***
Kaspar tried to get the screaming woman’s voice out of his head as the SUV rocketed forward. He thought about what she had called him: a monster and a murderer. It was then that he realized he was no longer different from the men who killed Mother. The realization meant nothing to him, he only accepted it. Mother deserved justice and he would allow her to have it.
The SUV was brought to a stop once more in front of another one bedroom home, this one painted white. DeMarcus Wilcox was next on the list. Kaspar turned the key to kill the engine. He stepped out of the car and the rainfall had increased from earlier. He turned his attention to the unkempt front yard. The grass was full of weeds, there was trash and used cigarette butts littered all over it. He looked to the chipped white painted exterior of the home. There was something different: the front door was wide open. Only a torn screen door blocked entry. The lights were also on inside.
Kaspar retrieved his Glock. He approached the screen door and swung it open. No sounds inside. No sound except for…
A large, black and red Rottweiler barked in fury. The dog hurled itself onto Kaspar, knocking the intruder to the floor. The dog tore its sharp fangs into Kaspar’s left arm. He cried out in agony as the dog violently moved its head from left to right, trying its best to rip the arm out of place. Kaspar did not want to do it, but he had no choice. He pulled the gun up to the side of the dog’s head and pulled the trigger. The lifeless animal’s body weight crushed down on his midsection. He tried to get the dog off of him. When he looked up his eyes grew wide. Wilcox stormed into the living room, a fully loaded Remington 870 with a sawed off barrel in his large hands.
With one strong heave he moved the dog off. Kaspar then rolled to the right. At almost the same moment Wilcox pulled the trigger. The buckshot tore a hole through the wooden floor. Kaspar continued his roll until he was behind the couch. The Agent pulled the trigger again, this time he created a gaping hole in the couch. With his back rested against it, Kaspar ignored the pain in his left arm. He grabbed the handle of his second Glock and ripped it out of the holster.
“Yeah,” Wilcox called from the back of the kitchen. “That’s right, run and hide, bitch. You killed my fucking dog!”
The loud boom of the shotgun filled the house. It created another hole. Kaspar slid his body to the right. He reached up with his right hand and sent four rounds in Wilcox’s direction. Wilcox ducked then moved into the living room with his head low. He used his shoulder to knock down the dining room table. Kaspar fired five more rounds then moved his hand back down. Wilcox fired again as well, blowing a hole through the center of the couch.
Kaspar’s mind started to race. He recognized the shotgun Wilcox wielded as being a twelve gauge. He moved further right until he was at the end of the couch. His target fired once more. Kaspar tried to search his mind for something that Paxton once told him about shotguns…
They carried five shells, six if Wilcox kept one in the chamber. Kaspar decided to play it safe and assumed that there would six shells. He reached up with his left arm this time then sent five more rounds in Wilcox’s direction.
“Come on out and fight, pussy!” Wilcox cried.
Kaspar scooted left to the hole close to him. He peered his masked eyes through it. He had to get a good read on Wilcox’s location. Just as he saw the turned over table he hit the deck. Wilcox sent a flurry of buckshot his way. It created a new hole in the couch…just above Kaspar’s head. Six. Now was the perfect opportunity to make his move.
The Agent pulled at the trigger again at the sight of the masked man. The trigger stuck. Wilcox moved low to the kitchen. He rested behind the waist high bar and pulled more shells from his pocket. Kaspar moved in with caution. He pointed both guns forward. He could hear the sound of the shells being slammed into the chamber. He reached the bar. At the same moment, Wilcox shot up with a small revolver in his hand. The two killers stood face to face, each with a gun pointed at his head. A small grin crept across Wilcox’s lips.
“What’s it gonna be now?” he asked.
Kaspar slammed his injured left arm across Wilcox’s. Three rounds from the six shooter flew harmless through the house. Kaspar reached up with his right arm and sent three rounds through The Agent’s stomach. Wilcox began to stumble backwards. With quickness, Kaspar aimed both Glocks at his target’s head. He pulled each trigger once. He stood for a moment, both guns still drawn, and he could feel his hands start to tremble. He then looked down at the yellow fabric attached to his flak jacket.
Blood was smeared on it.