Savannah, Georgia, Sunday…

"That's poetic enough, I guess," she said with a smile.

They both heard the board creak, the one by the front door.

"Someone's in the house," Sandra whispered, her eyes wide. "What are you doing?"

Bouncer had gone to a utensils drawer. He came up with a meat tenderizer in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other. He handed her the meat tenderizer.

"Not much against a gun," he observed.

"Daddy's got some guns in the basement," she said, testing the weight of her weapon.

"Where's that?"

"The entrance door is just to the right of the front door. You saw it."

"Yeah, right, I remember. That won't do us any good right now. I saw a back door. Off the den, right?" She nodded. "Let's go, then. Maybe we can make a run for it."

"How? It's broad daylight."

"I just want to get out of the house while the goon's in it. Whoever he is."

At that moment, Curt Forrester was stealthily moving towards the kitchen. He smelled the coffee and the sausage. Since he hadn't eaten a real meal in more than twenty-four hours, the smell of home cooking made his mouth water. But he didn't have time to reflect on his hunger. He had a job to do.

The kitchen was empty but the dirty plates told him two people had just finished breakfast. He picked up a leftover sausage and took a bite out of it. Damn good southern cooking. So where are they? He figured they were probably warned by the creaking floor board. Damn old houses. You can always trust them to screw your gig up somehow. He moved into the corridor off the kitchen, pointing the gun one way, then the other, as if he were on a reconnaissance mission in a Teheran slum. He held the gun fairly close to his body unlike what was often seen in the stupid cop shows. He knew the ragheads could hit his extended arms with a rifle or even a shovel and send his weapon flying. They could pop up in any room, too, even kids. A buddy had been killed by a ten-year-old.