Fuzzy Navel

My efforts leave me with sore wrists, but no closer to escape.

I close my eyes, let the solution come to me. I broke out of a maximum security prison for the criminally insane. I should be able to get out from under a stupid sink.

Voices, elsewhere in the house. I make out a few words, but they don’t interest me. I’m not the only one trying to kill Jack and her family. But I don’t believe those jokers outside pose much of a threat to my plans. If they had any skills, everyone would already be dead. They’re jackals. I’m a lion. Lions don’t fear jackals.

I feel the pipe, higher up, where it meets the sink. The joint here is plastic, bigger, the size of a peanut butter jar. And it has nubs on it, to grip when attaching the drain to the pipe. I form my fingers around them and twist.

Red and yellow spots form in my vision, and my head begins to shake. I strain and strain until my entire world is reduced to five square inches of force and pain.

I release it and forcibly exhale. My hands are trembling.

But it moved a fraction of an inch.

I crack my knuckles, then go at it again, a smile enveloping half my face.

10:15 P.M.

JACK

I’M GRATEFUL I CAN’T REMEMBER being shot, because that might have made me reconsider my actions. Though I’ve never used a night-vision scope, never even saw one in real life, I’m familiar with how they work, thanks to Tom Clancy movies. The hallway is pitch-black to me, but to the snipers I am an easy target, glowing bright green.

Thanks to Mr. Clancy, I also have an idea how to mess with their aim.

I stick out my left hand, reaching for the wall. When my fingers graze it I run forward four steps. I lift the flashlight up to chest level, switching it on and pointing it through my bedroom door, out the window. Then I immediately dodge right.

The light will temporarily blind anyone peering through a night-enhanced scope, causing a bright flash. If someone has a bead on me, they might reflexively shoot when the light goes on. Hence the change of direction.

The shot doesn’t come.

I toss the flashlight into the bedroom, toward the far corner, and jog toward the window in a crouch. I duck down, beneath the pane, safe. Then I feel around the floor. I find my dropped Kimber.

Hurt isn’t strong enough a word for the feeling in my head, and my stomach isn’t happy with the bottle of water I chugged. I rest for a minute, slowing down my breathing, picturing what I need to do next.

Unlike my Colt, the Kimber is bigger, badder, and more accurate. This is the gun I use in marksman competitions. I need to get outside, locate the bastards, and get within a hundred feet of them. Once they’re within range, my handgun is more effective than their long guns. They’re using bolt action, single fire, and it takes a few seconds to load each bullet. My.45 holds seven rounds, and it shoots as fast as I can pull the trigger.

If I can get close enough.

Originally, I intended to sneak out the bedroom window. Getting shot in the head made me think about other possible exit points. My house is built in an L shape, but that still means four right angles. There are only three snipers, so they can’t completely cover all four sides.

The trick is to find an exit they aren’t covering.

The front door won’t work. The large bay window in the living room offers too good a view inside. Mom’s room has a window, but it’s on the same wall as mine, and a shooter can easily watch both. The kitchen patio doors lead into the backyard. Again, they’re big and offer a full view, but I can get through them quicker than climbing out a normal window. The garage has a window, but it’s behind an endless stack of boxes that we never unpacked after moving in. The bathroom window is frosted, and no one has shot through it yet, but it’s decorative and doesn’t open. If I break it, that will leave Mom and Harry exposed.

Life would be so much easier if I’d just bought a house with a basement. I could have crawled up a window well, gotten out at ground level, and come at them low, under their noses. I’m sure these guys are amateurs. They’ll sweep left and right, but won’t know to sweep up and down.

My concentration shatters when the window above me does, glass shards sprinkling my hair and shoulders. Something thumps to the floor in front of me, and I recover from the startle and extend my arm, pointing the.45, pulling the trigger halfway before stopping myself.

It isn’t a person in the room with me. The flashlight in the corner is pointing in this direction, and it silhouettes a familiar shape, nestled in the broken glass on my carpeting.

A rifle.

I stand up and stick my gun through the hole in the window, looking left, then right, for the person who threw a rifle into my bedroom. I catch a dark shape turning the corner into the backyard, but it’s gone before I can squeeze off a shot.

I don’t pause to think. I use the butt of my gun to brush away the jagged glass still jutting out of the pane, lift my knee up, and climb through the window frame. I hear my mother calling my name, but don’t want to answer, don’t want to give my position away.

I’m dizzy, winded. I touch the brick wall, use it steady myself. Then I half run, half stumble toward the backyard, to the corner the man disappeared around. I pause, my back against the house, both hands on my Kimber. The evening has cooled off, and there’s a strong enough breeze that I feel it through the bandage on my head. The lawn is cold and tickles my bare toes. I hold my breath and listen.

Night sounds. Leaves rustling. Crickets. The faint whistle of the wind. Just your average autumn night in the suburbs.

I count to three, then spin around the corner, gun pointing in front of me. I can’t see much in the dark. I make out some low shadows on my patio, chairs and a table. My lawn goes back about twenty yards, and beyond it is the tree line. Enough cover for me to disappear into. If I can’t find the snipers, I’ll go into the woods and come out the other side, to a major highway, and bring back help.

Before I take a step forward the ground spits up dirt and grass a few feet to my right.

“Go back inside!”

A man’s voice, coming from deep within the same woods I want to enter.

I backpedal, firing blindly into the trees, wasting two bullets. I press my back against the wall, not too far from my bedroom window.

The next shot eats into the brick less than a foot in front of me, digging out a chunk big enough to stick my hand into.

“I told you to get back in the house!” the man yells. “Go get your rifle, or I’ll shoot you where you stand! I ain’t asking again!”

I think about ru

Probably not smart. My shooting has assuredly caught the attention of the other two snipers. They’ll be waiting for me.

Not seeing any other choice, I go back to my bedroom and climb through the window, careful not to step on any glass.

“Jacqueline!” Mom.

“I’m okay!” I call back.

My eyes trail down, to the rifle. Why did the sniper give it to me? Some kind of trick or trap?

I reach over slowly, like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike, and wrap my fingers around the barrel. I pull it close, see a piece of paper rolled up in the trigger guard. I unroll the note and read the semi-legible words scrawled on it:

There are three of us.

You have three bullets.

Let’s play.

These assholes actually think this is a game.

I holster the Kimber and check the rifle. It’s a Browning, bolt action, walnut stock, a twenty-inch barrel, weighing about seven pounds. No scope, no sights. I open the ammo tube and find three.22 LR hollow point rounds. Much smaller than the ammo the snipers are using, but still potent enough to drop a deer. I roll them between my fingers, shake them next to my ear, give them each a sniff. They seem like the real thing. I feed them back into the tube, yank the bolt, and chamber a round.