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Our breaths are shallow; every sound seems amplified in the silence that follows.
We move on, avoiding another trap that Ghost identifies as a tripwire connected to a pipe bomb packed with ball bearings. Ahead of us lurks the staircase, and upstairs, Erik Marquez and the answers I need.
“Let me lead here,” Ghost says, quietly, before heading toward the staircase.
He makes it two steps before he suddenly stops and raises his hand in a warning motion.
I cock my head, listening.
Then I hear it — a floorboard upstairs. A creak.
Erik Marquez is awake.
“Figured you boys would show up,” he says with a laugh. “Welcome to my home. You like it? Got it for a fucking steal during the real estate crash.”
“Actually, I have a real fucking problem with your drapes, man,” Hawk retorts.
“Fuck you, I like my drapes,” Marquez yells. Then there’s the sound of a shotgun being pumped. I just have time to dive for cover before the night erupts in gunfire. The flash from Marquez's shotgun momentarily blinds us, its boom resonating through the core of the house. Splinters of wood and dust shower over us as we scramble for any cover the tight hallway offers. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but the ringing aftermath of that first shot.
Ghost is already moving, a shadow flitting towards the foot of the stairs, using the railing as partial cover. Hawk is on one knee, sighting down his gun barrel, awaiting a target — any target. I find myself pressed against a peeling-floral wallpaper, force myself to breathe, to focus.
"Marquez!" I shout over the ringing in my ears. "It doesn't have to go down like this!"
Another laugh from upstairs, manic and goading.
"Oh, but it does, boys! It really does! This is the job."
A job? Fuck, this was a setup.
“You hard now, Ghost?” Hawk yells. “I mean, from something other than the bathroom stuff.”
“Most definitely. You know, once the guns come out, the blood gets pumping,” Ghost says. “It’s the same way anytime the subject of your mom comes up, Hawk.”
Another shotgun blast rips apart the sofa near where Ghost is crouched. Marquez’s voice comes from upstairs. “Keep talking, boys. I love hearing about MILFs and I love knowing where to shoot.”
“You keep my mother out of your fucking mouth,” Hawk retorts, firing toward Marquez. “Ghost can talk — he’s earned that right, but you, the only right you have is to fucking die.”
“She’s got a dump truck like a Pixar mom. It’s fucking legit,” Ghost says.
Ghost signals two fingers then points up — the second-floor landing — and then to his eyes; he's seen something. He gestures again, this time a looping motion with his hand followed by three fingers held up — three seconds.
I understand immediately: distraction and breach.
Ghost disappears, slipping out a window and outside. I begin a silent count — I have just a handful of seconds to keep Marquez’s focus on us so Ghost can make his move. I run to the kitchen, throwing open cupboards until I find what I’m looking for: lighter fluid and a few aerosol cans. Jackpot.
“Cover me,” I hiss at Hawk, and he lays down steady fire while I throw the canister of lighter fluid near the top of the stairs and puncture it with a shot from my gun. A stream of fluid sprays from the canister, cascading down the stairs. I take my lighter out, spark it, and toss into the fluid. In moments, the staircase erupts in flames.
A shotgun blast sends me back to cover.
Marquez’s voice sets my teeth on edge. “Trying to barbecue me? You'll have to do better than that."
I hurl one of the aerosol canisters into the flames and it explodes in a ball of fire. Beneath the roar of the explosion, I hear the faint sound of breaking glass come from upstairs. Ghost is making his move.
Another shotgun explosion rips apart the floor inches from me. A narrow miss that peppers me with shrapnel and makes me curse as dirt and debris obscure my vision.
“I’ll let them find your bodies,” Marquez taunts. “I’ll let them identify your remains. Just so your families can throw a funeral. I want to see Hawk’s mother, see if her ass is as good as you say. I’ll check it out while I follow her to her house, then I’ll test it while she still has the tears from your funerals on her face. Nothing’s as good as a crying woman… what the fuck?”
A single crack of pistol fire cuts Marquez silent for a moment, then he screams.
