Hardbingers

23

The first indication Miller had that something was wrong was when no one answered the doorbell. He rang it three times and still no one buzzed them in.

Angry and puzzled, he said, "What the fuck?" and jabbed the button for a fourth try.

They'd dumped the stolen cars one at a time along the way. First the Camry. Miller and Cal then piled into Hursey's car, which followed Jolliff until he dumped his. Then all four drove to where they'd left the Suburban. No one had said much along the way.

Miller kept seeing that woman's face as he'd hit her. He kept telling himself it had been for the cause, for the greater good.

But the memory of that face made him want to puke again.

He looked up at the two overhead cameras. Both had their red indicator lights lit, which meant they were operating.

Creeping concern blanked out the soul-deep malaise that had gnawed at him all the way back.

"I don't like this," Cal said.

"Neither do I. I'm going to let us in."

He fished his keys from his pocket while Cal, Hursey, and Jolliff pulled their pistols and hid them under their coats. He heard hammers being cocked. Miller's own H-K would be out in a moment, but first he had to unlock the entrance.

Home was protected by an Electrolynx steel door, set in a steel frame—no way of breaking in—and secured by three bolts. Each yenigeri had a set of three keys but were supposed to use them only in dire emergency. Each key turned one bolt. Manually unlocking any of the three set off an alarm.

Miller inserted a key into the top lock and heard the warning bell begin to clang as he turned it. At least the alarm worked.

When no one responded, he quickly unlocked the next two, then pocketed the keys and replaced them with his pistol. He looked up and down the street. He felt so exposed out here on the sidewalk in daylight, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

"Okay," he said. "Stack."

They quickly divided into pairs on either side of the doorframe. On the left, Miller stood and Jolliff crouched; Cal and Hursey took the right.

"Ready?"

When he had three nods he grabbed the knob, twisted, and pushed the door in. Wilco's "Pot Kettle Black" was playing within, but he heard nothing else: no warning shout, no shots. Just… Wilco.

A strange, disturbing odor wafted out along with the music.

Miller chanced a look, tilting his head forward for a peek inside, then ducking back with closed eyes as his stomach did a roll.

Ybarra… mouth gaping, eyes wide and staring… draped over the monitoring console… his head twisted at an impossible angle… and blood… blood everywhere.

Miller didn't know whether to be angry or afraid. He liked anger—so much cleaner and sharp-edged than fear—so he pumped it up. Not hard to do. One of his brothers, probably more, had been slaughtered right here at Home.

Davis's voice: "What's going on?"

Miller looked at him. "We've been hit."