It was then that Gorilla moved. He simply stepped from the side and jammed the shortened barrel of the shotgun against the glass and pulled the trigger.
The report inside the cellar was deafening and Gorilla's ears rang. The blast had hit the gunman square in the face. The heavy buckshot and glass had completely removed his features, leaving a mass of red, fleshy pulp and his body had buckled forward onto his knees. What remained of his head slumped forward, jamming itself onto the jagged shards of the now-fractured window pane.
With no time to admire the results of his work, Gorilla pumped another round into the chamber. In the distance somewhere above his head – the kitchen, he assumed – he was aware of the rata-tat-tat of gunfire. It seemed to be ripping apart the wooden door which le
