Page 51 of Break For Me
"Pump action," I shout over the noise of incoming fire. "Rack the slide to chamber. Point. Pull. Do not put the stock against your shoulder or the recoil will break your collarbone."
He nods. He racks the slide. The sound is mechanical, definitive.
He moves to the window port. He presses his back against the wall beside it and holds the shotgun across his chest.
Another burst of fire. The south wall takes three rounds in a tight grouping.
They’ve moved. Flanking us. Tightening the perimeter. The shack is being dismantled around us one round at a time. The air is thick with dust and the sharp smell of cordite.
I look at the propane tank. Twenty pounds. Connected to the stove by a rubber hose with a brass fitting. The tank is full.
A full twenty-pound propane tank, when ruptured and ignited, produces a massive fireball with a blast radius of approximately fifteen feet and enough concussive force to stun anyone within thirty.
I look at the back wall of the shack. The thin plywood behind Killian’s bench.
I saw the terrain on our approach. The slope drops off steeply behind the structure. A thirty-degree grade, covered in snow, descending into the ravine we climbed out of. It’s a slide. A chute.
"Adrian."
He looks at me. The shotgun is trembling in his hands. His glasses are spattered with wood dust. His face is white, like bone. But his eyes are steady.
"I’m going to blow this shack," I say. "When it goes, you grab Killian and you go out through the back wall. The plywood will give. Take him down the slope. Don't stop. Don't look back."
"What about Garrett?"
I look at Garrett. He’s on the floor, his back against the wall, the gauze pressed hard against his shoulder. The blood has soaked through the packing and is pooling on the floor beneath him. His face is grey. His eyes meet mine.
What passes between us is silent. Efficient. The communication of men who have operated in the same violent calculus long enough to know when the numbers don't add up.
"Go," Garrett says. His voice is steady. "I’ll hold the door."
"Garrett—"
"Give me the shotgun. Give the doctor the pistol. Go."
I don't argue. Arguing takes time, and time is the one currency we’ve already spent.
I take the shotgun from Adrian and give it to Garrett. He braces it against his right hip. Eight shells left. He positionshimself facing the door with his back against the wall, the barrel aimed at the gap where the bench meets the frame.
I take the Makarov back from Adrian. Three rounds. I pick up the flare gun.
The propane tank. I unscrew the brass fitting from the hose. The gas hisses out—a pressurized stream of propane that fills the room with an invisible, heavier-than-air cloud. It smells like rotten eggs and death.
The gas sinks toward the floor, pooling, the concentration building. I have maybe thirty seconds.
I grab Killian. My left hand screams. The fresh sutures pull, tearing open inside the gauze. I hook my right arm under his shoulders and drag him off the bench and toward the back wall. Adrian is beside me, his hands under Killian’s legs, the Makarov shoved into his waistband.
"On three," I say. "Hit the back wall. Roll down the slope. Don't stop."
I point the flare gun at the propane tank. The gas is pooling at knee height. I can feel the heavy, chemical displacement of oxygen in the lower two feet of the room.
"One."
Garrett fires through the door.Boom.A body hits the porch outside with a heavy thud. A scream.
"Two."
Adrian braces. His shoulder is against the back wall. Killian is between us, unconscious, deadweight.
