25

MILLER

It was quiet for a while. He heard their boots moving on the hardwood floor outside. For the moment, they’d stopped attacking the door. He couldn’t remember how many there’d been. The adrenaline should have made his mind sharp. But it was foggy. Maybe it was the pain from the gunshot wound. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was something else.

Miller didn’t regret anything. He didn’t regret the fact that he was going to die. He’d taken some of them out. That was what he wanted.

If there was a shred of regret, it was that he hadn’t thought about his plan more, and gotten to the leader. But it was unrealistic. He should have known that. He would have never gotten there.

His plan had sounded like something from a spy novel, not something from real life.

He’d done what he could.

These hadn’t been the men who’d killed his wife and son. But they were close enough. They were cut from the same cloth, so to speak. They were part of the same organization.

They started again.

Miller was reeling in pain. But he stood tall and strong.

Bullets sprang through the thin wooden door.

The door was shaking with kicks. And body slams. They were throwing their bodies against it.

The dresser couldn’t hold out much more, and Miller couldn’t get close enough to hold it back, unless he wanted to take another bullet.

Finally, the dresser had danced back a bit from the door, from the impacts.

A heavy boot broke through the door, splintered wood going everywhere. A hand reached through, going for the doorknob. The weight of the dresser was enough to keep the door mostly in its frame.

Miller aimed carefully, squeezing the trigger.

A howl of pain. The hand retreated, bloodied. He’d shot good. But it wouldn’t be enough.

It happened so fast it was hard to register it all. The door was opened, the dresser kicked back.

One of them entered. He knew where Miller would be. His face was contorted in rage. His hand was bloodied. He had his gun in his other hand.

He and Miller shot at the same time.

The guy went down, thrown back a little.

Miller took the bullet in the chest. His breathing was going all funny. He felt the blood pooling.

These would be some of his last moments. He wasn’t going to make it.

But he was going to take out the last one.

Or were there two?

He couldn’t think straight. His mind was a mess of adrenaline and pain. Everything was confusing.

The only thing he could do to steady himself was keep the grip on his gun tight. And his finger on the trigger.

More movement.

Someone else came through the door.

Miller had his gun on him.

But the other guy was too fast.

Miller saw everything in slow motion. But his own reactions were too slow. The guy pulled the trigger.

Miller felt the bullet hit the center of his chest.

He had several seconds of consciousness before he died. Nothing but a flash of his past memories, playing in his mind’s eye. Like he was watching a film, surprisingly clear, but as if he was peering down onto everything. He felt close to the events, but far away at the same time.

His son’s first birthday party. His wife was sobbing in the kitchen, because none of their friends had even bothered to respond to the invitations. And no one had showed up. The balloons hung sadly up around the ceiling.

The first time he’d met his wife. That tight sweater she’d been wearing in the dead of winter, when the sun never seemed to rise high enough to burn off the winter doldrums.

Miller’s first day of kindergarten, when he’d been a boisterous kid full of energy, ready to cause havoc, ready to make the kindergarten teacher cry.

The little film cut off suddenly. Miller knew no more.

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