Page 111 of Ground Truth

Greta shook her head.

“It’s harder than you think,” Flint said.

“He comes in my house, he gets what he gets,” she said flatly.

“Don’t wait. Fire immediately. All you need to do is hit close enough. He’ll retreat and I’ll handle it.” He watched her absorb his words.

Greta gave Hanna a meaningful look. “We’ll be fine right here until you get back.”

Flint intended to reassure Hanna. Her hyperventilating had stopped. But she stared straight ahead as if her mind had traveled somewhere else entirely. She was almost catatonic.

“Stay low. Don’t go outside. No matter what. Understand?” Flint said, as if Hanna could be persuaded to go anywhere at all.

Which he seriously doubted.

She’d backed as close to the corner as she could possibly get without actually blending into the plaster.

“Yeah. We’ll wait here. I promise,” Greta said, holding her shotgun ready and giving him a little push. “Go.”

Another gunshot came through the back door. They’d had plenty of chances to knock the damned door down by now. Either they were lousy shots or the soupy fog was thick enough to interfere.

Flint crouched low, staying out of the line of fire, and rushed into the kitchen. The kettle was still on the stove. Any minute now, it would start shrieking.

He stuffed the Glock into his belt and readied the shotgun. He moved to the window, back flat against the wall, and looked out into fog so thick he couldn’t see more than twenty yards ahead. It was as if the cloud had landed directly on the house.

The gunmen had the advantage, though.

They knew where he was.

They’d seen him enter the house.

And they were probably equipped with thermal vision.

Which is what he’d have done if their roles were reversed and he’d come here to hunt them down.

He had no idea where they were hiding and no high-tech equipment. The odds were heavily against him.

“When in doubt, send a scout,” he murmured under his breath.

He studied the broken glass on the floor and the holes in the windows and made an educated guess. He raised the Glock and fired twice toward the old wagon parked near the tool shed where the Tumblers kept the lawn mower.

As he’d hoped, the shots drew return fire from one of the shooters.

A moment later, the tea kettle began its ear-splitting squeal. Which didn’t sound like an injured man. But it was the best diversion he could come up with under the circumstances.

It worked. The noise drew more return fire. This time both shooters let several rounds fly.

Flint judged the shots to be coming from only two shooters and two different directions. Which made things somewhat easier.

He crept quickly through the kitchen, returning to the front room. He waved to Greta as he went, gesturing that he’d be leaving through the front door.

Like a small child, Hanna had covered her ears against the teakettle’s continued screeching. He had no time to comfort her.

When he reached the heavy front door, he stopped for a steadying breath. Then he unlocked the door, pulled it open quickly, and slipped out into the dense fog, closing the door behind him.

With luck, he’d placed the thick walls of the house between his heat signature and the thermal scopes the shooters were most likely using.

The house and the dense fog should partially obscure his images on their equipment.

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