Lacey held up one of the 9mm rounds and showed it to Joe.
"Look at this. Hollow point. They're all hollow points."
Joe shook his head. "Nasty things. I hear they make a little hole going in and a great big hole coming out."
"Why would the undead be carrying automatics loaded with these?"
"To protect against humans, I imagine," Joe said. "They're strong, they're fast, but that's not enough if they're attacked by a mob." He pointed to the round. "That's probably what the Vichy will be using against us this morning—if they get the chance."
"Let's go over the plan again," Lacey said.
She wasn't crazy about it. As much as she respected her uncle's intelligence, he'd had no military training, had never engaged in any sort of violent activity. Lacey had at least studied martial arts. That wasn't much, but it had trained her on how to size up an opponent, how to look for strategic openings. Joe's plan seemed to depend on too many variables.
"Okay," Joe said. "The Vichy guards spend most of their time hanging around on the front steps. When they're not smoking they're sleeping. They're bored and don't take their job seriously. No one's ever attacked them on duty like that and they probably think no one ever will. We're going to change that."
"Hitting them at dawn I understand, but why napalm? Why don't we just shoot them?"
"Because we're not marksmen—or, excuse me, markswomen—and we can't afford a protracted gun battle because my clock will be running. If they hold out past my sun tolerance, we'll have lost more than the battle. We won't be able to take them by surprise again. But more than that, the more bullets flying, the greater chance of you or Carole getting hit."
"But how do we know the napalm will work?"
Joe's idea was for the three of them to climb to the roof of the building across the street and each toss a napalm-filled balloon onto the Vichy as they lounged on the Post Office steps below. The street wasn't wide and it was an easy throw from the roof. Or so he said.
"Oh, it will work," Carole said from the sink. "Have no fear of that."
"But it has to ignite."
"We'll make sure one of them's smoking before we toss."
"That doesn't guarantee it will light."
Joe leaned back, staring at her. For a moment she thought he was angry but couldn't be sure. So hard to gauge emotions when a face has no expression.
"You're right," he said finally. "It doesn't." He turned toward the kitchen. "Do we have any gasoline left, Carole?"
"A little. Why?"
"Save half a dozen ounces or so. We're going to bring along a Molotov cocktail." He turned back to Lacey. "Better?" "You mean throw that first, then the napalm?" He nodded. "Yeah," Lacey said. "That'll work."
JOE . . .
"Oh, no!" Joe said as he heard a thwacking noise and the car began to vibrate. He slammed a fist against the steering wheel. "Damn!"
They'd left an hour before dawn. The plan had been to loop north of Lakewood through Howell and approach downtown from the west. They were on Aldrich Road when the noise began.
"What's wrong?" Carole said. She sat next to him in the front, Lacey sat in the rear with the arsenal.
"Can you believe it? We've got a flat!"
He popped the trunk and jumped out. Of all times for something like this to happen.
"Can't we drive on the rim?" Carole said.
"Any other time I'd say fine, but we can't risk the racket it will make."
He lifted the trunk lid and was relieved to find the spare present and inflated.
Nearly half an hour later they were rolling again.
"That took too long," Carole said. "Maybe we should put this off till tomorrow."
She's probably right, Joe thought. What's another day?
But something inside wouldn't allow him to agree. He was primed and ready for a little payback. More than ready—aching.
"Let's see how things look," he said. "If we can't do it the way we planned, we'll call it off."
He looked at Carole and wanted to take her hand. He couldn't believe it. All these years she'd been as attracted to him as he'd been to her, and neither of them had had a clue. How sad, he thought. And how wonderful to be past that now.
They reached Lakewood just as the sun was rising. They parked two blocks from the business district and lugged their milk crate full of bottles, balloons, and guns between the buildings until they wound up in an alley across the street and half a block up from the Post Office. The three-man Vichy day shift was on the job, so to speak, smoking and lounging on the steps. One of them sat near a shotgun that leaned against a wall; the other two had holstered pistols.
Carole was looking at her watch. "We'll have to call it off. By the time we carry all this stuff up to the roof and start the attack"—she looked up at Joe— "it will be too late for you."
Joe looked at the brightening sky. Damn. She was right.
"All right. Let's head back to the car and—"
"Wait," Lacey said. "Give me a minute here."
"For what?" Joe said.
Her jaw was set and her eyes had gone flat and cold. She worked the slide on one of her pistols and stuck it into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back.
"Lacey?"
Before Joe could stop her she stepped out onto the sidewalk and began walking toward the Vichy. He wanted to call her back but didn't dare reveal himself. With the sun lighting her back, she moved briskly, hips swaying, arms swinging at her sides. Joe could only peek around the corner and pray.
She was halfway to the Post Office before they noticed her.
"Hey, girl," one of them said, shading his eyes as he squinted into the glare. "Where you goin?"
"Just passing through," she told him.
The two who'd been stretched out on the steps were now on their feet, hands on hips, looking toward her and grinning.
"What's your hurry?" said a big-bellied one.
"No hurry," she said. "Just got places to go."
Joe watched them move out into the street to intercept her. What is she doing? he wondered. Has she gone crazy?
"Oh, I don't think so," said the first one. "I think you're gonna stop and visit."
Lacey was within half a dozen feet of them now. "Been there, done that. Hey, boys . . . don't you remember me?"
With that she reached behind her, ripped her pistol free, and began firing wildly, pulling the trigger as fast as it would allow. Joe saw the one with the shotgun take a round in the chest. His arms flew outward as the bullet punched him back. Lacey's second shot went wild but the third caught the fat one in the gut. The last Vichy was drawing his pistol when Lacey's fourth shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around.
Four shots, three hits, but she didn't stop there. She kept firing.
Joe leaped out from the alley and dashed toward her as she stood over the three downed men and pumped round after round into their twitching bodies. He reached her as the slide on her pistol locked back on empty.
He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. "Lacey! What—?" Then he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"It was them, Uncle Joe," she sobbed. "I recognized them. They're the ones who—" She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Joe glanced at their blood-splattered remains. "Lacey ... Jesus. . . are you—?
"I'm okay. That was for Enrico ... and me. Let's just get this done and get out of here, okay?"
Joe opened his mouth to speak—he figured he should say something—but his mind was blank. He settled for a curt nod. They could talk later.