The Bleeding Edge by William W. Johnstone

asked, “You want me to kick the door down, Nacho?”
    â€œNo, the crazy old hombre might really have a gun. No point in any of us taking a chance on getting hurt.” The one called Nacho paused, evidently to think over the situation. “Go around back and bust in that way, Chuckie. They won’t be expecting you.”
    â€œThen what?”
    â€œThen we take Antonio with us and teach him he can’t run out on us, the—” Nacho added some vile curses in Spanish.
    With the heavy footsteps of a big, clumsy man, Chuckie came down the steps from the Gomez porch and started around the mobile home. Stark drew back deeper in the shrubs, completely hidden in the thick shadows. Chuckie rounded the corner and started toward him.
    Stark let the big man move past him. Then Stark stepped out, lifted the shotgun, and drove the butt stock against the back of Chuckie’s head. He hoped Chuckie had a thick skull. Whether he did or not, the son of a gun was just too big to take any chances with.
    The thud was loud enough to be heard out front, but the one called Nacho was talking again, probably to distract Fred and whoever else was inside from Chuckie’s attempt to break in. That effort was going to backfire, because Chuckie had fallen to his knees and now pitched forward onto his face without making a sound.
    Stark rested the shotgun barrel against the back of Chuckie’s neck and reached down with his other hand to search for a pulse. He found one. Chuckie was out cold but still alive.
    Stark straightened and glided to the corner of the mobile home. On the porch, Nacho called, “We’re gettin’ tired of waiting, old man. Open up and send Antonio out here now. Nobody gets hurt.”
    Stark stepped out into the open, brought the shotgun to his shoulder, and leveled it at the intruders.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. “Nobody gets hurt as long as you leave now.”
    The third man, the one who hadn’t said anything so far, turned toward Stark and his hand started toward his waist. He stopped short when he saw the shotgun pointing at them.
    â€œJalisco!” Nacho said.
    â€œNot good,” the one called Jalisco said. “He’s too close. He can blow us both apart with one shot.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Stark said. “I won’t lose any sleep over doing it, either.”
    â€œWhere’s my brother?” Nacho demanded.
    â€œChuckie? He’s sleeping. You’ll need to come get him and haul him back to your car.” Stark’s voice hardened. “Then you need to haul ass out of here while you still can.”
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re doin’, viejo ,” Nacho said softly. “You don’t know what you’re gettin’ in here.”
    â€œMaybe not, but I do know exactly how much pressure it takes on the trigger of this gun to make it go off . . . and it’s not far from it.” Without lowering the shotgun, Stark moved to the side, closer to the street. “Come get your friend. Now.”
    Enough light spilled over the yard from the headlights for Stark to see that Nacho was seething with rage at being defied this way. Jalisco was colder, more calculating, and therefore probably more dangerous, Stark thought. He watched both of them very closely.
    Finally, Nacho said, “We’ll go. But we’ll be back.”
    â€œDon’t bother,” Stark told him. “There’s nothing here for you.”
    â€œThat’s where you’re wrong, old man.” Nacho jerked his head at his companion. “Let’s get Chuckie.” He blustered at Stark, “He better be all right. He’s my brother.”
    The two of them came down the steps. Stark tracked them with the shotgun’s barrel as they went to the side of the mobile home, bent down to take hold of Chuckie’s legs, and then dragged him across the yard to the car parked at the curb. With grunts of