Fuzzy Navel

If they want to play, I’m happy to oblige.

10:22 P.M.

MUNCHEL

MUNCHEL WATCHES the split-tail climb back through the window, and he feels every hair on his arms stand at attention. He isn’t tired. He isn’t scared.

He’s electrified.

This has been the greatest day of his life. And when that cop returns fire, it will take everything up to the next level. He imagines this is the desert, hot wind blowing in his eyes, sand in his teeth, his platoon pi

“Where in the hell are you?”

The radio startles Munchel, jolting him out of his reverie. He swears, unclips the radio, then presses the talk button.

“What’s the problem now, Swanson?”

“The problem is that you disappeared for an hour, and when you come back there’s gunfire. Loud gunfire, not our silenced rifles.”

“They’re suppressors, not silencers.” Pessolano, cutting in.

Swanson sighs like a drama queen. “I don’t give a shit what they’re called. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The woman cop,” Munchel says. “She had a gun in the house, shot at me through the window.”

“I already killed her,” Pessolano says.

“You must have missed, because she was shooting at me just a minute ago.”

“You sure it was her?”

“’Course it was her. Looked just like her.”

“Could of been her twin.”

“Her what?”

“Her twin sister. Like that Van Damme movie.”

“It wasn’t her goddamn twin, Pessolano. You just goddamn missed.”

“Enough!” Swanson cuts in. “Her gun is too loud. Someone is going to hear it and call the cops.”

Munchel grins. “Well, it’s about to get even louder, boyo, because I gave her a rifle.”

He pictures Swanson’s face turning bright red with anger. It amuses him greatly. Ever since they first got together, Swanson has been playing leader. But he sucks as a leader. He’s too scared of everything, and has zero creativity.

And what is this shit Pessolano is talking about twins? That guy has been bragging and boasting about his war record nonstop, but he can’t even confirm a kill.

Munchel knows that he’s the alpha male of the group. He proved it earlier, in Ravenswood. And he’s about to prove it again.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Swanson probably thinks pausing between each word makes him sound tough.

“I gave her Pessolano’s Browning, and three bullets. Make this a little more interesting.”

“I better get that gun back,” Pessolano says. “Or you owe me seven hundred bucks.”

“You’ll get it back.” Munchel laughs. “Might have to wash the blood off it first.”

Another sigh from Swanson. “We need to finish this shit up, and get out of here before more cops come.”

“How?” Pessolano asks. “Everyone is hiding. We can’t get any shots.”

“Then we get closer.”

Munchel nods. That’s the first thing Swanson has said all night that he agrees with.

He clips the radio to his belt, picks up the rifle, and creeps closer to the house.

10:25 P.M.

JACK

THE FIRST THING I need to do is minimize my disadvantages.

And there are many.

They’re three people. I’m just one.

They have cover. I have people to protect.

They have unlimited bullets. I have three.

They have scopes, both normal and night vision. I have a head injury.

But I do have one advantage. Never underestimate a woman fighting for her life.

I stick my head into the hall and shout.

“Latham! We’re going to get you in the bathroom with Mom and Harry. It’s the safest place in the house.”

“Don’t risk it, Jack. Too many windows.”

“I’ve got an idea about that. Be ready to move when I get there.”

I crawl over to the flashlight in the corner of my room, then get into a crouch. The Tylenol has kicked in, taking my headache from excruciating down to merely agonizing.

Don’t think. Just act.

I point the flashlight out the window and run out the door, through the hall, into the laundry room. I tug open the fuse box door, hit the main breaker, and the house lights come back on. I assume the snipers still have their night-vision scopes on. Now they’ll be all lit up.

I hurry back into the hall, flipping off lights as I go.

“Hold this,” I tell Harry, passing up the bathroom. He takes the rifle.

“Santa come early this year?”

“Scissors,” I say.

Mom hands me the scissors.

I squeeze past the fridge, run into the living room, catch a quick glimpse at Latham still by the sofa, but head straight for the front door instead. I turn on the outside lights – front porch, garage light, driveway lights – and kill the lights inside the room. I also kill the flashlight. That leaves only one light on in the house. The kitchen.

I creep over to it, reach for the switch while keeping my eyes on Alex. She’s still on the floor, handcuffed to the pipe under the sink. She regards me.

“I’m a better shot than you,” she says. “Let me go and I’ll take care of those snipers.”

I flip the kitchen light off. Then I jog over to Latham, kneeling next to him, seeking out his face in the dark.

“How you doing?” I ask.

“Some guys say the excitement goes out of a relationship after the first year. I’m not one of those guys.”

I give him a quick peck, missing his mouth and hitting his cheek.

“This is going to hurt when the circulation comes back.”

I go to work on his duct tape, cutting, peeling, ripping, until his hands come free.

He groans, and my heart breaks. I do his legs next.

“Think you can move?”

“I’ll do my best.”

I help Latham up, try to get his wounded arm over my shoulder. He cries out, so I switch sides.

“Lean on me,” I tell him.

We make it three steps, then he collapses.

“Legs,” he says. “Having some problems.”

I check the front window, look out onto the lawn, and have a clear view. The combination of darkness inside and lights outside will make it hard for the snipers to see us using either regular or night-vision scopes.

“Keep going,” I grunt, trying to pull him to his feet.

Latham manages one step before falling.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He’s breathing as heavy as I am.

“Legs not working?” I’m referring to the residual paralysis from his bout with botulism.

“Not working.”

This time I find his mouth, press my lips against it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I have legs for the two of us.”

I prod Latham to his feet once more, then have him stand behind me and put his arms over my shoulders.

“Piggyback?” he says into my ear.

“Just hold on tight.”

His good arm locks around my chest. I lean forward, taking his weight, and manage four staggering steps.

“I kind of like this position,” Latham says.

I stop, lowering him down, catching my breath.

“Don’t like it too much,” I say between puffs. “I can only concentrate on one thing at a time.”

The BOOM of a gunshot, and the room gets a hair darker. I glance out the window.

The snipers are shooting the outside lights.

I focus ahead, down the hallway. Maybe fifteen feet to the bathroom. I pick Latham up and go five more steps before losing my footing. We fall, Latham on top of me. My head feels like it has exploded, and I can’t take a breath.

Another shot. Another outside light winks out.