Page 124 of Lash

A pickup truck squeals around a corner half a mile away, engine roaring as it speeds in this direction.

Looks like three or four in the back of the house, the woman, and the occupants of this truck—four or five more, max—eight or ten people.

Easy.

The truck screeches to a halt at an angle across the driveway on the sidewalk, inches from the woman and the stroller.

The woman reaches into the stroller, comes up with a tactical shotgun, and jogs for the front door.

Four men in black tac gear pile out of the truck, moving in pairs after the woman.

Go time.

By the time I reach the front door, the thunder and rattle-crackle of gunfire have shattered the early morning quiet.

I kick open the door and step into a bloody hellscape.