Page 140 of The Chain
“There’s a door that leads to the main house,” Rachel says.
She’s up for this. It’s the moment she’s been subconsciously training for all her life. The radiation, the chemo, those hard days in Guatemala, those long shifts waitressing at the diner, the midnight Uber runs to Logan. All of it was preparation for this. She’s ready. It’s all for family, isn’t it? Everything is for family. Even an imbecile knows you don’t get between a grizzly-bear mama and her cub.
Pete fishes one of the two flash-bang grenades from his coat pocket. “I’m going to open the door and throw in a flash-bang. Close your eyes and cover your ears,” Pete whispers to Rachel, then tosses the stick as he opens the door. A second later, the flash-bang goes off with a deafening roar and a white juddering light. It’s an essentially harmless weapon meant to stun at close quarters. It won’t hurt the kids, but it’ll scare the shit out of people who don’t know it’s coming.
“Wait here,” Pete says and goes through the door.
A dozen smoke alarms begin ringing. It’s an old house but it’s been remodeled, and in one of those remodelings a sprinkler system has been installed to protect the artwork the grandchildren have been collecting. Rachel has never been in a home that has its own sprinkler system and she’s shocked when cold water starts pouring down on her. She has no idea what’s happening.
Pete pops his head around the doorway. “No one there now. We should go. Those paint tins are going to start exploding in a minute.”
“Which way?” Rachel asks, coughing.
Pete has no idea. “Room by room. Stay behind me. Check my blind spots,” he says.
Pete forges ahead but he wonders if he can last much longer. He’s having trouble breathing. Adrenaline is putting off the collapse, but that won’t work forever.Hang in there, Pete,he tells himself,until you get Kylie safe.
The house has been haphazardly extended so that now it’s a maze of rooms and corridors and alcoves.
A hallway.
A room.
A big TV, a sofa, hunting trophies.
Another door.
Dining table, chairs, artwork.
A distant scream.
“Kylie!” Rachel yells.
No answer.
Back to the hallway.
Pete kicks open another door and swings his weapon into the corners of a kitchen. “Kylie! Stuart!” he says.
Nothing.
The house lights flicker as smoke from the garage fire fills the entire ground floor. Water is still dripping from the sprinklers and pooling at their feet. The smell is pungent, sour, Neolithic.
In a downstairs bedroom, Rachel spies Kylie’s coat but no Kylie.
The lights fail and come back on again, a dim, yellow goblin glow.
The bedroom connects to another room.
Pete eases the door open and looks inside.
Empty, but they can hear footsteps outside in the hallway. Rachel points to the door and puts her finger over her lips. Pete takes his remaining flash-bang from his pocket, violently tugs open the bedroom door, and throws the grenade into the corridor.
Another loud explosion and a burst of white light followed by machine-gun fire. Pete waits until the shooting stops and then in one clean, fast movement he goes out with Rachel, swinging right as Rachel swings left.
There, in front of her, at the end of the hallway, a man is reloading an assault rifle. The old man again. Not one of the twins. His hair is white; his stance is remote, tough, confident. He’s the one that Olly calls Grandpa and Ginger calls Red.
Rachel raises her shotgun.
