When Michael gets home, he finds them in the tree, each to a branch, legs dangling. An uneven ladder runs up the side of the trunk. He takes it in silently.

"We're out of wood," Billy explains.

Michael sighs and walks away.

"What's wrong?" Billy looks suddenly nervous.

Jason shakes his head. "I don't know."

A moment later Michael returns carrying two pine deck chairs. He sets one upside down, reaches for the hammer, and snaps the leg off.

"Can't stop now. Look how much higher you could go."

He winks as he hands up the plank.

CHAPTER 11

Jason's eyes snapped open. He sat up, shadow-boxing the boogeyman. Raw adrenaline trampled his bourbon haze, fight-or-flight pushing everything else aside.

The sound had been unmistakable, but a little muted. In this neighborhood, the breaking glass could easily have been a drunk throwing his last bottle, or kids smashing a car window. There was no reason to panic yet. He tried to attune himself to the house, to stretch his perception into every corner, to make the place an extension of himself, as personal as limbs.

Glass shattered again. Louder. Inside the house.

Then he was moving, bare toes tracing the grain of the hardwood floor. The room went wobbly for a second from a rush of blood. He stepped past the armchair into the darker shadows, heart thumping against his ribs. Another crisp crack, like someone snapping off the glass in a windowpane, followed a second later by a thump that could have been the piece hitting a rug.

His mind raced, assessing the battlefield. The living room where he stood was in the front of the house, next to a small foyer and the front door. An open arch led to the kitchen and dining area. Off the back of the kitchen was the three-season room, a screened porch where they ate in the summer. That would be it. A lock snapped open.

His jacket was flung over the armchair. Moving lightly, he slid one hand into the front right pocket. The gun was gone.

Shit. The hospital. He'd taken the gun out of his jacket and stuck it in the glove box, betting correctly that the emergency room would have metal detectors. Afterward, he'd been preoccupied, and forgotten it. From the other room he heard a sound like someone banging into a table. "Quiet," a voice whispered. Not intruder, then; intruder s.

Jason inched along the wall, pulse racing and mouth dry. A shaft of yellow light cut through the air, veering crazily before settling on the floor. A second beam came on, this one more careful. Jason flattened his back to the wall, the arch to the kitchen a few inches to his right. Dust motes danced in the light as the beams pulled inward. He pictured the kitchen – breakfast table near the arch, black-and-white linoleum tiles, counter and sink along one wall. The sudden illumination from the flashlights would have cut their night vision. He had to know what he was facing. Fingers tingling, he peered around the arch.

Three men stood in the kitchen talking softly. Two had little Mag-Lites they pointed at their feet, minimizing the splash of light. They wore loose dark clothing and tennis shoes so bright they had to be fresh out of the box. All three had pistols in their hands. Why would thieves have pistols out?

Then the third man twisted on a flashlight of his own, pointing it at his chest as he tightened the beam, the light spilling up to reveal his face. For a moment Jason thought his heart had stopped, then realized he was just holding his breath.

It was Soul Patch.

His first reaction was pure energy. He thought of the ruined bar, the wood twisted and bubbled with heat. Thought of his brother's body, lying in some morgue somewhere, still to be dealt with. His heart pumped rage and his veins carried murder. Soul Patch wanted to dance? Bring him on.

Then he remembered Billy.

Jason eased back from the door into shadow. He had to find a way out of this that didn't risk Billy. Maybe he wasn't much of an uncle. Maybe he wasn't ready to play Daddy. But he sure as hell wasn't going to let anyone hurt his nephew.

There wasn't much time. He scanned for weapons, eyes falling on the fireplace pokers, then the coffee table with the television remote and empty Jim Beam bottle, on to his brother's desk, a box cutter sticking out of a jar of pens. Nothing he saw was a match for one pistol, much less three.

Then he looked at the coffee table again.

Move.

Staying on the balls of his feet, he quick-stepped over, grabbed the remote, then crept to the front door. From the other room he heard the faint sounds of footfalls, the men splitting up. He had a few seconds at most. He grasped the deadbolt key and began turning, body screaming for speed, mind fighting for stealth. He eased it open one slow degree at a time, and when he felt it seat, reached for the handle. He said a quick prayer that the hinges wouldn't squeak.

The door swung open silent as a ghost.

Jason stepped outside, the August humidity cotton-thick after the air-conditioning. He turned and pulled the door shut, closing it just as a dark shape stepped into the living room, swinging a flashlight beam across the floor. Jason spun, ducked down, and hurried across the front of the house.

The neighborhood was quiet, the small slumbering houses leaning against one another. Most of the streetlights were broken, but the remaining few lit the yard more than he'd have liked. He kept low as he moved. When he reached the living room window, he eased himself against the wall next to it, his feet moving from grass to the sharp wood chips lining the empty flower bed. Something jammed into the soft portion of his foot, but energy was slaloming so hard and fast through his body that the pain seemed muted as distant thunder. Rocking his head sideways, he looked in the window of his brother's house.

A man stood in the center of the room, holding the flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other. Six-foot-plus, with heavy-lidded eyes and cornrows. He had the gun loose and low, not tracking with the beam the way he should have.

Jason raised the remote, pointed it through the window at the television six feet away and pressed the button. The set sprang to life, screen brightening. The gangbanger whirled. His gun flew level as he gave a short little yelp.

Jason pressed the volume button, turning the TV louder. CNN still on, the sounds of a Blackhawk rotor beating through the glass. Inside, the banger moved toward the TV, then spun again, the flashlight beam dancing crazily across the room. Jason smiled, dropped the clicker, and sprinted.

The Caddy was parked down the street, and he thought of going for his gun. But as diversions went, this one wouldn't keep them occupied for long. He had to get Billy out. He raced across the yard, sucking hot air into his lungs. Between Michael's house and its neighbor was a thin walkway, and he dodged down it, feet slapping splintered concrete. The house next door was in lousy shape, chunks of siding missing, the holes like sunken eyes watching his progress.

Fifteen steps took him to the backyard, and he paused in the darkness, peering at the three-season room. As he'd expected, one of the panes of glass in the door had been broken. The door swung open at his touch. Thin traces of light coming in the windows highlighted the sparkling edges of broken glass on the floor, and he stepped carefully.

He paused, heart racing, blood thrumming through his system. The television in the other room was still blaring, Arabic with a translator over-dubbed, talking about an ambush that left three Marines dead. The insurgents had come out of the alleys with RPGs and Kalashnikovs, a man was saying. Jason stepped through the kitchen door on the balls of his feet. The room was dark, the air-conditioning cold and stale. A bead of sweat made the long slow run down his side. His hands were shaking. He ignored them, taking one cautious step after another, moving toward the stairs.