Deadlock

by Robert Liparulo

  Hutch put his lips on Jim’s ear and hushed him. He whispered, “Lie down in the tub. Quietly.”

  The man outside continued striking at the window, giving Hutch the chance to crunch over broken pieces on the floor and position himself almost under the window, next to the toilet.

  A pistol entered first. The hand holding it bent at the wrist until the gun pointed toward the shower. It fired. Tile exploded. The pistol shot the floor at Hutch’s feet. Flying tile stung his face. Another round downward, puncturing and cracking the toilet seat. Two more shots: one straight into the wall opposite the window, the other into the countertop beside the sink. The arm and pistol disappeared. Five rounds. The weapon was clearly a semiautomatic, which meant it held between seven and fourteen—something like that, if Hutch remembered correctly; he’d never been much of a gun person. Regardless, the man had more than enough bullets left to finish the job.

  A silhouette appeared in the window opening. The pistol slid through, followed by the sleek crown of a helmet.

  Hutch lifted the lid off the toilet tank and swung it into the helmet. Something cracked. The pistol clattered to the counter, then to the floor. When he brought the lid back for another strike, the opening was empty. He popped his head over the sill, lowered it. A shadow darker than its surroundings and approximating the shape of a man extended out from the building on the ground. Hutch pushed the lid through the window and heaved it toward the shadow. It landed on what was most likely the man’s crotch and stomach. The shadow didn’t move.

  “Okay,” Hutch whispered to Jim. “Let’s go before those guys out front storm in.” He found the pistol and pushed it into his waistband. In the main room, light and shadow played over the window and under the front door. He closed the bathroom door and locked it. That’ll hold them for an extra nanosecond, he thought.

  Jim hoisted himself onto the sill. He got his foot on the tank and tumbled out.

  Hutch followed. He crawled to the downed man. A jagged fissure almost split the helmet in half, vertically. Even the face mask was busted. Hutch gripped his neck. He found the carotid artery, but felt no pulse. He must have hit him harder than he thought. Okay, he had put all of his strength into clobbering the guy, but he’d had no intention of killing him.

  Sure, keep telling yourself that, he thought.

  He patted the body down. The soldier was wearing body armor, probably the Kevlar Interceptor. Last year, Hutch had written a column about a teenager who’d held a fund-raiser to buy Interceptors for her brother’s unit in Iraq. A utility belt was mostly empty, but he did find two extra magazines for the pistol. By their heft, he guessed they were fully loaded. Hutch had worn one several years ago while doing research for a story about the Denver SWAT team.

  From the bedroom came the thunk-thunk-thunk of three-round bursts striking one wall or another. Glass shattered and a pop!—the TV tube. That reminded him of the monitor. He should have taken it. A loud crash, then another one, less jarring: had to be the front door being kicked open, slamming against the wall.

  He pulled Jim close. “Go straight out into the woods. Make some noise, but don’t get shot. If you can, keep going. Get to a store or something. Don’t trust vehicles on the road, unless it’s a marked cruiser.”

  “Uh . . .” Jim squinted at the trees. “Shouldn’t we stay close to the building, walk to the end?”

  “No, I need you to draw their fire. Go into the woods.”

  “Draw their fire? Are you crazy?”

  “You have to go, now!”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “No! Go, man!” Hutch grabbed Jim’s arm. “No matter what happens, you get your son out of that place! Go!” He pushed him away.

  Jim stumbled. He rose, tottered forward, looked back.

  “Go!” Hutch said.

  Thunk-thunk-thunk. Glass shattered in the bathroom. Hutch thought they had shot through the door and struck the mirror.

  Jim glared at the window. His jaw dropped opened. He lurched toward the woods, then plowed into the underbrush.

  Hutch edged back to the wall and positioned himself directly under the bathroom window. He crouched down. He pulled the pistol out of his waistband and pointed it straight up at the window.

  Inside, the bathroom door slammed open.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Laura willed herself not to pass out, and she was surprised to feel a slight energy surge. It was similar to waking yourself up before drifting off. Power of the will. She understood that her renewed consciousness would be short-lived. The man behind her was crushing her windpipe. Her lungs and, consequently, brain had already trudged on far too long without oxygen.

  She jerked around to see Dillon. She had to tell him to leave—she didn’t want him to see her die, but more, she needed to know that he was running, getting away from these men.

  There he was, at the end of the hallway. His eyes were wide, his cheeks wet with tears.

  “Mooooom!” he wailed. “Move!”

  She saw it: Hutch’s bow in his hand, arrowed nocked and ready to fly. She could not tell if he had pulled back yet, but she doubted it.

  Hutch had taught him about recurve bows. Their draw weight—the power needed to pull back on the bow—was way too heavy to hold at full draw for more than a few seconds.

  She did her best to nod at the boy: Shoot. Don’t worry about me. Shoot.

  He returned the gesture. His eyes narrowed.

  Laura raised her foot, planted it against the hallway wall, and shoved. She turned, and her face hit a picture frame on the opposite wall. Glass under her cheek broke.

  But the man—trying to remain perfectly behind her, where he had the best leverage on her neck and the most protection from her flailing—had turned with her. His side was directly exposed to Dillon’s arrow.

  Laura saw her son’s facial muscles tighten. He rocked back, his arms moved, and the arrow sailed.

  The man holding her howled in pain. He released her, and she slumped to the floor. She pulled for a breath, but it didn’t come. The man had pinched her throat too tightly for too long. She was going to strangle now without the pressure of his arm.

  Please, Lord, not in front of my son. Please.

  She pressed her forehead into the wall and closed her eyes. She touched her fingers to her neck, feeling a shooting pain, then an aching throb. Closing her eyes against the agony, she squeezed her neck. She hoped to move something in there, which would let air pass. She didn’t know anything about anatomy at that level, but she thought if it was pinched she had a chance; if it was swollen . . . well, she would miss those blood-red Canadian dawns, and, oh, she would miss everything about Dillon.

  “Mom!”

  Yeah, that: his sweet voice, the way he didn’t just talk at her, but to her. She felt his hand on her cheek. She’d miss that too, his touch.

  “Mom!”

  She felt his hands on both sides of her head. He forced her to turn away from the wall. Hot wires shot from her neck into her skull, shoulders, down her spine. She cried out. It was hoarse and gravelly, and she realized she could breathe. She gulped in air. Her lungs ached, as if protesting their having to get back to work. She could almost feel oxygen moving through her body again.

  Her eyes opened to Dillon’s face. Inches from her own. She had to smile, despite it all.

  “Dillon,” she rasped. The word came out with broken glass—that’s how it felt to her throat.

  He tugged on her. “We have to go! Come on!”

  She pushed herself onto her knees. Just let me get a breath here, she thought, just a breath. But Dillon was pulling, demanding she get moving. He tucked himself under her arm to help her walk.

  Reaching across his back, she found the bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “Way to go, Dillon,” she said. Her voice was quiet and not her own. She wasn’t sure he’d heard. She gave him a squeeze, trying to put everything she thought about him into it.

  She heard a moan and gurgling. She looked back to se
e the soldier on the floor. An arrow protruded from his neck, just below the lip of his helmet. Blood was everywhere: soaking his uniform, splattered on the walls, forming a growing pool under him. His helmet turned one way and then the other, slowly. He raised his hand a few inches, then it flopped down on his chest.

  She moved her hand to block Dillon’s view. “No,” she said.

  “I was— I didn’t—” He sounded on the brink of sobs.

  “That’s okay, honey. You did what you had to do.” She disengaged herself from him, and said, “Get Macie. Go into Hutch’s room.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Footsteps came from the kitchen. “Go,” she whispered.

  She knelt beside the arrowed soldier. His knife lay next to his head, half in the pool of blood. She didn’t want that. His rifle or machine gun or whatever it was had shifted on its strap and was now pinned under an arm. The arrow, pointing almost directly at the ceiling, wavered slightly, like a fading metronome. Moved by his breathing or his pulse, either way it didn’t look good for him.

  She reached across his body and unclipped the strap from an eyelet in the butt of the gun. Leaning farther, her knee came down on his chest. Air and blood bubbled out of the hole in his neck. She unclipped the strap below the barrel and yanked the gun from under his arm.

  She looked up. A soldier was standing in the arch between the living room and entry hall, aiming his weapon at her.

  Maybe it was gonna happen tonight one way or another, she thought. Her time.

  She fumbled with the rifle. There was no way she could get it into position before he fired. But she did. She pushed the stock into her shoulder and raised the barrel. The soldier continued to aim at her. Why didn’t he shoot? She realized her knee was still planted on the chest of the fallen soldier. She wondered if the image had shocked the man into not firing. No, it had to be something else. What she knew about soldiers told her that the sight of his fallen comrade should have driven him into a killing frenzy, not passivity.

  She thought about yelling something—Back off! or Drop it!—but was afraid to speak, to move. She was afraid any movement would nudge the man back into soldier mode, and he would fire. She couldn’t just stay like that, however; other soldiers could show up. Even now they could be breaking into the room where Dillon and Macie waited for her. The thought fueled her action.

  She stood and took a step back. The blood under her Timberlands had already grown tacky. They made a sickening noise as they pulled away. She backed away, keeping her aim on the soldier.

  One of his hands came off his rifle. He held his palm up to her. Stop. When she didn’t, a staticky pop emanated from his helmet, then: “Wait.”

  She moved faster, glancing back. She was at the master bedroom door when the soldier rushed forward. She sidestepped into the room.

  The soldier’s tinny electronic voice reached her ahead of the slamming door: “Wait!”

  “Bring me that chair,” she told Dillon, pointing. He helped her wedge it under the door handle.

  “Where’s Logan?” Macie cried.

  Laura said, “We’ll find him, honey. Don’t worry.”

  The little girl didn’t buy that for a second, and Laura’s stomach flopped over on itself. She didn’t buy it either.

  The door handle clattered. A solid bang rattled the door.

  Dillon reached over his shoulder for an arrow.

  Laura grabbed his arm. She said, “No. Dillon, you need to get Macie out of here. Go through the patio door and straight across the backyard. Get help, now.”

  The door cracked under the force of the soldier on the other side.

  Dillon grabbed the arrow. Laura seized his chin.

  “Dillon, I said no. I’ve got this.” She lifted the gun.

  Dillon nodded. He snatched the soft bow bag off the bed and ran to Macie. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the French door.

  The girl resisted. “I want Logan,” she said. “I’m not leaving without Logan.”

  “Come on!” Dillon said.

  Laura positioned herself between the bed and the barricaded door. She brought the rifle up and braced herself. The door quaked. The chair rattled and inched down away from the handle.

  “Macie, go!” Laura screamed. “Dillon will drag you out if he has to.”

  Macie started screaming, and Laura didn’t have to look to know her son had taken her suggestion.

  The door opened a few inches—as far as the chair would allow it, before catching again under the handle. The soldier’s helmet pushed through.

  Laura pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Safety, she thought. The man Dillon had arrowed had seemed intent on killing her with his hands. He had broken through the window beside the door and run for her. As far as she knew, he’d never fired the weapon, never taken the safety off.

  Panicked, she looked around the trigger for the safety release. Didn’t see it. She checked the other side. Not there.

  The man rammed his shoulder into the door. The chair cracked. The door opened another few inches. On either side of the helmet, gloved hands slipped around the door edge and jamb. The black curve of the face mask was pointed directly at her. She ran to the door, slammed her back into it. While she pushed, she scanned the length of the weapon for any kind of push button or switch that would let her fire.

  The soldier backed off, then rammed the door again. The back of the chair cracked and folded forward. Laura stumbled away from the opening door. She gripped the barrel of the rifle and spun around. The soldier was stepping through. The rifle stock hit the faceplate, and it shattered. The man stumbled, fell to his hands and knees. She lifted the rifle away, then brought it down on the back of the helmet.

  The soldier crumpled to the floor. He rolled over. Most of the helmet had broken away. The scared eyes of a young man, no older than seventeen or eighteen, stared up at her. Blood flowed from a cut on the bridge of his nose.

  “Shoot me,” he said. “Please.”

  Just a baby. It would not be very many years before Dillon would be this age. She shook her head.

  His mouth moved without forming words. He squeezed his eyes closed. Tears ran from them, washing the blood from his face in stark streaks.

  A loud noise outside of the bedroom, down the hall, made her jump. It had been a thunderous bang, most likely the front door being kicked in. She had snapped her eyes up with the sound, when she brought them back, he was reaching for her gun.

  “If you won’t kill me,” he said in a harsh whisper, “then take me with you. I can help.”

  Another crash from the entry hall. Footsteps.

  Laura bit her lip. She said, “Yeah, right.” She raised the rifle and brought the stock down on his forehead.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Hutch waited. Someone moved around inside the bathroom. Fingers came into view as the person leaned toward the window, but Hutch could not yet see a face mask or helmet.

  As if on cue, Jim broke away from wherever he had hunkered down. Branches cracked under his feet; leaves rustled in his wake.

  The man in the bathroom pushed a rifle through the window. A helmet appeared.

  Hutch leaped for the rifle barrel. His feet slipped on the loose ground cover. Instead of grabbing hold of the barrel, he merely slapped it aside. At least the burst of bullets fired well away from Jim. Hutch tumbled to the ground. The barrel swung down. He kicked away from the wall and landed on his back, beside the man he had killed with the toilet lid. He aimed the pistol at the bathroom window and fired over and over. Bullets slammed into the exterior wall and window frame, but not even one found the sweet spot—the window opening. His finger kept pumping at the trigger, even after the slide locked open, indicating the pistol was empty.

  Hutch reached for the extra magazines he’d put in his back pocket. Before his hand was anywhere near the ammo, the man inside returned to the window. As the rifle came out, Hutch twisted up onto the corpse’s arm. He reached acro
ss, grabbed the far shoulder, and fell back, pulling the man onto him.

  The machine gun clattered mechanically, its reports muffled by a sound suppressor. Hutch felt the bullets strike the body over him. It was a series of hammer blows, jolting him but causing no harm. He remembered that the Interceptor body armor was not the strongest of ballistic vests; it was rated to stop only 9 mm rounds. However, since it covered the front and back of the wearer, he figured he was doubly protected. And that wasn’t counting the stopping power of the man’s body itself.

  He gripped the body armor at the armholes and tugged the corpse up, protecting his head. The man’s chest pressed heavily on Hutch’s cheek. A thought splashed into his consciousness: his shield was a human being. He probably had parents, maybe a family, who loved him.

  No, Hutch thought, the guy was a murderer. Nothing more. That was easier to accept.

  The hammer blows continued, pounding up and down the body. A few struck the dirt near Hutch’s head. The shooter’s best bet for wounding him would be to blast away at his feet. Hutch didn’t think the man wanted to come out of the window as far as that maneuver required. After all, the soldier knew Hutch was not alone. He would not want to expose himself.

  That reminded Hutch that the shooter was also not alone. Squinting along the firebreak toward the end of the building, he didn’t see the man’s partner running toward him or taking aim. He turned his head and found that direction clear as well. The soldier in the window continued to fire: a three-round burst followed by a pause, then another burst. Did the guy think a round would somehow find him, that it would miraculously come through the corpse or around it? Or was he trying to keep Hutch pinned down while his partner came around? The second man, however, would come slowly, not knowing Jim’s location. Then again, the shooter could simply be trying to prevent Hutch from reloading.

  So why wasn’t Hutch reloading? Because he’d need both hands, and right now one of them had a firm grip on the collar of the body armor, keeping it from shifting. If the corpse rolled off of him, he would be just as dead. Still, he could not lie there waiting for—