woods…” Saying that, seeing his face react; she knew it was a bad choice of words…

Sounded nuts.

Nina bit her lip. Sounded crazy …how it must look to him. The doubt bounced back fast, ringing her vision with blackness, closing in.

“Serbs in the woods,” he repeated slowly. The words echoed in his mind- Where is it? In the woods. “Aw, Christ,” he said. His face working now, thinking out loud, saying, “Too soon. Got ahead of ourselves…”

The boiling snow outside the living room windows bloomed with headlights. Their eyes snapped on the motion. “Griffin,” Broker said, raising a hand, trying for calm amid the shattered wood, the lock and hasp, the scattered magazines on the floor. “We switched cars. He’s coming to pick up more wood. C’mon.” He reached for her arm again. She danced back in an instinctive fighting stance, and Broker wondered if it was finally coming down to a no-holds bare-knuckle fight between them. Practicality counseled him: No, her training was to kill. Go for the eyes, then the throat. She wouldn’t use that on him. Grappling and restraint was his expertise. And he was encouraged by the quiver of indecision now trembling in her eyes, spreading down her cheeks into her lips. Her eyes getting wider. “C’mon,” he said softly. “We’ll have Harry sit with Kit. Take this down the road, out of the house.”

But he still wasn’t willing to turn his back on her. He waited until she stepped into the kitchen. Then he crossed quickly to the door, opened it. Kit stood framed in the doorway, clutching her bunny.

“What going on?” she said, close to tears.

“We’re just having an argument,” Broker said, with an awful forced calm in his voice.

Kit swallowed and stared at the rifle in his hand, the pistol in his belt. “With guns?”

“Go out and get Uncle Harry,” Broker said. He left the door open. Then, keeping the island between himself and Nina, he picked the deer rifle off the floor, slid open the bolt. Empty. He leaned it against the wall, and his hand was still shaking, because the weapon slipped sideways and crashed to the floor. He ignored it, continued to the patio door, and studied the back deck. Two inches of swirling undisturbed fresh snow. Glanced at the shadowy tree line, indistinct in the horizontal blowing snow. He turned, placed the AR-15 on the table, and slid the wobbling operating handle in place. Put the magazine next to it.

Nina stood hugging herself, one thought recurring over and over, timed to a tick in her cheek: Seeing things that are not there …She watched Broker do his thing; being practical, cautious. Every methodical move he made, checking the deck, disabling the rifle, assuring Kit, sending for Harry, was an instant replay of the last three months.

She was losing light. Sinking. Hallucination was another way of saying “seeing things.”

She watched Harry Griffin enter the kitchen, snow on his shoulders and cap, one hand guiding Kit. Heard Broker say something about a little ‘domestic situation.’ Could he keep an eye on Kit while they took a break to talk.

They were all so carefully normal…

…in the presence of the sick person.

Griffin’s alert eyes scanned all present, the room. Broker had zipped his jacket to hide the pistol, but the rifle was still in plain view on the table. Griffin adjusted immediately, low-key. Said something about Kit could help him load the oak. Be fun in all the snow. Kit’s eyes darting, confused.

Broker lifted Nina’s coat off the hook by the door, stood waiting. Sinking, she crossed the room, grabbed at the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the island. Eyes lowered, she walked past Harry and Kit, took the coat, and followed Broker out the door.

Shank hunkered in the thick spruce maybe sixty yards from the garage, squinting into the blowing snow. He’d hoped to spot the wife, coming back from running. Couldn’t see shit. Thought he saw some lights for a minute. Then a wall of whiteout erased the shadow of the house. The terrain had disappeared, the road, the woods, just this white plasma blob. Maybe Gator was right, should have broke in, waited in the house. Problem was, what if they came back and saw the forced entry? Scare them off. Better this way, he decided. He had his hood pulled up under the hood of the smock, one gloved hand on the cell phone in his left pocket, the other on the SIG in the right pocket. Not that uncomfortable, still warm from looking over the house, getting focused. In fact, he liked the harsh wind, working an edge off the storm charge in the turbulent air. And appreciated the way it banished the noises he started hearing when Gator left him. Those creepy Wild Kingdom noises sandwiched in the wind.

Fuck a bunch of wolves, just big dogs. Had to laugh, really; he’d killed nine men. Count ’em. Not the time to worry about animals. Still, every time he picked up a weird twist to the wind…

Then, faint headlights in the white gloom. Somebody coming up the driveway. Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Okay, folks, what’s going on here? Windows still dark in the house. Looked like. When he could see the fuckin’ house. The minutes stretched like chilly ivory dominoes, clicking end to end. Then, finally, he saw the headlights again. Closer. The green Toyota had returned, was pulling around the back of the house, backing up to the side of the garage. Like it was before. Uh-huh, that’s Broker, getting out of the truck. Impossible to make out his features in the blow, but the same brown coat and black hat. Hank’s heart skipped a beat, seeing the smaller figure get out of the passenger side. Must be the kid, in a blur of green coat and hat, something, a scarf maybe, tied around the face. This’ll be a first. He forgot, was it a boy or a girl? Fuck it. Green target. He hadn’t seen the woman but assumed, given this weather, she was inside.