"Okay, hero. Die."

Glen twisted away as the biker fired once more.

Pellets slashed his back. He scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees. There was another blast behind him, then another and another. It was the biker who fell hard, groaning.

Ann stood in the doorway, their Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum in her hands, the Model 13's four-inch barrel still smoking.

A voice called from the street. "What's going on in there? Bull!"

Blood foamed from the mouth of the longhair on the floor.

Glen saw him try to grasp a pistol in a shoulder holster, trying to get a hold on it inside his jacket. Glen grabbed the shotgun from the floor. He pointed it at the man's head and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pumped the slide, heard the hammer click. Empty.

As the biker finally pulled the pistol from the holster, Glen swung the shotgun like a club and smashed the man's head. He brought down the shotgun three times.

A gun blast outside sent slugs ripping through the house. "Down, Ann!" screamed Glen. The words felt strange coming from his numb, shattered mouth. Then he crawled again, kicked the front door closed, dragged the couch across the doorway. Glass and plaster fell around him as more bullets punched through the house.

"Glen, where are you?" Ann screamed.

"I'm okay, I'm okay. Lie down on the floor. Go back to the bedroom."

He crawled back to the dying biker. The man still breathed. Glen found his revolver, a snub-nosed stainless steel Colt Lawman. He put the pistol in his pants pocket. He searched through the man's jacket pockets, finding speed-loaders and a box of cartridges. He unbuckled the nylon bandolier of shotgun cartridges from the man's waist, then he took the bloody shotgun and crawled out of the living room.

Ann lay on the bedroom floor. The Smith and Wesson was still firmly in her grip. Her swollen breasts rose and fell with deep, slow breathing. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is the baby..."