He figured it would be good to engage them, get them talking. “You guys can’t win this, you know.”
Laughter from the thugs. “Looks a little different from our point of view, dude.”
“Two guys. Going against all of us. Whatever damage you do, you won’t live to enjoy it.”
“We’re not here to do damage. We’re here to take the place!”
Hatfield answered, “And what would you do with it?”
“What?”
“You heard me. You have no idea how to run things here. What would you do if your diesel generators went down or your draining system couldn’t survive the rain?”
“You know what, dude? You’re right. We don’t know what we’d do with this place—but you know who does?”
Stumped, Hatfield said nothing.
“Those three you kicked out.” The thugs turned to each other, nodding and smiling.
“Yeah, man. They know everything about this place. The plans. How to use the equipment. How to protect it. Everything.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I think you’re bluffing because you got no other choice. It’s two guys against an army, and you have to bluff your way out of it.”
One of them shook his head. “Whatever. Believe what you want—”
“Two guys?” the other one yelled, voice choked by a giggle. “Is that what you think? We got two more inside—”
“Shh!” the other one shouted. “Dude, don’t let him know what’s happening inside.”
A brief argument followed between them. Hatfield used the moment to drop his gaze. With his hands now at his waist, he gestured toward the ground. He wanted them as low as possible, safely away from any gunfire.
Justin and Tami noticed the gesture, but they didn’t seem to understand it. When a moment of quiet came, he tried to clarify things for him in code. “Guys, don’t you realize that you will go down in history as a couple of cowards.”
Neither face of his kids registered recognition. He tried again. “Did you hear me, guys? You will go down”—pointing to the ground on the appropriate words—"in history as a couple of cowards.” He checked the quivering faces of both kids. “Do you guys understand that?” He asked the thugs—but aiming his words at Justin and Tami.
They both nodded, starting to drop their position slowly.
A thug spat, “Dude, we understand perfectly well—” His eyes bulged when noticing what was happening. “Wait a minute!”
But it was too late. Hatfield fired at the first thug, keeping his aim high and getting just enough of his forehead to send his head back violently and his body to the porch’s floor.
The second shot was sloppier, coming just before the target could swing his gun around, but it nipped his shoulder and sent him down. His kids sprang forward and free, giving their dad two clear shots to finish the job. These were perfect, landing on the chest and chin.
He waved the guys in with one hand, hugging Justin and Tami with the other, then telling them, “I need you two to get into the Hummer, lock the door, duck nice and low, and stay there no matter what. Okay?”
They nodded their shaky heads, then sprinted away just as the homesteaders were on their way to the compound. The guys crouched into position outside the door, rifles trained.
“What’s the next move, Mr.—”
Hearing footsteps, Hatfield lifted a hand, then put a finger onto his lips, calling for quiet.
“Who was that?” somebody inside asked, his voice soft and clearly aimed for somebody else inside. “I heard gunshots out there.”
The other answered, “I hope it wasn’t our guys!”
After taking a glance at the Hummer, he saw nothing—a good sign because it meant Justin and Tami’s heads were out of view. Nice and low, just like he told them.
Racing in the door without knowing the positions of those remaining would be suicide, so Hatfield waited, took a few breaths, and poked his head as far inside as he could without inviting gunfire. With his hand raised behind him—telling the homesteaders to stand down—he swept the area with his eyes, seeing no one. But on a second sweep, he noticed something in the reflection of a well-polished vase on the shelf. The tops of two heads poked out from behind a reclining chair. Not knowing he’d spotted them, they took their time ducking back down.
That told him exactly where to fire when he entered. He only had to make sure he got his shots off before the two inside did. He turned to the homesteaders, mouthed the words behind the recliner. Each of them nodded.
He brought his gaze back to the interior of the house, then held up a single finger. Then two. After seeing no movement, he raised three fingers, then sprang over the threshold, firing three shots behind the chair.
A hail of bullets rang out, filling the living room with chaos. A deep groan followed by a thump behind the chair told Hatfield he had hit one. Several seconds of uneasy silence passed.
Hatfield held his position behind a turned-over table. Two homesteaders stayed behind him. The other two crouched behind a sofa, rifles poking through the cushions. Movement behind the recliner urged him into motion, so he leaped up, fired away, hoping to catch the surviving gunman’s head.
But the thug had lifted the recliner’s rear with him as he fired away, shielding him from any bullets. He then scrambled back from the chair, running into a dark hallway.
Hatfield and the homesteaders gave chase, but the thug had the cover of darkness, and every shot fired may as well have been made with blindfolds. They reached the hallway and saw nothing. No sign of where he could be.
A bustle came from a side room, feet wildly scuttling about. Then came an adolescent giggle. That puzzled Hatfield, but the homesteaders backpedaled away when they realized where he was. “Get back!” they shouted in sloppy unison.
“Why?” he asked.
It took only a second or two to see the reason for alarm. A hand grenade was tossed from the room, landing just in front of them. They managed to brush it away in time for it to land elsewhere before an ear-shattering explosion.
Seconds later, the thug raced out of the room, firing away wildly from a hip-high shotgun, his face blazing with kamikaze glee. With five guns against him, he went down, screeching to the sky, chest, face, and belly exploding in a sea of red.
But his wasn’t the only screaming voice. A homesteader had taken shots to the shoulder, and Hatfield had a bullet graze his hand’s palm—nothing lethal, but enough to push a geyser of blood to the carpet. With no other options, he pressed his hand against his pants, hoping to stop the flow of blood.
The shooter was dead, but the groans kept coming—from both Hatfield and the homesteader.
“Any word on when they’re getting back from the hospital?” another homesteader asked.
Through gritted teeth, Hatfield answered, “They’re probably waiting on me. We got no phone, so there’s no way to clear up the miscommunication.” He then climbed to unsteady feet and hobbled toward the den, guessing that was the place he could find his wife. He kicked down the door, and there she was—bound and gagged, two other women—also under restraint—beside her.
He tried to tug them free but got nowhere. He searched the room for something to cut the ropes, found nothing, so he settled for a knife on his keychain. He freed the ladies, then smothered his wife with a hug. “Are the kids okay?” she asked. “Where are they?”
“They’re fine, out in the Hummer.”