She turned. Carl was behind her, wrestling the refrigerator away from the wall. He must have been supercharged with adrenaline because he got his arms around it, lifted—
The man with the shotgun raced to the edge of the kitchen. She saw the weapon—the AA-12—
—drum-fed, are you fucking kidding me?—
He raised it—
Carl spun and got the refrigerator facing the other way. A staccato series of shots rang out—BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!—and the refrigerator was jolted by repeated impacts. Carl dropped it. It landed with a thud and he dove to the side. Several slugs made it through, slamming into the wall behind them.
Livia gripped his shoulder and leaned close. “Distract him,” she whispered fiercely. Before he could respond, she raced out to the living room. She stopped at the edge of the hallway, her heart hammering.
Come on, come on . . .
She heard a series of pistol shots from the dining room. And an answering series of reverberating cannon shots from the AA-12. She stepped around the corner, saw him, put the sights on center mass—
He must have picked her up in his peripheral vision. He started to turn, the AA-12 spinning around—
She pressed the trigger, hitting him. He flinched and jerked. She kept shooting, walking the shots in, firing continuously, putting six rounds into his body and a final one in his head. He fell face-forward, hitting the carpet with a meaty thud, the shotgun landing next to him.
Carl ran up behind her, the Wilson at chin level. They backed up against each other so they had 360-degree coverage, Livia facing the kitchen, Carl facing the stairs.
“You okay?” Livia said.
“Yeah, took the round in the vest. But you might need to minister to my bruises later.”
“Schrader. He could be in the garage, but I’m guessing the rec room.”
“One thing at a time,” he said. Then he bellowed, “Larison! You still with us?”
Two shots rang out in response, followed by two louder ones in return.
“Damn it,” he said, “he must be pinned down.”
“Yeah, by another shotgun.”
“Sounds like it. Cover me. Always wanted to play with one of those drum-fed AA-12s. Saw the videos on YouTube.”
He went to the guy Livia had dropped, picked up the shotgun, checked the magazine, and ran to the bottom of the stairs. Livia went to the other side. She pointed the Glock at the top and nodded.
He took the stairs three at a time. Livia had been expecting him to move quietly, but apparently he was more interested in speed. She checked behind, then raced up after him. He reached the top and three shots rang out. Instantly he was proned out on the stairs. She crouched down alongside him, covering the top landing with the Glock. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes.
“Larison!” Carl bellowed. “We’re right here, with some heavy artillery we picked up. Can you fall back and get out of the way?”
“What the hell are you doing?” Livia whispered. They had the guy pinned down from both sides. Why tell him which side the attack was going to come from?
“Give me a three count,” Larison yelled back.
“One,” Carl yelled. “Two. Three!”
Three pistol shots rang out from ahead of them. Carl jumped up, shouldered the AA-12, and let loose a thunderclap of continuous fire. Livia ran past him to the edge of the landing and aimed the Glock, but it was too late—Larison was standing in the doorway at the end of the hall, and the shooter was on the ground, half in and half out of a doorway, his face and torso shredded, a shotgun lying next to him. Livia swept the muzzle of the Glock from side to side, searching for movement, but there was nothing, only gun smoke.