jammed against the key and there was no way to get another one in.
I went back to the living-room window and took the roll of parcel tape from my day sack. Pulling it off the roll very slowly to eliminate noise, I covered the whole pane with the stuff, then made a handle, something for me to hold while I scored around the edge with the cutter. I punched the pane gently with my fist and it cracked and popped. I pulled back on the tape handle and the glass came away in my hands.
I lowered the day sack behind the curtain and slid through the gap, immediately feeling the heat from the burner.
I'd have to clear the house room by room. I had to make sure no one else was here. I'd remain covert for as long as possible, and only go noisy if he did. It wasn't much of a plan, but it would have to do.
I kept the Maglite close to the floor so I could see my way through the living room. The burner still glowed, but didn't throw out enough light to prevent me from standing on a cat or tripping over a log pile.
I reached the door that led into the front hall. My ears started to sting now that the warmth was returning to them. I went down on my knees, eased it a little further ajar, listened for a moment and then looked through.
The first room I had to clear was the kitchen; it was the nearest.
I held the pistol out in front of me. I hoped that it would buy me at least two seconds of hesitation from whoever I might have to point it at.
That was where the box-cutter came in. If the shit really hit the fan, it would drop my assailant but not totally fuck him up – and give me enough time to decide if I would have to get a frenzy on and slice him to shreds before he did something similar to me.
There was nothing in the hallway. I moved forward and pushed the kitchen door fully open. Nothing.
I went back into the hallway.
Still nothing.
I thought about the single mug and the ready-meal cartons. Fuck it, I'd just go straight upstairs and find him.
Focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top landing, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right.
I stopped and listened.
I lifted my left foot again and put it down on the second step, easing my weight down gently on the carpet, hoping the board wouldn't creak beneath it.
I moved slowly but purposefully, eyes wide, weapon up. The glow from the wood-burner threw my shadow against the wall.
Adrenalin took over. If Lynn was waiting for me, he'd be armed. A shotgun, at least. I was drenched with sweat. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it hammering against my chest.
It started to get darker and colder as the glow of the embers faded. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath.
Moving like this is physically demanding. Every movement has to be so slow and deliberate that every single muscle is tensed; your body needs more oxygen, and your lungs, in turn, need to work harder. And on top of all that, somebody could be waiting to kill you at any moment.
I reached the landing. There was a smell of polish and mothballs. There was a door to my left. The corridor to my right ran the length of the house. Knees bent, shoulders hunched over, box-cutter now in my left hand and pistol in my right, I started to move along the Afghan runner at its centre. I checked the crack under each of the doors I passed for any signs of life.
The first was to my left, facing the rear of the house.
Nothing.
I turned the handle and went in.
Nothing.
No one.
I moved down to the next door on the right, facing the front of the house.
I could hear snoring.
I carried on along the corridor and listened outside the next room. Nothing. And there was no noise from any of the other five.
I put the box-cutter back in my fleece, fished out the torch and twisted the lens.
At this point I'd normally have pressed my right thumb down on the weapon's safety catch, checking that it was off and ready to go, before entering the target room. Then I'd have pushed the mag in the pistol grip to make sure that it was
I went back to the living-room window and took the roll of parcel tape from my day sack. Pulling it off the roll very slowly to eliminate noise, I covered the whole pane with the stuff, then made a handle, something for me to hold while I scored around the edge with the cutter. I punched the pane gently with my fist and it cracked and popped. I pulled back on the tape handle and the glass came away in my hands.
I lowered the day sack behind the curtain and slid through the gap, immediately feeling the heat from the burner.
I'd have to clear the house room by room. I had to make sure no one else was here. I'd remain covert for as long as possible, and only go noisy if he did. It wasn't much of a plan, but it would have to do.
I kept the Maglite close to the floor so I could see my way through the living room. The burner still glowed, but didn't throw out enough light to prevent me from standing on a cat or tripping over a log pile.
I reached the door that led into the front hall. My ears started to sting now that the warmth was returning to them. I went down on my knees, eased it a little further ajar, listened for a moment and then looked through.
The first room I had to clear was the kitchen; it was the nearest.
I held the pistol out in front of me. I hoped that it would buy me at least two seconds of hesitation from whoever I might have to point it at.
That was where the box-cutter came in. If the shit really hit the fan, it would drop my assailant but not totally fuck him up – and give me enough time to decide if I would have to get a frenzy on and slice him to shreds before he did something similar to me.
There was nothing in the hallway. I moved forward and pushed the kitchen door fully open. Nothing.
I went back into the hallway.
Still nothing.
I thought about the single mug and the ready-meal cartons. Fuck it, I'd just go straight upstairs and find him.
Focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top landing, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right.
I stopped and listened.
I lifted my left foot again and put it down on the second step, easing my weight down gently on the carpet, hoping the board wouldn't creak beneath it.
I moved slowly but purposefully, eyes wide, weapon up. The glow from the wood-burner threw my shadow against the wall.
Adrenalin took over. If Lynn was waiting for me, he'd be armed. A shotgun, at least. I was drenched with sweat. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it hammering against my chest.
It started to get darker and colder as the glow of the embers faded. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath.
Moving like this is physically demanding. Every movement has to be so slow and deliberate that every single muscle is tensed; your body needs more oxygen, and your lungs, in turn, need to work harder. And on top of all that, somebody could be waiting to kill you at any moment.
I reached the landing. There was a smell of polish and mothballs. There was a door to my left. The corridor to my right ran the length of the house. Knees bent, shoulders hunched over, box-cutter now in my left hand and pistol in my right, I started to move along the Afghan runner at its centre. I checked the crack under each of the doors I passed for any signs of life.
The first was to my left, facing the rear of the house.
Nothing.
I turned the handle and went in.
Nothing.
No one.
I moved down to the next door on the right, facing the front of the house.
I could hear snoring.
I carried on along the corridor and listened outside the next room. Nothing. And there was no noise from any of the other five.
I put the box-cutter back in my fleece, fished out the torch and twisted the lens.
At this point I'd normally have pressed my right thumb down on the weapon's safety catch, checking that it was off and ready to go, before entering the target room. Then I'd have pushed the mag in the pistol grip to make sure that it was
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