Centralia by Mike Dellosso Page B

enjoyed. No wonder she had the front porch so comfortably furnished. It was a place where she no doubt spent much of her time.
    Drawing his silencer-equipped Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster, Lawrence took one step forward, lifted his right foot, and planted it solidly just to the left of the door handle. The door shot open, splintering the wood along the jamb, and Lawrence rushed in.

The front door crashed open with the suddenness and intensity of a gunshot and nearly pushed Peter out of his chair. He instantly, instinctively, grabbed Amy by the arm and ducked into the kitchen, drawing the pistol he’d stashed in his waistband at the small of his back.
    His reaction time was amazingly quick, and a feeling of déjà vu came over him, as if he’d done this exact thing at some other time in some other place. If indeed he had been the target of assassins and hit men before, and if indeed he had been shot at before   —and enough times to have developed an almost-involuntary reaction to it   —at least he’d been lucky. His body had no scars from gunshot wounds.
    Amy eyed the weapon, then Peter. Fear widened her eyes,and her mouth formed an almost-perfect O. From the look on her face, Peter assumed she was just as surprised at his newfound skills as he was. He put an index finger to his lips and shook his head.
    Heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer, then the dining room. Quickly Peter pulled Amy by the arm and shuffled across the kitchen to the back door. They would have to make an escape that way. He didn’t know how many uninvited visitors there were and didn’t want to get into a shootout and put Amy in the line of fire.
    After lifting a key ring from a peg by the counter, he opened the door and the two of them slid onto the back porch. Peter said, “Is the garage unlocked?”
    “You have the keys,” Amy said.
    Down the porch steps they ran and to the garage, where Peter handed the keys to Amy, who opened the door to the garage.
    In the garage sat a late-model Ford F-150, red and shiny, with knobby tires and tinted windows.
    “Really?” Peter said.
    Amy tossed him the keys. “You drive.”
    Peter got in and cranked the engine to life as Amy hit the button to open the overhead door. The electric motor hummed, the chain engaged, and the door lifted with a low rumble. When it was four feet off the ground, Peter saw two legs from the knees down   —khaki dress pants, military-style boots   —standing in the middle of the driveway.
    Amy saw too. She pushed back against the seat and braced herself. “Go!”
    Not waiting for the door to reach its full height and give the invader a clean shot at the windshield, Peter shifted into gear andstomped on the gas. The engine roared triumphantly as if it were a beast that had been caged for far too long and had finally found its freedom. Tires screeched on the concrete flooring as the truck lurched forward and the grille crashed into the lower edge of the door. The door tore loose from its track, dragging the rubber-coated edge along the truck’s hood and up the windshield.
    When the truck cleared the garage and the door, the man came into view, feet wide, handgun pointed at the cab. His eyes drilled Peter with intensity but not hatred, not like the big man who had invaded his home and tried to kill him. Peter thought he saw a flash of surprise, too, just long enough to prevent the man from aiming and squeezing off a shot. The truck was upon him in a fraction of a second and he dove to the side.
    Peter lifted his foot off the gas pedal for an instant. His Jetta and a black Lincoln blocked any exit from the driveway.
    Amy looked out her side window, whimpered, and banged the dash as if she could push the truck forward simply by willing it to do so. “Ram ’em,” she hollered.
    Once again Peter hit the gas and the truck’s engine growled and pushed forward. But instead of striking the Jetta and shoving both it and the Lincoln into the street, he yanked the