The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(78)

She spun. To her left were two closed doors that she knew from the Airbnb site went to a rec room and to the garage. Straight ahead were the stairs to the second floor. To her right, the dining room—

She didn’t even hear it. It was more a feeling, or an instinct. She spun. She saw a man flash-check past the doorjamb. She fired three rounds through the wall and dove behind a counter. The wood looked cheap and she doubted it would provide much cover, especially against another shotgun. She pressed against the wall, dropped the magazine, and slapped in a spare. Had she hit him? She wasn’t sure. And the angles here were bad. If she popped up, he’d know her position after she dropped back down. If she scuttled left, it would make for an awkward shot.

She heard three more pistol shots from upstairs. Then a much louder one—BAM!—from the other side of the room. In the same instant, a giant hole appeared in the cabinet next to her. Wood and porcelain shards sprayed past her.

Fuck, shotgun—

She popped up before he could rack the slide, a distant part of her mind praying it was pump-action, not semiauto—

She put the sights on center mass and pressed the trigger. She hit him. Fire erupted from the shotgun muzzle, and the cabinet to her left exploded.

Fuck, semiauto—

She kept firing, putting three more rounds into him. He got off two more shots, but he was firing wildly now, his body jerking and flinching from being hit. Her last shot caught him in the neck. A geyser of blood erupted. He tripped over the body in the dining room and went down.

She wanted to go to Carl, but she had to use whatever surprise and confusion they had left. These guys were better armed than they were. She couldn’t risk getting pinned down again—her best hope was speed and mobility.

She heard more shots from upstairs. Either Larison was having a protracted gunfight with a single shooter, or Kanezaki’s estimate of three men was badly off.

Come on, Livia, move—

She raced out into the hallway. Clear. No one on the stairs.

Where the fuck is Schrader?

The garage or the rec room. Had to be one or the other.

She turned and saw the garage door open a crack. A face peeked through it. She fired twice. The rounds hit the door and it slammed closed. She stepped offline, but before she could get off another round, a fusillade of fire erupted through the door. Rounds punched through the air to her left and slammed into the wall behind her. Shards of the garage door flew through the air. What was left looked like shredded paper.

She dove back into the kitchen, primally terrified. She heard another burst of fire. The guy must have decided it was safer to finish shredding the door instead of trying to open it.

How many rounds was that? Fifteen? More?

Must have been a magazine-fed automatic shotgun. She guessed an AA-12.

She got to her feet and dashed through the kitchen. She saw Carl coming in from the room they’d first entered.

“That’s an AA-12!” she shouted.

“I know! Go, go!”

She tore into the dining room, leaping over the two bodies. The shooter had probably already swapped magazines. These walls would be as much cover as paper.

She turned. Carl was behind her, wrestling the refrigerator away from the wall. He must have been supercharged with adrenaline because he got his arms around it, lifted—

The man with the shotgun raced to the edge of the kitchen. She saw the weapon—the AA-12—

—drum-fed, are you fucking kidding me?—

He raised it—

Carl spun and got the refrigerator facing the other way. A staccato series of shots rang out—BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!—and the refrigerator was jolted by repeated impacts. Carl dropped it. It landed with a thud and he dove to the side. Several slugs made it through, slamming into the wall behind them.

Livia gripped his shoulder and leaned close. “Distract him,” she whispered fiercely. Before he could respond, she raced out to the living room. She stopped at the edge of the hallway, her heart hammering.

Come on, come on . . .

She heard a series of pistol shots from the dining room. And an answering series of reverberating cannon shots from the AA-12. She stepped around the corner, saw him, put the sights on center mass—

He must have picked her up in his peripheral vision. He started to turn, the AA-12 spinning around—

She pressed the trigger, hitting him. He flinched and jerked. She kept shooting, walking the shots in, firing continuously, putting six rounds into his body and a final one in his head. He fell face-forward, hitting the carpet with a meaty thud, the shotgun landing next to him.

Carl ran up behind her, the Wilson at chin level. They backed up against each other so they had 360-degree coverage, Livia facing the kitchen, Carl facing the stairs.

“You okay?” Livia said.

“Yeah, took the round in the vest. But you might need to minister to my bruises later.”

“Schrader. He could be in the garage, but I’m guessing the rec room.”

“One thing at a time,” he said. Then he bellowed, “Larison! You still with us?”

Two shots rang out in response, followed by two louder ones in return.

“Damn it,” he said, “he must be pinned down.”

“Yeah, by another shotgun.”

“Sounds like it. Cover me. Always wanted to play with one of those drum-fed AA-12s. Saw the videos on YouTube.”