A silhouette at the front gate—big, moving fast—vaulting the eight-foot chain-link like it was a playground fence.
John’s heart jackhammered. Muscle memory kicked in even through the fog. He lunged for the Mossberg 500 he kept leaned against the recliner, racked a shell into the chamber with a sound like a guillotine.
The intruder was already sprinting straight at him—six-four, built like a goddamn tank, military buzz-cut, tactical vest, boots that ate up the gravel without a sound. He moved like he had wires in his veins.
John didn’t hesitate.
BOOM. BOOM.
Two 12-gauge slugs tore through the afternoon air. The first one should have cut the man in half. The second should have finished the job.
Neither one touched him.
The stranger juked left, then right—impossible, cartoon-fast—like the bullets were moving in slow motion and he wasn’t. In the same fluid motion he drew a matte-black Beretta from a chest holster.
Crack.
John felt the impact before he heard the gunshot. His left arm exploded in fire. The Mossberg flew out of his hands. He spun, hit the concrete, and the world went black.
When the lights came back on, cold water slapped him across the face.
John gasped, choking, eyes burning. He was back in the recliner—only now thick zip-ties bit into his wrists and ankles, pinning him like a butterfly on a board. Blood ran down his left arm in steady rivulets, pooling on the leather.
The stranger stood three feet away, Beretta still in his right hand, casual as if they were just two guys shooting the shit over a six-pack.
