J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

He hands me the shotgun, then sticks his head in the passenger door of the truck and presses something on the dashboard. Then he walks around to the rear door and opens it up. Inside are two sniper rifles, half a dozen handguns, and box after box of ammo.

“I couldn’t bring it back to the house all by myself, but if we both load up, we can manage. Unless Alex is driving a tank, she won’t be able to get to us.”

“Let’s hurry.”

There’s a metal suitcase lined with foam, with cut-out impressions for the two Desert Eagles. I tear out the foam and fill the suitcase with bullets. Phin finds a duffel bag, and we pile in the guns and more bullets. We barely cram everything in.

I reload the Desert Eagle, Phin adds a few shells to the shotgun, and then I help him strap on the duffel bag, which weighs a ton. The suitcase and both rifles are mine to carry.

Satisfied we haven’t left a scrap of ammo behind, we head back toward the house.

My load is cumbersome, unwieldy, and after a few steps I have to rest. Phin urges me on. You never realize how big your lawn is until you’re hauling a hundred pounds of ordnance across it. I really hope Mom doesn’t change her mind about moving back to the city.

“I still have to find the cell phone jammer,” I tell Phin between labored breaths. “If you cover the front, and Harry covers the back-”

My words are cut off by the sound of gunfire, coming from the house.

THE REVOLVER IS A.38. There are five bullets in the cylinder. That’s more than enough.

I creep into the house, silent and powerful. After a little hiccup in the plan, I’m back in control. Harry and his single-shot Desert Eagle don’t concern me. Even if he manages to get a shot off, he’ll most certainly miss.

I slip into the living room and grin when I see the cast-iron pot with the wire attached. Idiots. Then I kneel down next to Pessolano. His pants are a bloody, sticky mess, but I manage to fish out the keys to the Bronco. I shove them in my pocket, then concentrate on the hallway.

I hear whispering. Coming from the bathroom, behind the refrigerator.

I pause. Shall I shoot to kill? Or is there time for a little fun first?

I decide to play it by ear.

I bend down low, measuring each footstep, careful I don’t make a sound. I feel most alive during moments like this. I’m in control, a hunter stalking her prey. It’s what I was born to do.

“She’s in the house! She has a gun!”

Dammit. That sniper idiot. I thought I paralyzed him with fear, but he must have been made of stronger stuff than I assumed. I meld into the shadows, pressing my back up against the wall.

“Is that you, Alex?” Harry asks.

I wonder whether or not to answer, decide there’s no harm now.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Found yourself a gun, huh?”

“Yep. And I have more than one bullet, Harry. Where should I shoot you first? I’ll let you decide.”

“Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.”

I laugh, then take a step forward.

“You think you can hit me left-handed, Harry?”

“I don’t have to. Mom has that particular honor.”

Another step. “That old lady with the crippled hands? She can’t even hold a gun.”

“She’s not holding it. I am. She’s aiming for me.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Mom’s an expert markswoman. She taught Jack how to shoot. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

“Stick your head out, Alex,” Jack’s mother says. Her voice is strong and sure. “I’ll teach you how to make some mincemeat pie.”

I back up. Maybe they won’t hit me, but maybe they will, and a.50 bullet in capable hands is not something to take lightly. I’ll sneak back outside, come in a different way.

I head for the front door, and see Jack and Phin heading toward the house, their arms filled with weapons.

Shit. I buzz through a few quick scenarios in my head. I shoot at them, kill one, and the other rushes the house with superior firepower. Or I get lucky, kill them both, and Harry pops up behind me and puts one into the back of my head.

Maybe I could win with a better gun and more ammo, but a smart girl knows when to fight and when to run. It’s running time.

Still, I can spare one bullet.

I get down on a knee, support my wrist with my free hand, and draw a bead on Jack’s head. Then I wait for her to get within range. If she’s too far away, I’ll miss. If she’s too close, that will give Phin a chance to catch me.

Fifty feet seems to be a good distance.

I’m a little disappointed that it will end this way, but I can come back for Harry and the others later. Let them mourn Jack for a few weeks. Settle back into everyday life. Then I can surprise them with a return visit, after I’ve finished with the other thing I’ve got planned.

Jack reaches the fifty-foot mark. I line up the sights.

“Bye-bye, Lieutenant.”

I squeeze the trigger.

Jack remains standing.

I missed.

It’s the gun. The gun’s aim is off.

Damn, that is one lucky lady.

Phin stops, pointing the shotgun at the house. It’s time for me to go. I hurry back into the garage, hearing the shotgun thunder behind me. The sniper is on the floor where I left him. His eyes get comically wide when he sees me.

“I thought we agreed to be quiet.”

“I’m… I’m a soldier…” he stammers. “Soldiers don’t make deals with the enemy.”

“Soldiers also die badly,” I say.

I don’t have time to savor it, but I make good on my promise and manage to jam the funnel in, along with half the bottle of drain cleaner.

His screams follow me through the maze of boxes, over to the side window. And that’s when I see Jack rush into the garage.

Maybe her luck has finally run out.

ASHOT BURIES ITSELF into the lawn a yard ahead of me.

“She found my gun,” Phin says. “Go, I’ll cover you.”

I don’t argue with him. All around us is open land. The only cover is near the house. Phin aims the shotgun and fires, and I move as fast as I can, beelining for my front door. I feel like I’m running in slow motion, my feet in quicksand, each step harder than the last. But the thought of Alex in the house with the people I love makes me discover reserves I didn’t know I had left.

I make it to my porch without being shot, wheezing and dripping sweat. I drop the gear, pull the Desert Eagle, and go in low, keeping a two-handed grip on the weapon.

The living room is clear. I hear screaming, can’t pinpoint it.

“Harry!”

“We’re fine!” he yells from the bathroom. “Alex took off through the garage!”

I rush over to the garage door, get a quick peek at Munchel on the floor, his stomach wound leaking bloody foam. He’s the one screaming.

I look past him, see Alex heading for the side window. I fire twice, missing as she dives through.

I can’t let her get away.

I hobble between the boxes, crouching low if she decides to fire at me, sticking the barrel of my gun out the window and jerking left and right to see if she’s hiding on either side.

Alex comes up from below.

She grabs my wrist and squeezes like a vise. I keep my grip on the pistol but can’t aim it toward her. I sense, rather than see, her gun hand coming up, and I reach blindly and latch on to it, stiff-arming the barrel away from my head.

Alex tugs, dragging me out of the window, broken glass scraping against my stomach, hips, and legs. I fall on top of her, each of us trying to gain control of our weapons without letting the other do the same, my face inches from hers as we both grunt and strain.