Fuzzy Navel

11:44 P.M.
PHIN

WHEN ALEX RAN OUT the back door, Phin knew where she was heading.

To find a gun.

Phin takes two seconds to decide that Alex with a sniper rifle poses a bigger threat than the two guys with their Desert Eagles, and he rushes out after her.

He tears through the kitchen, out the patio door, into the backyard. Phin looks right, then left, sees Alex dart around the corner of the house. He vaults a lawn chair and pursues.

She only has a twenty-yard head start, but she can run like a rabbit. Phin, though lean and muscular, is not in good shape. He’s been in remission for a while, but it’s more a stay of execution than a full pardon. The pancreatic cancer is still there. It’s shrinking, bit by bit, thanks to chemotherapy. But the pain hasn’t gone away, and the chemo comes with a slew of symptoms that rival those caused by the disease.

Phin supplements his prescription drugs with many that you can’t find at your local Walgreens, and these have also taken their toll on his body. He can pace Alex, but he can’t catch her.

She reaches the street, then cuts left, heading toward the Bronco. All of the running Phin did earlier to night has pretty much tapped his reserves, and he falls farther behind, his breath ragged, his muscles crying out. The night air is cold, tingly, on his bare chest. He chances a quick check over his shoulder, sees the two men at Jack’s front door, trying to kick it in, and hopes Alex’s electricity booby trap is legit, not bullshit.

Alex gets to the Bronco, tries the driver’s-side door. Locked. She runs around to the back, and Phin closes the distance, hands out in front of him, leaning on the truck’s hood when he gets there, taking big gulps of air so he doesn’t throw up.

The rear door must be locked as well, because Alex sprints away without getting inside, running across the lawn and blending into the night. Phin is too wiped out to follow.

Gunshots. From Jack’s house. Phin sees the two men bust in the front entrance. He watches them walk inside, sees the lights go on.

Sees nothing happen.

Alex’s trap is bullshit after all.

Phin puts his face up to the tinted glass of the front window, tries to get a look inside the truck. There’s a rifle in the front seat, a big one with a scope. He does a quick 180, scanning the ground for a brick or rock or something to break the windshield. There’s nothing but grass.

Phin puts his back against the driver’s door, clenches his hands, and fires his left elbow backward against the glass, like a piston. He does it once, twice, three times, hard as he can.

The window remains intact.

He wants to try it again, but he can’t – he’s pretty sure he just broke his elbow.