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No one asked where.

We had grown up inside houses built for war. Our bodies remembered the formation even if ten years had passed since mine had stood among them.

Marcello took the eastern service corridor. Archie positioned himself at the foot of the main staircase, placing his body between the upper floor and every armed man outside. Raze and I moved toward the rear entrance.

Steel shutters dropped over the lower windows with a series of heavy crashes.

Two failed to close.

One hung crooked beside the sitting room, leaving a gap wide enough for a rifle. The other remained fully raised over the service corridor.

The attackers had disabled both before the alarm sounded, which meant they had studied the house. The thought stripped something human from me.

The exterior lights failed. Darkness swallowed the garden.

Raze swore.

“They cut the generator feed.”

Red emergency lights flickered on along the floor. They washed the corridor in the color of blood.

A shadow crossed the broken rear window. I fired. The bullet struck the man high in the face. His head snapped backward, and he disappeared behind a stone planter.

Another attacker stepped into the opening before the first body settled. Raze shot him twice through the chest. The man dropped to one knee. Raze put a third round through his mouth before he could raise his weapon again.

Something heavy slammed into the rear door. The reinforced hinges groaned but held. A second impact shook the frame.

“They have a ram!” I called.

Raze ejected his magazine and replaced it.

Gunfire erupted from the service corridor. Marcello fired twice and was met with more gunfire.

I saw his body jerk. Blood struck the wall behind him.

“Marcello.”

He stumbled into the kitchen doorway, one hand clamped over his upper arm. Another bullet tore through the wood beside his face.

I caught the back of his jacket and dragged him behind the stone island while Raze fired through the service entrance, forcing the shooter back.

Blood ran between Marcello’s fingers and soaked his sleeve.

“Can you move your hand?”

He tried. His fingers barely responded.

“I have another one.”

He transferred his pistol to his left hand.

I ripped a cloth from the counter, wrapped it above the wound and pulled the knot until the flow slowed. Marcello’s face tightened.

A man entered through the service door. Marcello fired left-handed. The bullet tore through the attacker’s thigh and turned him sideways. I shot him through the chest. He fell across the threshold, one hand scraping against the tiles before going still.

A second man tried to step over him. Raze fired from the rear hall. The attacker retreated, dragging the first body with him as cover.

The ram struck the rear door again. The top hinge tore free.