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hell outta here, too.”
    “I never saw so much goddamn paper.” That was the man on the porch, I thought. “Take at least an hour to burn all of it in the fireplace.”
    “We don’t have an hour, man.”
    “Come help. We’ll set the house on fire and get the hell out of here.”
    That was when a bush off to my right began to move down the hill toward the house.
    The man on the porch went back inside. The driver of the SUV turned off the ignition and climbed out. He took the steps to the porch two at a time and disappeared inside.
    I waited until the walking bush was nearing the porch, then eased the red dot onto him. Bracing the gun against my shoulder, I thumbed the fire selector to full automatic, then squeezed the trigger. The noise was about as loud as a .22 rifle. The weapon walked off target and I muscled it back on, then released the trigger.
    The bush collapsed on the ground; his weapon fell several feet away.
    I had fired about a dozen rounds, I thought. A one-second burst or a little over. I pointed the MP-5 at the porch and waited, examining windows. Perhaps I should have moved, but I was betting they didn’t know where I was. Movement might give me away.
    A flicker of light showed in one of the ground-floor windows. The bastards had indeed fired the place. The fire grew quickly in intensity.
    They must have used thermal grenades!
    I snuggled the weapon in against my shoulder and waited. Anyone desiring to leave by SUV was going to get perforated.
    They went out the back.
    I didn’t see them go, but after a minute or so several of the lower windows shattered and smoke began puffing out of the upstairs windows. I didn’t think they were going to immolate themselves, so concluded they must have gone out the back and over the hill, precisely the way they had come in.
    I took a deep breath and sprinted for the cover of the SUV.
    That sprint would have gotten me a roster spot in the NFL. I have never run so fast in my life.
    No shots. As I huddled behind the SUV and listened to the fire in the house snap, crackle, and pop, the thought occurred to me that one of those dudes might have stayed behind just for the fun of icing me point-blank as I went up the porch stairs.
    If so, he was behind the door.
    I emptied the magazine into the door, put in a fresh magazine, then put a burst into each window.
    Feeling a tad bit better, I ran up the stairs and into the house, ready to shoot the first thing that moved.
    They had used thermal grenades. The heat and smoke were intense. Yet the fire looked worse than it was. Crouching, I could see that the main room was covered with paper, heaping piles of it. And three bodies.
    Two more bodies in the kitchen.
    The back door was standing open.
    I threw caution to the winds and hurried through the building, looking for anyone still alive. And sorta hoping I’d meet a bad guy, so I could have the fun of shooting him with the MP-5.
    I did find someone, hiding in an upstairs closet.
    She screamed as I jerked her out of there, screamed and went for my eyes with her fingernails.
    I pushed her roughly, and she fell to the floor. “Goddamn, lady, get a grip. I’m one of the good guys.” I must have shouted it, because I was pretty pumped.
    She stared at the submachine gun with eyes as big as saucers as the smoke roiled through the room. Her eyes rose to my face. I must have looked like something from the Black Lagoon standing there with that weapon in my hand, soaked to the skin, and covered with dirt and leaves.
    “Who are you?” she whispered, staring at the weapon, her eyes wide.
    “Let’s get the hell outta here, lady, and do the introductions some other time.” I jerked her off the floor and pushed her toward the door.
    “The suitcase,” she shrieked, pointing back toward the closet.
    “We ain’t got time for your fuckin’ clothes. The goddamn house is burning—“
    “That’s what they came for! That’s what they wanted!”
    I jerked the suitcase from the