MARY STRENG HEARS the chain saw in the garage. She sticks her head out of the bathroom, around the refrigerator, and sees it cutting through the door.

She knows the chain saw is electric. Knows they need to trip the circuit breaker.

Mary also knows that the circuit breaker is behind a small childproof door. When you have rheumatoid arthritis, childproof is synonymous with adultproof.

She looks at Herb, sprawled out on the bathroom floor, clutching his leg in a codeine/pain fever dream.

Then she looks at Latham, who doesn’t appear much better. His eyelids are halfway closed, and he’s white as milk.

Neither one of them can make it to the fuse box.

A woman screams, “Mom! Cut off the electricity!”

But the woman isn’t Jacqueline. Mary looks in the hall again.

“Mom!”

It’s Harry. Apparently his voice goes up a few octaves when he’s terrified.

Mary tries to think of an answer, comes up blank, and hurries down the hallway, into the laundry room. She hooks a finger into the cruel metal ring on the circuit breaker door. That simple act alone brings agony. Even with the codeine, and the vodka, Mary’s hands have never hurt so badly.

And it’s about to get worse.

Mary sets her jaw and tugs, fast and hard.

It’s like sticking her hand in a furnace.

The door doesn’t budge.

She eases up, tries to change fingers. Her hand is shaking so much she can’t get ahold of the handle. Mary switches to lefty.

“Mom! I’m too pretty to die!”

Harry again. That guy certainly is a complainer. Must be Ralph the sailor’s genes.

She hooks her left index finger in the ring, closes her eyes, and jerks her whole arm back.

The pain takes away her breath. But the door swings open.

Mary releases the handle, reaching for the breaker, but the spring engages and slaps the door closed.

“SHE’S ALMOST THROUGH!”

Now both of Mary’s hands are trembling. She tries her right hand, then her left hand, and can’t grip the damnable metal ring. Despair mingles with anguish, and Mary curses herself for being a worthless old woman, of no use to anyone, not even able to-

On the dryer, atop a stack of sweaters, is a coat hanger.

She snatches it up, puts the hook through the metal ring, and pulls like hell.

The door swings open.

Mary reaches inside the panel and jabs at the main breaker switch, plunging the house into darkness and silence.

AGAIN WITH THE GODDAMN LIGHTS. Munchel sighs, wondering why the military doesn’t make a scope that works in the daylight and the nighttime. Then soldiers wouldn’t have to switch scopes every three goddamn minutes.

He sits up, rubs his eyes, and sees Pessolano in the truck up the street.

It’s about damn time.

Munchel stands, stretches, and begins to walk across the grass toward him. The wind is still strong, and has dropped a dozen degrees, hinting at the harsh winter doubtlessly drawing near. Once he spreads the word to the soldier-for-hire underground that he was part of the Chicago pervert murders, he expects his ser vices to be in great demand, fetching premium dollars. Munchel decides that his next merc gig will be someplace warm, like Bosnia. Or Atlanta.

Munchel pauses, briefly, at the corpse of Swanson, and grins at him.

“You gonna eat that, Greg? No?”

He reaches down and plucks the granola bar from Swanson’s cold, dead fingers, and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.

Cinnamon raisin. Munchel’s favorite.

“You want some, buddy?”

He breaks off a corner, bounces it off Swanson’s face.

Predictably, Swanson doesn’t protest. Though Munchel wouldn’t be surprised if the former TUHC leader did suddenly sit up and start bitching, complaining that his piece isn’t big enough, or that they should just leave the cop alone and run to Mexico, or some other bullshit.

Munchel continues onward, and finds Pessolano poking around in the back of his Bronco.

“You got any fleece in there, man? It’s colder than a penguin’s nuts out here.”

Pessolano pulls a small stack of clothing from the cargo bay.

“That don’t look too warm.”

“It’s Dragon Skin. Tactical body armor. Stronger than Kevlar.”

Pessolano takes Munchel’s TPG-1, trading it for a vest. Munchel rubs the fabric between his fingers.

“It’s thin.”

“But it can still stop an AK-47. Maybe… if Swanson had one on…”

Pessolano stows the rifle. He looks like he’s going to start bawling again, and Munchel doesn’t think he can stomach another display.

“He’s in a better place,” Munchel says, popping the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “Where are the Desert Eagles?”

Pessolano reaches into the truck again, comes out with an aluminum suitcase with combination locks on the buckles. Munchel waits, becoming progressively annoyed as Pessolano keeps screwing up the numbers. The dummy finally gets the case open, revealing two huge nickel-plated handguns, nestling in individual foam compartments.

Munchel whistles, reaching for a gun. The damn thing has to weigh more than five pounds. You could kill a person just by hitting him over the head with it.

“This is the Desert Eagle Mark XIX,” Pessolano says. “It uses fifty-caliber Action Express rounds – the biggest handgun bullets on the market. Same length as a.44 Magnum, but wider. It has almost eight times the stopping power of a nine millimeter. What it hits, it kills.”

“Can it go through the Dragon Skin?”

“I wouldn’t want to try it to find out.”

“How many rounds does it hold?”

“Seven. And they’re really expensive, so don’t waste them.”

Munchel spins, aims at the house, and squeezes the trigger. The BOOM is so loud it feels like someone slapped him in the ears, and the recoil jerks his arm back.

Awesome.

“I said they’re expensive!” Pessolano screams.

Munchel grins at him. “Shit, man. I’ll write you a check.”

He helps himself to the box of bullets, popping the clip and adding two more. Seven plus one in the throat. Pessolano says something, but Munchel can’t hear him through the ringing in his head.

“Huh?”

“How do you want to do this?” Pessolano yells.

Munchel considers it. Everyone is holed up in the hallway, behind the refrigerator, except for that crazy bitch with the chain saw in the garage.

“We bust in the front door,” he says. “I’ll take the house. You take the garage.”

Pessolano nods, then he spends a minute untangling his bulletproof vest, trying to get it on. He’s like a child, unable to find the armhole. This convinces Munchel that Pessolano is lying about his military experience. Munchel doesn’t have a problem with lying. He lies to his mama, about when he’s going to visit her next. He lies to his foreman at the English muffin factory, about being sick when he’s actually just hungover. He even lies to hookers, telling them he works for the CIA. But Pessolano’s lies are dangerous. Munchel is supposed to trust this guy with his life, have full confidence that Pessolano has his back.

How good can he watch Munchel’s back when he can’t even put on a simple vest?

Munchel decides he isn’t going to work with Pessolano again. True, the man has some cool weapons and equipment, but someone of Munchel’s professional stature shouldn’t associate with amateurs.

Munchel straps on the Dragon Skin, finishing before Pessolano does. He spreads his hands, to show Pessolano how easy it really is, and then hears a gunshot come from the trees behind him. At practically the same time, he feels a slap in the back.

He drops to the ground, crawling to the other side of the truck, adrenaline raging. Pessolano scurries beside him.