He liked being drunk, believed when he’d downed a few he thought clearer, saw clearer, got stronger, even smarter. He didn’t care if he swerved onto the shoulder a few times.

It just woke him up.

When he veered toward Zane’s office, the front left tire hit the curb, then bumped over it. At that time of night, Lakeview slept sound, so no one heard him whistling softly through his teeth as he got to work on the job at hand.

Maybe some paint splashed on him when he opened a can at random, and some dribbled on the sidewalk as he walked across. He sloshed a brush around in what was billed as Moulin Rouge and slapped on his message. Because he wanted nice big letters, he had to open a second can. Blooming Orchid merged with Moulin Rouge.

He’d quit school at sixteen, had a spotty attendance beforehand. Spelling hadn’t been one of his strengths, but the meaning and the hate came across in the sloppy lettering and drips of clashing paint.

SUK MY DIK MUTHR FUKER

Stepping back, he studied his work with some pride and watched drips of paint slide down the pristine white of the building.

Pleased, he used more of the orchid to scrawl FAGGIT across the main door before heaving more paint on the window, dumping the rest on the porch.

Too drunk and stupid to think of fingerprints, DNA, or basic common sense, he left the empty cans on the porch before unzipping and releasing his bladder on the doorstep.

Besides, he considered good old Stu an ironclad alibi.

He got back in the truck, smearing paint from his hands onto the steering wheel. He swerved and weaved his way out of town, navigated the road up to Darby’s house.

Bitch stuck her nose in his personal business? Bitch had to pay.

He considered burning the place down, but he hadn’t thought to get a can of gas.

Next time, he vowed, and settled for defacing the house with a rainbow of Cerulean Blue, Daffodil Yellow, Mountain Mist, slopping ugly words over the wood.

CUNT HORE LESBO BICH

He attempted to depict a gang rape with stick figures, and to his bleary eyes considered it fine art.

Using his art as a visual aid, he masturbated, howling with satisfaction as he spattered cum over her welcome mat.

Far from finished, he stumbled back to the truck.

Now came the big guns. Literally.

Hunched over the wheel, he drove toward Zane’s, and was far too drunk, much too focused on getting where he needed to go to notice the headlights keeping a steady quarter mile back in his rearview mirror.

Even shit-faced he remembered Zane’s security. Everybody knew about it, especially since Bigelow got his ass kicked by that lesbo bitch. Which proved, in Clint’s reasoning, Bigelow was a pussy, and too much of a pussy to have knocked his wife and kids around back in the day.

Buncha bullshit.

One thing Clint Draper wasn’t, for fuck’s sake, was some pussy.

He cut the headlights as he drove up the steep lane, pulled up a little better than halfway. Security, my ass, he thought. He’d slip right through it, do what he came to do, and slip right out again.

He got his rifle off the bench seat beside him—paint time was over—and hiked into the woods.

He had a nice, bright moon to guide him.

If Clint knew one thing and knew it well, it was how to hunt and shoot and make the ammo count.

He thrashed his way through underbrush—not worried about scaring off game, as what he wanted slept all nice and tidy inside the big house.

He didn’t figure on killing them—yet—but he’d sure as shit scare the piss right out of them.

“Time to wake up, fuckers. You’ll be eating floorboards and shitting your pants.”

And maybe, just maybe, one of them would peek out a door, a window. If that happened, he’d put a bullet in them.

Didn’t matter a good goddamn which one.

“Think you can take my wife from me, turn that stupid bitch against me? Gonna fuck you up, fuck you up real good.”

He stumbled a time or two, scratched the hell out of his arms on brambles—and left plenty of fibers and bits of skin behind.

He wished to Christ he’d thought to grab a beer from Stu’s stash so he could slake his thirst.

The warm, close night and all the work he’d done had him soaked in sweat. Even drunk he could smell his own stink.

No worries. He’d clean up at Stu’s, grab that beer, maybe pop one of the old lady’s Ambien.

Sleep like a baby after he finished his good night’s work.

The moon cut through the trees, flooded over the house. Clint thought he couldn’t ask for better.

He saw himself slipping in and out of the shadows, silent as a ghost even as he stumbled, thrashed, cracked twigs under his boots.

But the shadow behind him moved quiet and bided its time.

Clint took a stand, such as it was, at the edge of the trees, keeping back as he studied the house.

Word was they had a big, fancy bedroom in the front with the big glass doors so that pussy Walker could stand out there on the deck lording it over the town.

He shouldered the rifle, brought the doors into the crosshairs of his scope. He thought he might even get lucky, at least wing one of them.

Either way, he thought, either way, they wouldn’t sleep easy after tonight.

He fired twice, hit the glass, watched it shatter, then added a spray that flashed through the opening, hit the jambs, the house.

Grinning, heart thumping, he kept his aim, picturing the shot if that fucking Walker had the balls to come to the doors.

The shadow moved in behind him. Clint knew an instant of shocking pain when the rock smashed his skull. His rifle hit the ground seconds before he did.

Now the shadow smiled and thought: Interesting.

When an opportunity fell into your lap, only a fool ignored it. Coolheaded, he took the rifle, hauled Clint up and over his shoulder.

He’d just take his opportunity off to a more private location.

* * *

The shots ripped Zane out of sleep. Instinctively, he rolled over Darby, wrapped around her, kept rolling until they hit the floor.

“Stay down,” he snapped as the dog sent up a howl.

“What—”

“Stay down. Somebody’s shooting at the house.”

“No. Maybe more fireworks.”

“Fireworks didn’t do that.” He gestured at the broken glass, lifted his voice over the alarm as it began to shrill.

Zod nuzzled in, lapped his tongue over faces, shoulders, hands while Zane slithered over her, pawed his hand onto the nightstand for his phone, already signaling.

“Yeah, I’ve got a problem. Somebody’s outside shooting at my house. Call the damn cops, now. Stay down,” he ordered Darby again. “I want you to stay low and get into one of the spare rooms and hide. If you hear him break in, get out a window. And keep going.”

She lay on the floor, clutching the dog, every muscle trembling. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

“Just do it.”

He stayed low, worked his way to the closet and inside. He came out with the Louisville Slugger Emily had given him for his twelfth birthday.

And saw that rather than getting to a hiding place, Darby had unplugged a bedside lamp, now held it much as he did the bat.

“Two weapons are better than one,” she began.

“Quiet!” He shoved out a hand. “That’s an engine starting up.”