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I put my hands in the air. There’s no point in reaching for my belt. My pistol’s locked up back at my house.
The gunman to my side tells me to step into the room, and I do so.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell my parents.
Dad is putting on a strong face, but Mom is crying. I hate seeing her like this. I face dangerous situations all the time. But my family shouldn’t have to. I don’t know what these men want, but I can’t help but feel this isn’t some random home invasion. My job has followed me home.
“On your knees, Ranger,” the man behind me says.
“Let’s talk about this,” I say. “Y’all don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”
“I said get on your goddamn knees!” the man yells.
He kicks me hard in the back of my leg, and I pitch forward onto the hardwood floor. Mom lets out a moan. Dad grunts something, but it’s indiscernible with the tape over his mouth.
“It’s okay,” I tell my parents, rising to my hands and knees on the floor.
I crane my neck to look at my assailant. He’s tucked his pistol into his waistband and is reaching for something leaning against the wall. It’s the length of a two-by-four, about three feet long.
“Wait,” I say, as he lifts it like a club.
The other man pockets the knife and picks up his own two-by-four, which he had tucked behind Dad’s desk. It stands next to a bookshelf filled with framed pictures and schoolboy knickknacks of my brothers and mine: football trophies, crafts, even some outgrown toys Dad kept for sentimental reasons.
The guy takes his two-by-four and smashes it into the shelves, shattering glass and sending an avalanche of memories onto the floor. The other guy smashes a framed picture on the wall, then shatters a ceramic pot my brother Chris made in high school art class.
Mom lets out a wail. Dad glares at the guys as they continue their destructive rampage. Then suddenly they stop and turn their attention to me.
Both men cock their weapons back, ready to attack.
“I don’t know what you guys want,” I say, rising to my feet, “but this isn’t…”
I don’t get a chance to finish.
CHAPTER 27
THEY BOTH LUNGE at me and I duck and throw my arms up like a boxer in a defensive stance. One board hammers my shoulder. Another slaps against my ribs. I back away but quickly find myself in the corner. The narrow side of one of the boards lands against my thigh, shooting pain through my leg, and I drop to my knees.
I throw my hands over my head and curl into a ball, as the boards smack against my body. I kick and twist and try to avoid the worst of the blows, but they’re coming fast and furious. Each strike brings a jolt of pain to my muscles or ribs, but my adrenaline is pumping too hard to feel the worst of it. One board skids across my scalp—a glancing blow but still a hit to the head—and I hardly notice.
“Take it easy,” one of the men says to the other. “Don’t kill him.”
The barrage lets up for a moment.
“I remember,” the other says, breathing heavy and irritated. “Two rules: Don’t kill him. And make sure to break his fingers.”
“The fingers on hisrighthand,” the other clarifies.
My shooting hand.
“I just figured we’d do both hands. For good measure.”
Instinctively, I ball my hands into fists and tuck them under my body because things are happening so fast that I don’t have time to really focus. I don’t recognize either man’s voice. Parker is definitelynotone of them. But Ellis or Harvey? Could be.
I try to get to my feet, ignoring the pain.
Dad keeps a pistol in a safe in their bedroom.
If I can just get there.
