Invasion USA by William W. Johnstone

out and turned the lock button on the doorknob. That wouldn’t keep anybody out who really wanted in, but it might slow them down for a few seconds. Then, moving quietly, he headed for his den.
    The gun cabinet in there held two shotguns and three rifles. They were locked up and unloaded, of course. Tom went into the den, took a ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the cabinet. There was an unhurried efficiency to his movements as he took down a pump shotgun, unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out a box of shells, and loaded the gun. He dropped a handful of extra shells in the pocket of his shirt. Then he moved back to the kitchen, holding the shotgun level just above his waist.
    No one was there. The door appeared to be undisturbed. Tom heard something in the garage, though—the sound of an object scooting along the floor. Somebody was moving things around in there.
    Planting a bomb, maybe?, he wondered.
    Holding the shotgun with his right hand, he reached out with his left and unlocked the kitchen door again. He grasped the knob and took a deep breath. Then he twisted the knob, flung the door open, and lunged through it into the garage, sweeping the shotgun from side to side as his eyes searched for a target.
    He heard a startled yelp and saw movement from the corner of his eye. His finger was already tightening on the trigger as he snapped the barrel in that direction.
    He eased off on the pressure just in time to stop the shotgun from blasting as he recognized the muscular, hairy body and bushy tail of his dog Max. The big mutt was part golden retriever and part something else. Tom stared as Max recovered from his surprise and came toward him, tail wagging. Tom’s nerves were still stretched so tight they were jangling.
    Next to the wall, a paint can lay on its side. Tom realized that Max had knocked it off a stack of similar cans and had been pushing it along the cement floor of the garage with his nose. There was no telling why the dog had been doing such a thing; to his canine brain, it must have made sense.
    â€œDamn it, Max, I almost blasted you.” Tom’s voice was shaky. Max nuzzled his left hand as he let the shotgun hang at his side in the right. After a second, though, Max returned to the stack of paint cans. He pawed at it, and another of the cans fell.
    Tom frowned. Max was acting like there was something behind those cans. Maybe he ought to take a look.
    As he stepped closer, he heard a buzzing sound. It was instantly recognizable, and Tom snapped, “Max! Get away from there!”
    Max looked at him and whined but backed off as Tom had told him to do. Tom set the shotgun on the workbench that ran along the wall to his left and took a garden hoe from the hooks where it hung on the wall. He moved closer to the cans and reached out with the hoe to pull a couple of them farther away from the wall.
    That gave the big rattlesnake that had crawled behind them enough room to coil up and shake the rattle on the end of his tail that much harder. The snake’s head lifted a little. Its tongue flickered in and out.
    Tom felt a chill as he looked at the creature. He hated snakes with a passion. That was one bad thing about living in southern Arizona. A person could almost get used to the heat, but Tom knew he would never get used to the snakes.
    â€œStay back, Max,” he said. He raised the hoe and brought it down in a swift, accurate stroke. The sharp edge of the blade caught the rattler just behind the head and pinned it to the floor. The long, muscular body whipped around wildly. Tom moved the hoe back and forth until the blade grated on the cement. The snake’s head was completely severed from its body. That didn’t stop the body from coiling and writhing, and the rattler’s mouth opened and closed as instinct made it try to bite something, anything. Max darted forward, and Tom yelled at him, telling him again to stay back. “Just because the damn thing’s