“Crap, Miki can do this, and he’s….” Forest trailed off his thought. “’Cause Miki’s psycho. Okay, focus. Do something, Forest. And don’t get shot doing it.”
His phone was nearly out of juice. It’d been pining for the fjords when he’d plugged it in after he retrieved Con’s eye drops from the fridge. With the line open, he’d soon lose not only the squawking dispatcher but any light it could give him. Bending down, he rifled through the partially full shelves lining the walls, looking for something heavy and portable.
There had to be something he could use in the pantry. A Roomba. A brick. Something.
His fingers closed over a thick-rimmed large gallon can on the bottom shelf. Picking it up, he huffed under its unexpected weight, and his injured shoulder whined a bit, but he sucked up the pain with a hissing breath. Unwieldy for sure but hefty enough to do some damage if he had enough leverage.
“Got one shot at this, dude.” Forest braced himself and balanced the enormous can against his hip. “Okay. Go.”
Barreling out, Forest hefted the can over his head. The pinprick of pain along his shoulder reminded him again about being creased by one of the shotgun pellets, but he kept going.
Forest didn’t know who screamed louder—the man stuck in the window definitely had an elephantine bellow, but his own warbling pitch wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Either way, he rushed in close and slammed the can down as hard as he could on the intruder’s head.
The man quaked in his prison, his torso twisting about and his arms flying around uncontrollably as he took the shock of pain. He lifted up, nearly perpendicular to the kitchen floor, and his eyes were wide pale moons in his partially shadowed face. Up close, his breath stunk of onions and beer. His body wasn’t much better, and from the wave of aromas coming from his twitching arms, he held a grudge against deodorant in general. His ass wiggled as he kicked at the side of the house, and glass from the broken window fell from the frame.
Forest’s shoulders shook from the hit, and it felt like he’d taken a sledgehammer to a solid granite block. But the can held, and the man groaned, his head lolling back and forth. Forest brought the heavy can up, then hit the man again, silencing his distressed moans.
This time, the can’s thinner sides gave in, and it burst, sending a gush of nacho cheese down the man’s unshaven round face. It pooled in his nostrils, bubbling up when he exhaled. Giving one final twitch, the intruder moaned once more, then slumped down against the kitchen sink. Blood dripped from his waist where he’d cut himself on broken glass, and a red river sprung up from a wide cut on his forehead, fighting the violently orange ooze for space on his stubbled jowls.
A shout of victory welled up from inside Forest’s belly, and he almost let it go, but a chillingly harsh laughing came from the next room, cutting off any celebration and driving a spike of fear into his guts. The glow of a flashlight popped up over the kitchen’s saloon half doors, hitting Forest in the face. Blinking against the harsh light, Forest could just barely see a dark, dangerous shape slicing up into the beam, aimed for his head.
“Shit.” It was all he could get out. Then the gun went off and everything went black.
IT SOUNDED like someone let loose a pack of flying monkeys. There was a high-pitched screeching reminiscent of a hair band and a deep walrus-inspired howl. A mighty thunk echoed out of the kitchen, then a moment later, another weaker thunk. Connor couldn’t imagine what the noises were. Then a thought dawned.
“Fucking Forest.” He swore softly as a man he recognized as Rollins stepped into his line of sight. “God damn it! Forest!”
Rollins was unimpressive. He looked more like Riff Raff than anything else, but his rawboned face turned toward Connor, and there was clearly not a drop of humanity left in the man’s eyes. They burned nearly black, even in the light of his companion’s flashlight. Bringing his own lantern up, Rollins peered over the kitchen’s swinging half door, and his deep chuckle set off every alarm in Connor’s brain.
His Beretta was uncomfortable in his left hand, but Connor didn’t have time to switch it out for the Glock. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference. He’d practiced shooting with his off hand, but he wasn’t a sharpshooter with it. He could hit a target’s inner rings eight times out of ten, and he figured that was all he was going to need if he could get off a clear shot. Connor moved into position.
Spreading his legs to anchor himself, Connor took aim—just as Rollins raised a gun and pointed it over the doors. Its thick, heavy black body was menacing but not as evil as the man’s cackle.
Tamping down the emotions roiling up to choke him, Connor shouted, “Police! Drop it!”