I left him behind the island, then crept along the hall to support Macon. I passed the remains of the two attackers in the foyer, blood already pooling into the old rug. The smell was sweet and sick, the kind that made you want to scrub your skin off afterward.
Macon was posted up behind the door, AR steady and eyes unblinking. “They’re waiting you out,” he said. “Bet they think we’ll run out of ammo.”
I grinned. “They don’t know us very well.”
We watched, silent, as the next pair of attackers moved toward the house. One tried the window, the other circled for the back. I held my fire, waited for the angle. When the first guy broke cover, Macon put a round through his shoulder and I took the second man in the chest as he cleared the doorway.
It was over in four seconds.
Macon eyed me, deadpan. “Still got the touch, boss.”
“Always did,” I said.
He nodded, then risked a glance outside. “More coming. Vehicles this time.”
I checked the driveway, saw the headlights—at least two trucks, probably loaded. The math was bad, but I’d worked worse odds.
“Burke, can you hit the engines?” I called.
“Negative. Too much distance, too much cover. But I’ll slow ’em down.”
I heard the crack of his rifle, and one of the headlights winked out. A tire burst, the hiss audible even over the gunfire.
I turned back to Macon. “If they get through, it’s on us.”
He bared his teeth, a wolfish grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I moved back to Jojo, who’d torn a dish towel to make a makeshift sling for my pistol. He held it out, hands shaking. “In case you need it,” he said.
I took it, holstered it, then pressed my forehead to his. “You’re perfect,” I whispered, and felt him shudder, relief or terror or both.
The new wave hit harder. They fired from behind the trucks, aiming for the lower windows, trying to break our cover. Glass flew everywhere. Jojo huddled under the island, arms wrapped around his belly, and I braced over him, returning fire when I could.
It was chaos. Every second, a new angle, a new threat. But through it all, I felt the world collapse down to the small, shivering shape under my arms. Nothing else mattered.
I didn’t know how long it lasted. Time lost all meaning, measured only in spent shells and the hiss of the safety engaging and disengaging.
Finally, the shooting slowed. A pause. The attackers regrouped behind their vehicles, maybe thirty yards from the porch.
Burke’s voice: “Last clip. They’ll rush us.”
I checked mine—half a mag left, maybe ten rounds total.
“Macon, east window. Burke, stay upstairs. I’ll cover the main approach.”
I touched Jojo’s face, careful, tender. “If I yell run, you run. No arguments.”
He looked up, tears streaking the dust on his cheeks, but his voice was steady. “I love you, Rawley.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
The next minute was a blur. They came in a wave, four, maybe five, breaking for the porch, firing as they ran. I popped the first with a headshot, the second got clipped by Macon, but the last two made the deck and kicked in the front door.
They came through like animals. The first had a machete, the second a sidearm.
I met them at the threshold, caught the machete arm and twisted, breaking the wrist. The man screamed, dropped the blade, and I slammed the butt of the AR into his face, dropping him. The other fired, missed, and then Macon tackled him from behind, both of them going down in a heap.
I finished the first guy, then turned to see Macon already choking out the second, bare hands on his throat, face calm as Sunday morning.
