I see terror on Jack’s face. She says, “I think my work followed me home.”

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Swanson barks into the radio. Some moron, probably Munchel, started shooting before he gave the signal. Swanson isn’t in place yet. Munchel’s rounds could cut through the whole house and come out on his end. Getting shot isn’t on Swanson’s list of things to do before he dies. Especially getting shot by friendly fire.

They’d tracked the GPS Munchel put on the cop’s bumper to this secluded house in Bensenville. The setup is good. Lots of trees, no neighbors, nice and dark. The plan is to form a triangle around the house, keep an eye on doors and windows, and wait until the cop shows her face. But everyone needs to get into position first.

Munchel’s voice comes through the radio. “Just zeroing out my scope.”

“Can’t you do that without shooting?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t as much fun.”

The radios, like the rifles, the scopes, the suppressors, the GPS, the portable cell phone jammer, and various other bits of military and spy gear belong to Pessolano. Pessolano also crept up to the house earlier and cut the phone line and cable connection, so the cop can’t call for help using the Internet.

So far, so good, but Swanson is still nervous as hell. The targets they’d eliminated a few hours ago had been easy, Munchel’s rampage aside. But that had been the result of weeks of training, planning, and surveillance. Even with Pessolano’s equipment and experience, this all seems slapped together at the last minute.

If given the choice, Swanson would have fled. But he fears that running might project a certain lack of trust, and then his handpicked teammates would feel the need to eliminate him as well.

So here he is, crouching behind a tree two hundred yards away from a woman cop’s house, ready to kill for the second time this night. Just to save his own ass.

The lights in the house are on, and he has a view into the living room from a forty-five-degree angle. Besides the large bay window in front, there are ten other windows around the house, and none have drapes or shades or blinds. There’s also a front door, a side door by the garage, and glass patio doors around back, which lead into the kitchen.

Swanson focuses the Leupold scope and squints through it, searching the living room.

It appears empty. Then he notices a foot protruding from behind a couch. That dumb-ass Munchel – his shot made the cop take cover. Swanson fumbles for the radio.

“Is everyone in position?” he asks. There’s no answer. He realizes he’s pressing the wrong button, finds the correct one, and asks the question again.

“Affirmative,” says Pessolano.

“Yeah,” says Munchel. “I see where two of them are hiding.”

Two of them?

“The cop is with someone?” Swanson asks.

“She’s with four other people.”

Five people? This keeps getting worse and worse. While the authorities did a piss-poor job keeping his wife’s attacker behind bars, they still caught him in the first place. They’re the good guys. Swanson wants to be one of the good guys too. He doesn’t see how killing cops and their families can be considered good.

Swanson hits the talk button and says, “Who is with her?”

“One of them is a chick with a gun. Another is a grandmother. And two men. One is sitting next to the refrigerator, the other is tied up.”

“Why is he tied up?”

“Don’t you ever tie up your old lady, Swanson?”

Swanson does a slow burn. He’s told Munchel what happened to Jen. Munchel is either so ignorant that he forgot, or he is throwing it in Swanson’s face.

Swanson lets it go. The sooner they get out of here, the better. He presses the talk button.

“We’re just going for the woman cop. The others are innocents.”

“Bullshit they are,” Munchel says. “I’m shooting anything that moves. I’m not leaving witnesses alive to come after me.”

“This is my team!” Swanson shouts into the radio. “I say we leave the civilians out of this!”

“You may have put this team together, but this here is a democracy. I say we vote on it. What do you think, Pessolano?”

There’s a pause. Then Pessolano says, “We kill them all.”

Swanson wonders how far he’ll get if he climbs into the car and just takes off. Will he make it to Mexico? Will these jokers track him down? Over the previous weeks, meeting and planning and training, Munchel and Pessolano had become his friends. But now they seemed like entirely different people. Crazy people.

“Fine,” Swanson says. He doesn’t have a choice. “We go on my mark. Get ready.”

Swanson squints through the scope, guesses where the head is in relation to the shoe he sees. The suppressor screwed into the barrel makes the rifle almost a foot longer, and more than a little unbalanced. Pessolano lectured them during the car ride over, saying that the suppressor won’t silence all of the noise. Silencers are fictional, because nothing can completely muffle a gunshot. The suppressors will also throw off the aim and reduce the bullet’s speed.

Earlier to night, they wanted the gunshots to be heard. They wanted the media attention. Now, working as quietly as possible is the way to go, because they have no idea how long this is going to take.

“One…” Swanson says, “two…”

Someone fires before he reaches three. That asshole Munchel. Then Pessolano is firing too. Swanson takes aim and squeezes the trigger.

The shot is off. Way off. And it’s still pretty loud, even with the suppressor. He loads another round, searches for a target, and can’t find any. He seeks out the radio.

“We get them?”

“Negative,” says Pessolano.

But Munchel hoots, so loud he can be heard without the radio.

“I think I nailed me a grandmother!”

“WHEN ARE WE GOING to go shopping for drapes?”

Mom has been asking me that since we moved in. But whenever free time came along we used it to see a movie, go out to dinner, or catch up on the TV shows we recorded. I always assumed that Mom didn’t push the issue because she liked seeing woods on all sides of her.

Now I wish she had pushed the issue.

After the first two shots rip through the house, I tip Mom’s chair over, intent on dragging her into the hallway. While our house has a lot of windows, the hall bathroom boasts the smallest one, and the glass is frosted for privacy.

“Save Latham first,” Mom says.

I look at my fiancé, see he’s taken cover behind the sofa. The large bay window offers a wide view of the entire living room. I can’t get to him without making myself an easy target.

“He’s in the line of fire,” I tell her. Then I grab her chair leg and pull.

The chair doesn’t come easy. It keeps catching on the carpeting, and my movements are restricted by my bindings. But I find a rhythm and inch by inch I drag Mom out of the living room.

Halfway to the hall, all hell breaks loose. Bullets tear through the couch Latham is hiding behind. Windows shatter. Walls shake, the plasterboard throwing off powder like smoke. I cover Mom’s body with my own, realize that makes us a bigger target, and get on my knees and pull for all I’m worth.

I feel the impact vibration in my hands, know that Mom has been hit, and a moan/growl leaves my throat. Shots whistle past my head, and I tug Mom all the way into that bathroom, afraid to look at her, afraid not to look at her.

“Mom! Are you hit?”

Her eyes are closed. I can’t tell if she’s breathing.