Once the man in the ponytail had arrived, a new sense of dread had fallen over the crowd, as they all recognized that he was the real man in charge of the operation, not the arrogant, wild-eyed Irishman. To the horror and shock of them all, he’d taken the huge gasoline cans from the back of the SUV and emptied their contents around the entire base of the pavilion, until the stench of gasoline hung over the crowd despite the wind whipping around them. But even then, the residents didn’t truly believe he’d light a fire that would incinerate all of them. They figured it was just a bluff, a threat to obtain whatever he was looking for from whoever had it.

But Ben hadn’t thought it was a bluff. There was something sinister about the man, and it disturbed Ben greatly. It was also why he hadn’t been shocked when one of his older neighbors he didn’t recognize—he assumed he was a neighbor, although he was dressed like Ponytail—had been shot point-blank in the chest and then executed by the Irishman as he lay on the ground after shooting Ponytail. He was reminded of an old movie called True Romance—where everyone shot each other at the end in one final blaze of glory—and forced the recollection out of his mind.

The crowd had stood up, even as their three captors yelled at them to stay seated. The shooting had initiated an invisible tug-of-war for control, with the residents resisting. Some of the men, including Ben, knew their captors couldn’t kill all of them, but the residents had waited, at least until the SUV crashed the party.

Once the first two shooters had been killed or incapacitated—Ben didn’t know which—he’d made a decision: attack the last gunman, no matter what. He felt confident he could disarm him, and he stepped closer, only feet away, when he saw Sam in the passenger side of the SUV, staring in his direction.

He knew the vehicle was bulletproof, as he’d just watched the two other men hit it dozens of times without penetrating the windshield. But Ben didn’t know enough, or anything, about vehicle armor to know whether the passenger door’s glass was also bulletproof. As the remaining gunman brought his black assault rifle up toward the SUV and Sam inside it, Ben instinctively leapt forward with hostile intent.

While he wasn’t a football player, he’d spent hours mastering various takedown maneuvers, and he slammed his left shoulder into the man’s side as he struck out at the rifle just under the barrel in front of the magazine. As the gunman was knocked forward off his feet, the barrel rose a few inches from Ben’s blow just as Sam opened the door.