POV: Hunter
The hand on his ankle was a steel trap. It yanked, throwing Hunter off balance. He landed hard on his side, the breath knocked out of him.
Stupid. You didn't secure him properly. You got sloppy. Sloppy gets you killed.
The internal beration was swift and merciless. The man on the floor, despite the zip-ties on his wrists, was using his legs and core strength, scissoring them around Hunter's captured leg. It was a jiu-jitsu move. This wasn't some street thug.
The thunder of boots on the stairs was seconds away.
Hunter stopped trying to pull his leg free. He went with the momentum. Using the man's own pull, he spun his body on the floor, twisting violently. As he spun, he brought his free leg up and drove his heel into the side of the man's jaw.
Crack.
The grip vanished. The man went limp, truly unconscious this time.
But the delay was fatal. The first of the three charged into the bedroom doorway, his rifle seeking a target in the dark.
Hunter had no time for the window. No time for anything but attack.
He saw the lamp on the floor, knocked over in the struggle. Not a weapon. He was on his back, vulnerable.
The man in the doorway saw the movement. He swung his rifle barrel down.
Hunter did the only thing he could. He kicked the fallen lamp with all his might. It skittered across the floor, slamming into the intruder's shins.
The man yelped in surprise, stumbling forward a step. It was the half-second Hunter needed.
He coiled his legs and sprang from the floor, not standing up, but launching himself forward like a human missile. He slammed into the man's legs, tackling him at the knees.
The man cried out as they both crashed to the floor in the doorway. The rifle clattered away. They were a tangle of limbs, punching, gouging, grunting. The man was bigger, stronger. He got an arm around Hunter's neck.
Chokehold. Three seconds to blackout.
Hunter didn't fight the arms. He drove his thumb deep into the man's eye socket.
The man screamed, a raw, animal sound of pain. His grip loosened. Hunter slammed his head backward, feeling the satisfying crunch of his skull connecting with the man's nose.
The grip fell away. Hunter scrambled off him, gasping.
The second man was already in the doorway, trying to get a clear shot at Hunter without hitting his friend. Hunter saw the hesitation. He used it.
He grabbed the dazed, bleeding man from the floor and shoved him forward, using him as a human shield.
The two intruders collided in the doorway, a cursing, tangled mess.
Hunter dove for the fallen rifle. His fingers found the familiar polymer stock. He rolled onto his back, finger finding the trigger.
The second man had untangled himself. He stood over Hunter, his own pistol aimed down. In the poor light, Hunter saw the man's finger whiten as it took up the trigger slack.
There was no time to aim. No time for mercy.
Hunter fired the rifle from his hip.
The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. The man jerked backward as if yanked by a wire, a dark spray misting the wall behind him. He fell and didn't move.
Three down.
The third man, the one who had been by the front door, appeared behind him in the hall. He saw his friend fall. He saw Hunter on the floor. Rage contorted his face.
"YOU KILLED MIKE!" he screamed, and opened fire on full auto.
Hunter rolled violently toward the bed as a storm of bullets tore across the floor where he'd just been. Splinters of wood and chunks of drywall filled the air. He came up behind the bed, using the thick mattress as cover. Bullets thud-thud-thudded into it, the sound dampened but terrifying, spraying a snowstorm of feathers.
He crouched, clutching the rifle. His ears rang. The smell of cordite and dust was thick. Two left. The one in the hall. And the one who fell out the window? Was he down?
A shadow moved outside the shattered window.
Hunter's blood froze. The fifth man. He hadn't fallen to his death. He'd dropped down, maybe onto the porch roof, and now he was coming back. Climbing through the window, a black silhouette blocking the square of moonlight.
Hunter was pinned. The man in the hall had him cornered with suppressing fire. The man at the window was cutting off his only escape route.
The figure at the window raised his arm. Something small and dark was in his hand. He pulled a pin with his teeth and tossed the object into the room.
It clattered on the hardwood, rolling toward the bed.
Hunter's world narrowed to that small, rolling cylinder. It wasn't a grenade. It was worse. A flashbang. In ten seconds, it would erupt with a light brighter than the sun and a sound louder than thunder. He'd be blind, deaf, disoriented. A vegetable for them to finish off.
Nine… eight…
He couldn't run out the door. He couldn't go out the window.
Seven… six…
His eyes darted around the room. The comforter. The thick, down-filled comforter was half on the bed, half on the floor near him.
Five… four…
It was a desperate, stupid idea. It probably wouldn't work.
Three…
It was the only idea he had.
In one frantic motion, he grabbed the heavy comforter, leaped forward, and threw his entire body on top of the rolling flashbang, smothering it with the blanket and his own weight.
He squeezed his eyes shut, jammed his fingers deep into his ears, and opened his mouth to equalize the pressure.
Two… one…
A live flashbang grenade is rolling on the floor toward Hunter, about to go off.