“Save it for when we’re—” Riley stopped, one foot in the backyard, the other still in the building. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

The third helicopter was almost on top of him. It hovered over the cracked asphalt like a pissed metal insect, stirring up dust and debris from the ground and the dumpsters. The dirt whipped against Riley’s front and face, but McClane was doing something to their eyes and nose to keep them perfectly clear and unaffected. Riley had no trouble making out every menacing detail of the helicopter or the black-clad, masked soldiers in the process of rappelling down, unfazed by the thirty-foot drop beneath.

“United States Army,” a tinny voice blared from above. “Hold it right there!”

Yeah. Right.

Riley spun on his heels, ducked back into the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind him. He leaned against it for a second, his pulse thrumming crazily, adrenaline pumping through his system with every frantic beat of his heart. They were so screwed.

Freezer, McClane shouted in his head, propelling them into action as he spoke. The massive metal box was full to the brim with frozen goodies and heavy as fuck. Riley cussed up a storm, shoved, strained and finally planted his back against the freezer and his feet against the wall and pushed with all his might. He could feel the soothing coolness of metal flowing over his skin beneath his clothes as McClane jumped in to help, reinforcing Riley’s frame and adding what additional strength he could.

The reluctant screech of metal against tile brought the cook and his helpers running and they stood and stared openmouthed as Riley shoved and swore and muscled the oversized monster where he wanted it. Even if the thing fell, it’d be wedged between the door and the long kitchen counter.

It’d be a bitch to get past it from the outside.

“What the fuck are you doing, ese{10}? ” the cook asked, very much awake now and more bewildered than angry.

Something slammed against the door from the outside. The door smacked against the back of the freezer in turn. The freezer stood firm.

Riley huffed out a breath of relief.

“What’s it fucking look like?”

“Looks like you’re barricading our back door,” the guy next to the cook said. A man of keen observational skills, that one.

Stampede them, McClane suggested, sounding almost giddy. Riley briefly wondered whether his passenger might be riding the high of Riley’s adrenaline rush, then he caught up with what McClane was saying.

“What?” he asked.

The cook gave him a look. “What, what?”

We gotta get out of here, McClane explained, already nudging Riley to pull out his gun. We gotta make a break for it before they’ve deployed all their soldiers. The diner’s a death trap. Stampede the customers, we can maybe make it out with the crowd and get lost in the confusion.

“We don’t even know they’re here for us,” Riley argued, desperately.