THE CAB SPITS PHINEAS TROUTT out in front of a house that isn’t Jack’s. According to the taxi driver and his electronic address finder, hers is the next one down the road. Phin prefers to walk the rest of the way. On the phone, Jack sounded scattered. If something is going down, Phin prefers to sneak up on it rather than announce his presence by getting out of a car at her doorstep.

It’s cool, dark, quiet. Jack lives in a woodsy area, practically a forest preserve. Phin walks alongside the winding road, not thinking about why Jack called him. There’s no point in speculation. Especially since he’ll know the reason soon enough.

A pop! pierces the calm of the night.

Gunfire. Far away.

Phin reaches behind him, retrieving the revolver he has shoved into the back of his belt. The gun is a.38, a scratch-and-dent that has probably been involved in crimes dating back to the 1960s. It was all Phin could get on such short notice. He picked it up an hour ago, off a gangbanger selling Thai stick to Wrigleyville yuppies in an alley off of Addison. Phin relieved the dealer of his gun, his stash, and eight to ten teeth.

He squints at the revolver in the moonlight, swings out the cylinder, counts six rounds. The gun is old but looks clean, cared for. Phin hopes it can fire. He breaks into a jog, holding the weapon at his side, finger off the trigger.

Another gunshot. Closer than before, but still a good distance away. Then another. Phin stops, scans the trees around him. Sees nothing. He moves to the tree line, alert, cautious.

Jack has privacy out here, that’s for sure. He walks another hundred yards before he sees her house in the distance. A few interior lights are on. Four cars are parked in the driveway. As he gets closer, he sees that two of the cars have been shot up; windows broken, wheels popped.

Now Phin does lapse into speculation. Jack’s a cop. Phin is not. If she has people shooting at her, why didn’t she call other cops?

Phin can think of two reasons.

One, because the people shooting at her are cops.

Two, because someone Jack is with wants Phin specifically.

Phin hasn’t been a criminal for very long, but he’s managed to pack a lot of crime into just a few years. He’s made enemies. It isn’t inconceivable that one of them is using Jack to get to him. Though they don’t see much of each other, Phin considers Jack a friend. It’s a strange friendship, centering around occasional games of pool, but there’s mutual respect. And strangely, considering their opposing vocations, there’s also a sense of trust. Someone may have picked up on that. Someone bad.

Another shot. Phin sees a muzzle flash, maybe two hundred yards away, in the woods across the street from Jack’s house. He heads for it.

A vehicle, coming up the road behind him. Phin hears it before the headlights come around the bend. He ducks into the trees, watches it pass. A truck, a Bronco or a Blazer. Single driver, tearing ass toward Jack’s house. It stops in the street. Phin can’t see what’s happening – he’s still too far away.

He cocks the.38 and creeps closer, moving slow and silent.

I’M RIGHT ABOUT JACK being lucky. She might very well be the luckiest bitch on the planet.

I yawn. It’s not from boredom. I can’t remember many days in my life that have been more exciting than this one. But fatigue is setting in. I’m tired. Sore. Part of me is tempted to get the hell out of here, find a nice bed-and-breakfast someplace quiet, murder the owners and spend a few days just relaxing.

But I’m not going to leave without killing Jack and Company. Plus there’s still the matter of the gun nuts surrounding the house who can’t aim for shit but still have managed to complicate things. I counted three. They’re using bolt action rifles with suppressors, and a variety of ammunition and scopes. Not pros. Anyone with military experience could have wiped out everyone in the house a long time ago. Hunters, maybe. Or wannabe soldiers.

Whoever they are, they seem angry at Jack, and I don’t expect they’ll give up any time soon. I’ll have to deal with them eventually, but first things first.

I pick up the gun Harry dropped and I’m not surprised to find it empty. I toss it onto the workbench.

Then I check the door to the house. Locked. It’s one of those security doors, a solid wood center sandwiched between metal plates, steel or aluminum. The jamb and frame are heavy-duty as well. I can’t kick it in, because the hinges are on this side.

I spy the automatic garage door opener next to the door. I could open it, run outside, and find another way into the house. But then I’d be opening myself up for target practice.

I glance at the door to the house again. Maybe there’s a key for the dead bolt in the garage somewhere. I check the workbench and see something even better than a key.

I walk over to it, feeling a warmth well up inside me, the same warmth I always feel when I have a chance to kill someone in an exciting new way.

It’s not gas powered, unfortunately. It’s electric. But Jack has thoughtfully provided me with a fifty-foot extension cord, easily long enough to reach the hallway bathroom where everyone is hiding.

I pick it up. It feels natural in my hands, like something I was born to hold. I smile.

Then I search around for an outlet, so I can plug in my new chain saw.

A BEE IS IN THE CAR with me. A giant bee, the size of an egg. It buzzes around my head, and I try to get out of the car but the doors are broken. I’m terrified of bees, because I’m allergic to them. So when it lands on my shoulder I can’t swat it because I don’t want to get stung, and it stares at me with malevolent eyes, knowing I’m helpless, knowing it can kill me whenever it wants to.

The car crashes into a tree and begins to roll down the side of a hill. I open my eyes, panicked and dizzy and hurting all over.

I’m not in a car. I’m on the floor, and Harry is shaking me.

But I can still hear the bee buzzing.

“Wake up, Jackie! We’re in some shit.”

I look over my shoulder, see a chain saw sticking through the door to the garage. The buzzing blade is gradually cutting away the door-knob and dead bolt.

I try to stand up, and Harry drags me back down. There’s a ping and the refrigerator door in front of us vibrates from a bullet impact.

“We’re pinned down,” Harry says. “Can you move?”

I nod, and that simple movement causes everything to go black again. More shaking from Harry.

“Dammit, Jackie! Stay awake!”

“Breaker,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Circuit… breaker.”

“Mom!” Harry screams. “Cut off the electricity!”

I glance back at the door. The chain saw is really throwing off some sparks. It’s almost pretty, like fireworks.

I close my eyes and think about the Fourth of July.