Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Anderson Family Home
Portland, Maine
Caspian dropped his phone and drew his pistol just as the front door exploded inward; a tall man wearing a gray hoodie had rammed it with his shoulder. Caspian watched in horror as his mother was hurled backward, and her head hit the marble floor with a sickening crack.
If there was one positive thing coming out of the mortifying sight in front of him, it was that his mother was now out of his line of fire.
Caspian had a clear shot at Hoodie. And he took it just as Hoodie dove to his right and into the hallway leading toward the living room. Caspian heard the man yell in pain, but he couldn’t tell if it was from a bullet wound or if Hoodie had broken a wrist during his hard landing.
Caspian hoped it was both.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Liesel push Clara behind the kitchen island.
And then from behind him came the booming, distinctive bark of his father’s Colt .
45. The first bark was followed by two more a second later.
But Caspian couldn’t turn, couldn’t allow his focus to break, not when his mother lay stunned on the floor with a killer only a few feet away.
He had to trust that his dad could hold the line for a few seconds longer.
Caspian advanced toward his mother in a combat crouch, sending rounds into the hallway drywall, aiming low, where he guessed the intruder might be crawling or crouching. Caspian’s goal was to keep Hoodie pinned down and to keep him from firing at him or his mother.
Elizabeth was on her knees now, trembling. Her hands shook as she tried to steady herself, her eyes wide with shock.
From the kitchen, someone yelled something, adding to the chaos.
“Get behind me!” Caspian barked, reaching down with one arm to haul his mother upright. His other hand kept the pistol trained forward, toward the threat.
Caspian shielded his mother with his body as they began to retreat toward the kitchen. He kept one arm back to guide her and make sure she stayed behind him and didn’t stray too much to the left or to the right.
And that’s when—as if he was a predator breaking cover—Hoodie exploded out from the hallway, rolling across the floor as he opened fire.
Holding his pistol with only one hand, Caspian returned fire, squeezing the trigger repeatedly as he tracked Hoodie across the marble floor.
But Caspian’s priority, born out of his instinct to protect his mother, was to make himself as tall and as large as possible, so that he would be the most obvious target—even if it meant he couldn’t shoot with optimal accuracy.
If someone was going to get hit, it would be him, not his mother.
And that’s exactly what happened. It couldn’t have been more than a second or two since Hoodie had rolled out of cover when a burning lance of pain tore through Caspian’s leg, just above his left knee.
Another round hit him high on the chest, punching the breath from his lungs.
He staggered, but he kept squeezing the trigger, and an instant later, one of his rounds struck Hoodie in the forehead, half an inch above his right eye.
Hoodie’s head snapped backward, and the back of his skull exploded in a red mist.
Caspian could tell his blood had already soaked his shirt and his jeans, which wasn’t a good sign.
He turned and used the last of his strength to shove his mother behind the buffet—a thick piece of furniture made of solid oak.
Only then, once he knew his mother was out of immediate danger, did he glance out toward the deck and see Liesel rush to his father, who was lying motionless right next to a bloodied Nelson.
Caspian took a step toward the sliding doors leading to the deck, but his left leg collapsed from under him. A heartbeat later, he found himself staring at the ceiling, barely able to breathe.