Ham caught a movement out of the corner of his eye; somebody outside. He’d only seen a shoulder and an elbow. “Don’t do that right now,” he said.

“What?”

He went into the living room, opened his gun safe, and took out an Ithaca riot gun he’d had for years. He handed her the shotgun and a box of shells. “Take this into the broom closet and load it,” he said. “Take Daisy, keep her quiet, stay down low.”

She regarded him calmly for a moment, then took the shotgun and went back into the kitchen.

Ham took his Beretta 9mm from the safe, shoved a loaded magazine into it, and worked the action. He put two more magazines into his pocket, then took out the Browning automatic shotgun that he used for bird hunting and loaded it, putting extra shells into another pocket. He went to a closet in the living room where he kept his fishing clothes and got inside, leaving the door ajar so he could see the front door. He tuned out the birds in the trees outside, tuned out the cars crossing the bridge over the Indian River half a mile away, and listened to everything else.

He heard the tiny creak of a board from the back porch; he heard the scuff of a shoe sole from the front porch. He heard the squeak of a hinge on the screen door to the back porch. He knew they were listening, too, and they weren’t hearing voices anymore. He thought about saying something, but the closet door he stood behind was flimsy and would not stop a round. He held the shotgun in his left hand, ready to bring up the barrel, and the old automatic in his right.

Then he saw the shoulder and elbow he had seen out the window, and they were attached to a head and a neck. The man was short and stocky, and he held an Uzi in his hands.

Why do these yahoos think they need machine guns? he asked himself.

The man stopped just inside the front door and, looking toward the rear of the house, held a finger to his lips, then waved for his companion to approach.

That’s it, Ham said to himself. You two fellows just get a little closer together.

The first man was making hand motions now, directing his friend toward the kitchen. No more waiting.

Ham kicked open the closet door. “Freeze,” he said, but he knew they wouldn’t. The short barrel of the Uzi was swinging around, and he fired the shotgun at it once, while pointing the Beretta 9mm at the other man.

The first man and the Uzi parted company, and he flew backward, landing on and smashing the mahogany coffee table. The second man dropped his weapon and threw his hands into the air.

“Good evening,” Ham said in a low voice. “How many more of you?”