Smoke and Mirrors

126

Winter was at the top of the front stairs, just out of sight from below.

“Hey, Styer!” Winter yelled down. “You ready to die?”

Styer remained silent, not about to give away his position.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Winter called. “All this death and destruction just for me. Man, you are one sick son of a bitch.”

His taunts were answered only by the ticking grandfather clock.

“Tell you what,” he called. “Turn the lights back on. We stand toe to toe, count to five, and draw. Winner takes all. What do you say? You can’t take me in a fair fight, and you know it, you cowardly sack of shit!”

Winter imagined Styer down there listening, wanting to answer. Winter needed only the first gun flash to give him Styer’s position. He was betting he could fire the.45 and nail Styer before his enemy could get off a second, better-aimed round. Assuming, as was his custom, that Styer was wearing night vision goggles, that would mean the first flash from Styer’s own gun would blind the killer momentarily.

When the grandfather clock started chiming midnight, Winter raised Hamp’s aluminum bat. Five seconds later, the lights in the house came on, and he hurled the bat down the stairs, pleased by the amount of racket it made on the oaken steps. Following the bat’s path, gun in front of him, Winter started down the stairs, leaning against the rail. His wounded leg failed him and he fell, his gun leaving his hand and flying down ahead of him, the stainless steel catching the light as it careened off the polished stairs. The sharp wooden edges of each step battered him as he fell. He was aware of Paulus Styer standing up from a chair, dropping one of the guns to the floor, and clawing at the goggles. Despite that, Styer aimed at the staircase, firing rapidly.