Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

her feet, she reached into the cargo bed to retrieve her tomahawk and the machete, which she returned to the sheath on her back. Ducking again, she dashed to the far side of the nearest derelict automobile. It was a Cadillac, and in its day was the epitome of American luxury. Now, with the peeling vinyl roof and oxidized bronze paint, it was a shadow of its former glory. Still, it was a massive chunk of steel, affording her precious moments to consider her options.

The metal hulks would give her reasonable cover to skirt around the garage and angle for an opening at the back of the house. Will the gunman be expecting that, and be lying in wait? And where are they holding Toby?

From her position, she still had an angle on the front windows, albeit an obtuse angle. Maybe she could set up a diversion of sorts.

She aimed over the trunk of the Cadillac and rapidly fired the remainder of her rounds into the windows, shattering the glass into thousands of fragments, and certainly drawing the attention of the gunman. She ran around the garage, even as the empty magazine fell to the dirt.

With a full mag inserted, and round chambered, she reached the back of the garage. The rear wall went straight from the back of the garage all the way to the end of the structure. She stuck her head and neck out further to take in the details, and saw two doors. One was nearby, and she reasoned it entered the garage. The farther one probably connected to a dining room or laundry room. Beyond the second door were a couple large picture windows.

She stalked forward, passing the garage door, weapon raised and ready to fire. Upon reaching the second door, she gently tested the latch. Locked.

Although her shoulder still ached from the tumble the previous day, she barely felt any discomfort—a welcomed side-effect of being jacked up on adrenalin. The pain would come later, and so would the meds.

She threw her shoulder into the door and crashed inside with barely any resistance. Her forward progress was arrested by a washing machine. Another closed door was to her left.

Knowing she’d announced her presence, Danya didn’t waste any time. Standing to the side, she threw open the door and then waited for the count of two before passing through.

Of all the varied types of combat she’d trained for, house-to-house—or in this case, room-to-room within a house—was the most nerve-racking. The confrontation distance was short, and almost always the first to shoot was the victor. Although the walls looked solid, modern framing and sheetrock were no match for bullets.

A table with two chairs was pressed against the far wall, separated by a counter from the galley kitchen. She edged forward. Once in the kitchen, she noticed another door to the right. Probably goes to the garage.

The sound strategy was to clear the building, room by room. That meant she had to either clear the garage or secure the door so that if the shooter was in the garage, he couldn’t sneak up behind her. She chose the latter and wedged a chair underneath the door handle.

The front door was ajar to her right, adding some natural light to the illumination from two table lamps ahead in the living room. She continued her cautious advance. A hallway extended toward the far end of the house, which now seemed much larger than it appeared from the exterior. The musty smell was pervasive, but she was happy to have the lime-green shag carpet underfoot to soften her steps.

Every two steps, she paused, straining her ears for any sound that might betray the position of her adversary.

There were two doors ahead in the hallway. One must connect to the bedroom, and the other to the bathroom. Both doors were closed.

She continued to edge forward, and then stopped four feet short of the first door. Shifting her grip on the pistol to one hand, she used the other to draw the Kukri from its sheath across her back. Then, her arm stretched to its full length, she rattled the doorknob with the tip of the machete.

A blast of shot blew a ragged hole in the center of the door, followed by a second load of buckshot blasting through the door and frame just above the latch.

Danya imagined the shooter sitting in a corner of the room opposite the door. She returned fire through the walls, hoping for a lucky hit. But her shots also hinted at her position.

The scatter gun roared again. This time, the shot was close enough to spray white gypsum powder from the drywall onto her clothing. She fired back, again and again, making minute adjustments to the bullet’s trajectory, until the slide stopped open.

Her gun was empty, and she had no more reloads. She dropped to her belly and crawled along the rank carpet for the deep shadows at the end of the hallway farthest from the living room. There, she waited with the Kukri in hand, her legs coiled, ready to spring forward.

After a long minute, the door swung open and Leonard emerged with the shotgun cradled in his hands—a twelve-gauge riot gun.

She had wagered that his tactics would be crude and undisciplined. And she was right.

He turned to the stretch of hall leading to the living room, never considering the threat that was right next to him.

She sprang to her feet, thrusting forward with the curved blade. At the last second, Leonard swiveled and blocked the knife with the barrel of the shotgun. Although he held a far more powerful weapon, the hallway was too confining for him to effectively bring it to bear.

He was backpedaling rapidly. Danya kept pressing her attack—thrusting and slashing, forcing Leonard to parry her attacks rather than aim his weapon.

He’d made it to the open space of the living room. Emerging from the hall only feet from Leonard, she slashed downward. The hardened steel blade bit into the blued barrel, generating