The door is locked, of course. I don’t knock, I kick.
There’s no alarm because the alarm was the fence and the fence is dead.
It takes a few kicks before the ornate carved thing topples.
Inside is a museum of a home, all gold paisley wallpaper and pottery that looks fragile.
There’s no Piccolos or their men – yet.
How about we encourage some to come on out and play?
I shove a Grecian looking vase to the floor. It explodes into a hundred pieces, and I smile. Looks like it really was fragile.
A shot, and the next second a bullet buries itself in the wall where my shoulder was a second ago.
I duck, looking around furiously.
Another bullet flies out, and I see it. A flick of a hand by an open door down the hallway off to the side.
The shooter’s in the basement. Where Hannah is. Of co
