Chapter 6 - The Final Stand
"Get into the cellar," Roger commanded, his voice devoid of panic, replaced by cold, calculated fury. "There’s a heavy steel door that locks from the inside. Don't come out until I tell you."
"Roger, you can't fight them alone," Arthur pleaded, struggling to stand.
"I'm not fighting them. I'm stopping them," Roger pointed to the cellar door. "Go!"
Once the family was secured beneath the floorboards, Roger went to the hall closet. He pulled out a worn leather case. Inside was a pump-action 12-gauge shotgun and a box of heavy slug shells. He loaded the weapon, the mechanical clack-clack echoing loudly in the empty house.
He walked out onto the front porch and looked at his truck.
The Kenworth was massive. It was a weapon.
In the distance, over the ridge, he heard the low, aggressive hum of high-performance engines. Not police cruisers. SUVs.
Roger ran to the Kenworth, climbed into the cab, and started the engine. He didn't pull away. He positioned the massive truck horizontally across the driveway, creating a solid steel barricade between the dirt road and the house. He left the engine running, the headlights blazing through the trees.
He climbed down and took cover behind the massive, bulletproof engine block of the rig, leveling the shotgun over the hood.
Ten minutes later, three black SUVs tore through the tree line, kicking up dust and dirt. They slammed on their brakes when they saw the wall of chrome and steel blocking their path.
Doors flew open. Eight men stepped out, armed with tactical rifles.
"Malloy!" a man in a tailored suit shouted over the idling diesel engine. "We know they're in the house! Walk away from the truck! You don't have to die for strangers!"
"They ain't strangers!" Roger roared back. "They're my guests!"
The man in the suit raised his hand. "Kill him."
Gunfire erupted.
The forest exploded with sound. Automatic fire tore into the side of the Kenworth, shattering the windows, pinging off the heavy steel chassis. Roger ducked low, letting the truck absorb the barrage.
When they paused to reload, Roger stood up.
He pumped the shotgun. Clack-clack.
He aimed for the engine block of the lead SUV and fired. The heavy slug tore through the grill, smashing the radiator and disabling the vehicle. He pumped again and fired, shattering the windshield.
The men scattered, diving for cover in the trees.
"Flush him out!" the leader screamed.
Two men began flanking the truck, moving through the high grass. Roger didn't have the angle to hit them. He was pinned down.
Then, over the sound of the gunfire, a new sound echoed through the valley.
Sirens.
Not just one. Dozens of them.
The previous night, before turning onto the dirt road, Roger had hit the emergency distress beacon on his CB radio—a frequency monitored directly by the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration and passed to the FBI. He had broadcasted his exact location and the name of the Vargas syndicate.
The syndicate men heard the sirens. Panic broke out.
"Fall back!" the leader yelled, sprinting for the remaining SUVs.
But it was too late. State police cruisers and unmarked FBI black-and-whites swarmed up the dirt road, cutting off the escape route. The syndicate men were trapped. Within seconds, heavily armed tactical teams swarmed the yard, screaming for the men to drop their weapons.
Roger slowly lowered the shotgun.
He leaned against the cold steel of his Kenworth, his chest heaving, his legs trembling. The battle was over.
He turned around and looked at the old farmhouse. It was riddled with bullet holes. The porch was destroyed. The windows were shattered.
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But underneath the floorboards, the family was safe.
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