He dug the pistol hard into Frank’s cheek, but Frank was watching the others. The bruiser and the smaller man split apart, the bruiser charging to the French doors to check out the back, the little guy throwing open cabinets and doors, both of them shouting and cursing. Their movements were fast. Fast into the house. Fast into Frank’s face. Fast through the rooms. Fast to drive the play, and loud to increase the confusion. Only the man with the strange sideburns moved slowly, floating outside the perimeter as if with a private agenda.

Frank knew from experience it wasn’t enough to follow the play; you had to be ahead of the action to survive. Frank tried to buy himself time to catch up.

“My wallet’s in my office. I’ve got three or four hundred dollars—”

The leader hit Frank again.

“You take me a fool, muthuhfuckin’ wallet?”

“We use credit cards—”

Hit him again. Harder.

The man with the sideburns finally stepped out of the background, appearing at the table.

“See the plates? More people are here. We must look for the others.”

Frank was surprised by the accent. He thought it was Polish, but couldn’t be sure.

The man with the accent disappeared into the kitchen just as the bruiser charged out of the family room to Cindy and Joey. He held his pistol to Cindy’s temple, shouting at Frank in his rage.

“You want this bitch dead? You want me to put this pipe right in her mouth? You want her to suck on this?”

The leader slapped Frank again.

“You think he don’t mean it?”

The bruiser suddenly backhanded Cindy with his pistol, splashing a red streamer from her cheek. Joey screamed, and Frank Meyer suddenly knew what to do.

The man with Frank was watching the action when Frank grabbed his gun hand, rolled his wrist to lock the man’s arm, and jointed his elbow. Frank had been out of the life for years, but the moves were burned into his muscle memory from a thousand hours of training. He had to neutralize his captor, strip the weapon as he levered the man down, recover with the pistol in a combat grip, put two into the big man who had Cindy, then turn, acquire, and double-tap whoever was in his field of fire. Frank Meyer had gone automatic. The moves flowed out ahead of the play exactly as he had trained for them, and, back in the day, he could have completed the sequence in less than a second. But Frank was still fumbling with the pistol when three bullets slammed into him, the last shot hitting the heavy vertebra in Frank’s lower back, putting him down.

Frank opened his mouth, but only a hiss escaped. Cindy and Joey screamed, and Frank fought to rise with the fierce will of the warrior he had been, but will was not enough.