Lethal Rage by Brent Pilkey

room. Filthy yellow curtains filtered the afternoon sun and bathed the room in a putrid haze. A mattress, heavily stained and disfigured, lay amid the remains of countless take-out meals. The closet doors hung broken and sagging on their hinges. The closet held only more garbage.
    â€œClear!” was all he said as he slipped into position again with Mason.
    The detective pushed himself as tightly as he could against the right-side wall, giving himself the greatest possible angle on the bedroom door. “I’ve got the second bedroom. Clear the bathroom.”
    Jack called, “Police! You in the bathroom! Open the door and show us your hands! Do it now!”
    No answer. No sounds of movement.
    â€œIt’s never easy, is it?” Mason echoed Jack’s thoughts.
    â€œThat wouldn’t be any fun.” Jack stalked the bathroom door, trusting Mason to blast anyone in the bedroom to hell and gone if they stuck their nose out. There was nowhere to hide and his ass was hanging in the wind, so he figured speed was better than stealth right now. He aimed for the same spot that Tank had targeted to obliterate the front door and lashed out with his foot, putting all of his weight behind it. Bathroom doors are not the same as front doors and this one flew open with a satisfying shattering of wood.
    Jack followed through on his kick and rammed his shoulder into the door, smashing it flat against the wall, eliminating that hidden danger zone while covering the rest with his gun. Empty. Of people at least. The bathroom was empty but made the bedroom look clean. The toilet was overflowing with dried human waste and it looked like the tub was pulling double duty. Jack forced down the urge to vomit.
    Breathing as shallowly as he could, he turned his back on the filth —
How could people live like this?
— and faced the final door. Mason edged closer and Jack twisted his free hand, showing he would try the doorknob. Mason signalled Jack to wait. He cracked his neck to the left, then the right, settled the shotgun back into place against his shoulder and nodded at Jack. Keeping as much of himself tucked into the bathroom as possible, Jack reached out and gripped the knob. It turned easily in his hand.
    Bullets ripped through the centre of the door and splinters and chunks of wood lacerated the opposite wall like grenade fragments. Jack snatched his hand back. As soon as the gunfire stopped, he kicked the door open.
    In the instant it took to bring his gun up on target, Jack noted a box spring and frame; clothes littered the floor, and heavy drapes dimmed the room. The scant light silhouetted a man wearing only a pair of unbuttoned jeans. His bare scalp and black skin glistened with sweat as he frantically tried to work the action of the assault rifle he held.
    â€œDrop the gun, motherfucker!” Mason’s voice sounded strained, but his hands were rock steady. As was his shotgun. “Drop it or die!”
    â€œMason! What the fuck is going on down there?” Tank shouted frantically.
    â€œWe’re good, Tank,” Mason called back, his eyes still on the gunman. “There’s no room down here for anyone else.”
    The gunman was frozen, his hands gripping his weapon and his eyes flickering between Jack and Mason.
    â€œJust open your hands and let it drop. If it even twitches in this direction, you die. Just let it drop. Simple as that.”
    The silence stretched out. Was the gunman working up his nerve? Sweat ran down Jack’s face, into his eyes. He didn’t blink — he didn’t want to lose his target, even for a heartbeat. His shoulders were starting to ache with the effort of holding the Glock out at arm’s length. How much longer would he have to kneel here?
    A lifetime was crammed into every heartbeat.
    Slowly, so slowly, the gunman drew himself erect, his gun pointed down. Defiance was bright in his eyes.
    â€œDon’t,” Mason warned. “Just drop