Chuck Logan - Homefront

He watched them start loading pieces of wood into the truck bed. Now he was waiting on Sheryl to get back in position. More white dominoes. Then, finally, the cell buzzed in his pocket. He whipped it out, removed his glove, and punched answer.

“I’m back,” Sheryl said. “But I can’t see shit.”

“Showtime. They’re home. Start your drive.”

He ended the call, replaced the phone in his pocket, then stuffed the glove in with it. When he looked up, he saw Broker and the kid climbing the steps to the back deck, going in the sliding patio door.

Okay. See better in the house. He was up, removing his other glove for a surer grip on the SIG. He unzipped the front of the camo smock, not liking the way it bound his chest and arms. Swung his arms-more freedom of movement. Shank pulled the ski mask down around his neck and stepped from the cover of the pines. No more detours, go straight in. Get it over with.

Kit stood at the end of the kitchen, by the basement door, unwinding her scarf. Griffin dusted snow from his hat, removed it. Seeing the frozen fix of her eyes, he went to her and gently brushed snow from her freckled cheeks. “Hey, honey, it’ll be all right.”

She looked up at him with an awful anger in her eyes. “You all say that. You all lie,” she said in a measured voice.

He reached to hug her, and she stepped back, arms raised, warding him off.

Let her be, he thought. Then he turned, started for the cabinet next to the stove, glanced out the patio door. “Funny, huh. We take a break and the snow lets up. Should be some hot chocolate in here-”

Something. A snap of red in the corner of his eye.

Whipping around, he saw that it wasn’t all right.

The figure of a man emerged from the trees, white camo flapping around something red underneath. One second he was obscure in the blowing snow. Then the wind stopped and the snow disappeared, and Griffin clearly saw the black pistol in his hand. The man started jogging toward the house.

Griffin didn’t waste time with how or why. He dropped instantly into threat and response, judging time and distance. He was in the middle of the room, between Kit and the table with the familiar rifle and magazine on it. Guy was fifty yards out…

First get Kit free. Out of the line of fire. The basement.

“Kit, come here, fast!” he shouted. Galvanized by his tone, Kit hurried to him, her face shaking. “Take this.” He whipped the cell phone from his pocket, opened it. “Now listen to me. Go in the basement. If there’s shooting, unhook the window, crawl out and get into the woods. Punch in 911. A nine and two ones. Press this button, here. Send. Tell them a man with a gun is coming into the house. Go!” he shouted, spinning, lunging for the AR-15 on the table.

Shank came up the steps two at a time, swinging up the pistol, saw a flurry of movement in the lighted kitchen. Shit. Musta seen him. Broker picking something up off a table…Then Shank’s boot slipped on the top step, and he skidded, righting himself, and his heart caught in his throat.

Broker was slapping a magazine into a serious military-type rifle, pulling the thingy in back, taking aim.

Nothing happened.

Close enough to see the look of surprise in Broker’s eyes, jerking at the operating rod.

Shank fired twice through the glass, saw Broker go down through a splatter of shattered glass, flung open the siding door, and fired a wild shot at the wide-eyed kid who ducked down a doorway at the other end of the room.

Stepping over…wait…paused a second, looking down at the waxy face of the man laying on the floor. Hit him solid, twice in the chest. Then…Where’s the fucking eyebrows? Not Broker . What the fuck? Blinked. Focused. Swinging the SIG, ready for the wife when she appeared. No sounds in the house. Immediately he sprinted for the basement doorway. Get the kid first, come back. Shank scrambled down the cramped stairwell, yelling, “All right, you little shit…”

Not sure why he’d lived, not knowing why he was dying, Harry Griffin opened his eyes and watched his killer step over him and dash down the stairs after Kit. Wouldn’t you know, the same old familiar things; the brimstone scent of cordite, the copper taste of blood. He lay on his right side, right arm trapped beneath him. Couldn’t move it. His left hand was detached. Couldn’t feel it, sprawled there on the floor, tremoring, having its own local death. A foot away from his palsied left hand, along the baseboard, level with his eyes, he saw the.257 Roberts laying on the floor, muzzle pointed in the direction of the basement stairwell, bolt pulled open.

Heard a snarl from the basement, stuff crashing, thrown around.

Hardest thing he ever did, resurrecting that left hand, willing it to reach over and tug the rifle along the floor. Way too weak to lift it. He fingered a bullet from the sidekick bandolier on the stock; trembling, he inserted it in the chamber.

Heard the guy yell, raging, “Why, you little shit!”

Tasting blood, Griffin smiled. She got out. Good girl. Run. He slid the bolt forward, locking in the round. Second hardest thing he ever did, feathery, his left hand went off on a journey, searching for the trigger, nudging the muzzle along the floor, centered on the stairway. Found the trigger as the heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Something going through his mind shutting off the lights on the way out… everything I ever did getting me ready for this moment …

Lied, Kit … not all right … but maybe…

Craning his neck, Griffin managed to catch a glimpse of the guy’s face and shoulders, clearing the top step; pale blue angry eyes, skin too white. Harry Griffin squeezed the trigger and rode the exhilarating crash of the bullet out of this life.

Shank stamped up the stairs, and the kitchen exploded in his face. He spun back, clawing at the handrail. The power of the needle pile driver that hit him promised a lot of pain to come. Hit him low in the left hip, it felt like…He touched the wound. There was a lot of blood. Not the hip. High inside the thigh.

He gathered himself, pulling on the rail, and staggered up into the kitchen. Saw the deer rifle on the floor next to the dead guy. Fucker had his eyes wide open, head contorted toward the stairs. Sonofabitch looked…happy. Shoulda shot him again…made sure…

The kid.

The kid had seen his face.

He lurched out the door into the garage, then into the driveway. Saw the open basement window, the scrambled snow where she’d crawled out. Different. Looking around, he realized the snow had stopped. Had stopped before he even got into the house. Just this huge white silence and the kid’s tracks leading through it. Looking across the yard, he saw her standing at the edge of the woods, looking back at the house. A lump of shadow against the white trees. Maybe eighty yards. Too far, but he took a shot anyway. She disappeared into the trees.

Now I’m really pissed.

He dug through his parka pockets. Found his bandanna, tied it around his screaming thigh, knotted it, and limped along the trail of small boot prints, leaking blood.

“We’ll use the Jeep, Griffin needs the truck,” Broker said, guiding Nina. His thoughts mirrored the flurries driving at his eyes. His mind seemed erased, full of white noise. Never been to this numb hopeless place before.

They got in the Jeep, and as he turned it around, they glimpsed Griffin and Kit appearing and disappearing, climbing into the Tundra. Broker drove to the end of the driveway and stopped. At a loss for which way to turn.

He turned left, made it maybe four hundred yards down the road, pulled over, stopped, and put the shift in neutral. They sat, eyes fixed straight ahead, and listened to the heater fan grind cold air.