Dead Bang by Robert Bailey

the weapon plowed into the man’s jaw, and he crumpled into a pile. I kept the rifle.
    Loud, anguished yelling came from the front of the house. Then silence, followed by a burst of rifle fire that atomized the kitchen window. I could hear china and glassware explode in the cupboards. Windows at the back of the house shattered.
    The color drained from Karen’s face and she said, “That son of a bitch! That was my mom’s stuff!”
    I snatched a peek out the door. A man with a full beard, one continuous eyebrow, and an assault rifle inched his way up the side of the house with his back to the siding. I pushed the stunned gunman clear of the opening with my foot and shouldered the door closed. Wendy wedged the chair under the door handle.
    â€œBedroom,” I said. I looked up the hall and saw a man’s arm and shoulder in a long-sleeved white shirt wedged through the front door. I put my backside against the sofa and shoved with my legs. The door crackled. The man screamed, and I let up until he struggled free of the door. I pushed the door closed with the sofa and followed Karen and Wendy into the bedroom.
    The carpet squished underfoot as Karen’s waterbed emptied itself onto the floor. Her window, now reduced to a few dangling shards, looked out onto the backyard. I pushed up on the sash but it didn’t move.
    â€œLocked,” said Karen. She reached under the shade and released the lock. “The screen is painted shut.”
    I threw up the sash and rammed out the screen with the butt of the rifle. The yard stretched back a hundred feet and opened into the yard behind without a fence. I took Karen’s makeup mirror off the dresser, stuck it out the window, and found no one peeping around the corners.
    â€œI’m going halfway down the yard so I can cover both sides of the house,” I said to Wendy. “I’ll wave if it’s clear.”
    I handed Wendy the rifle and climbed out the window. Karen’s house had been built on a slab without a basement, so it was only about four feet to the ground. Wendy handed out the rifle. I hustled backwards until I had a good angle on both sides of the house. The woody stubble of last year’s weeds—lawn maintenance was blessedly low on Karen’s priority list—provided some concealment as I took a prone position with the rifle. The sides of the house remained clear of gunmen. I beckoned with my hand and mouthed, “Ladies, if you please.”
    Wendy slid out feet first with her pistol in her hand and ran to lie beside me. A staccato burst of rifle fire broke out from the front of the house. Karen did not come out the window. We waited. Nothing. Then a second burst of rifle fire.
    â€œI have to go back in,” I said.
    â€œI told her to come out first,” said Wendy. “She said she’d be right behind me.”
    â€œI don’t see her,” I said. I heard the first police siren in the distance.
    â€œMaybe she decided to wait for the police.”
    â€œI don’t think she’ll last that long,” I said.
    â€œOh, honey,” said Wendy. “I don’t know.”
    â€œIn the yard behind us there’s a boat on a trailer. I’ll cover here until you get back there. You’ll have to cover us when I get Karen out of the house.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” said Wendy.
    I gave Wendy the rifle and took her pistol. “That’s the safety,” I said. “Hose ‘em like a dry garden, doll. Whistle when you’re ready.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” said Wendy.
    â€œMaybe she’ll come out while you’re on your way to the boat,” I said.
    Wendy climbed to her feet, and I heard fast footfalls race toward the back of the yard, but Karen didn’t come to the window. I heard Wendy whistle like she was calling the boys in from the lake for lunch—two fingers in the mouth. Her dad taught her how. I pushed up and ran