Larry Smith stood motionless in the Belamy kitchen, away from the window, the refrigerator behind him. He was feeling better about the situation; the backdoor had been child’s play, almost to the point where they might as well have left it unlocked. With the Walther P22 in his right hand, standing in the shadows, Larry was relaxed and ready. Just another day at the office. Through the kitchen doorway, he watched the old man standing next to the nightlight. Larry could see the stock of the shotgun angled awkwardly under John Belamy’s armpit. The barrel of the weapon was pointed at the floor, useless to the man who carried it—harmless to the man about to kill him.
Larry Smith stood motionless The old man was urging his wife in frantic, hushed tones. She stepped into the hallway. With an ex
