The door opened further, slowly creeping wider. Six inches. Eight. A foot.

Then it stopped.

Eric jumped out from behind the corner, swung the six-foot-long bar straight back as far as he could, then thrust it forward like a battering ram with all his 175 pounds behind it. It exploded through the cheap plywood door, through one side and out the other, spraying splinters and chips of white paint. Then it hit something solid.

"Ooomph!"

And the sickening sound of bones cracking. Ribs, from the sound of them, Eric thought, shoving the metal bar even harder. Twisting it roughly.

Annie leaped out of bed, staggered a moment as the blood rushed dizzily to her head. "Christ, Eric! What are you doing?" She snapped on the bedside lamp, knuckling her eyes. "This is a hell of a time to lift weights."

Eric yanked the bar back through the shattered door and flung it to the carpet where it landed with a heavy thud before clanging up against the dresser. Reaching around the door, he grabbed a handful of curly, greasy hair and jerked the injured man into the bedroom.

Surprised, in pain, and off-balance, the man tumbled into the room, his gun still out in the hall where he'd dropped it. He was dressed in jeans, black high-top sneakers, plaid flannel shirt, and black windbreaker. Twenty-three at most.

The windbreaker and shirt were torn where the bar had crushed the ribs, and some blood was oozing out. The kid was breathing heavily, but with a raspy echo, as if the air was leaking out somewhere. He was on one knee now, easing the long hunting knife from under his pant leg,

"Mom?" Jennifer's sleepy voice drifted down the hall.

"Eric?" Annie said, standing naked and unembarrassed next to the bed.

"Go see to the kids," Eric said. "I'll handle this."

"Don't move, lady," the kid said, shuffling forward in a crouch. The knife waved back and forth in front of him.