Free A Man Overboard by Shawn Hopkins Page B

his kerosene heater? If the person wanted to burn down his house, he’d be much better off using the gasoline in the garage rather than kerosene. But, though he knew that kerosene (which was used instead of gasoline as jet fuel because of its safer flash point) could never be hot enough to melt a hundred and ten stories of steel and concrete in fifty-six minutes, he no doubt believed that it could burn down his house. Just not as effectively and quickly as gasoline.
    As he tiptoed toward the stairs, he saw through the living room and noticed the interior door to the garage standing open in the kitchen. He raced up the stairs, silent in his socks, his heart thumping in his chest. Entering the bedroom, he ran to his closet and pulled a gun case from a shelf stacked with independent newspapers. Fumbling with the number lock, sweat began beading across his forehead. He finally got it open, grabbed the 9mm Smith & Wesson out of the foam padding, and rammed home the seventeen-round clip that he’d previously filled with hollow points. He moved the slide back and let go, the familiar sound of the first round being chambered startling him. This wasn’t the shooting range.
    Still hearing noises from the garage, but wary of more than one intruder, he descended the stairs, the pistol shaking ever so slightly in his grasp. He’d made it a point to visit the range every other month and had no qualms about his ability use the gun on a target . Shooting a person would be something entirely different. Something he didn’t really want to do—though he had a feeling that was what it was going to come down to.
    As he approached the open garage door, he swept the sights back and forth throughout the house, waiting for someone else to appear. No one did. Standing with his back against the kitchen wall and the door extending open beside him, he took a few deep breaths. He suddenly wondered if he should call the police. It was a tempting thought, but one that wouldn’t resolve the situation. By the time the police got here, he’d either be without a kerosene heater or in need of the fire department. Peering through the tiny space between the open door and its frame, he could see a person’s back hunched over something on the floor. He flexed his sweaty palms on the plastic grip of his gun.
    One. Two. Three…

    He spun around past the door, bringing the pistol up in one fluid motion and aiming it down the few steps that led into the garage.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he cried out. But with the scene laid out before him now, he knew exactly what the bastard was doing. And fear began bleeding away to fury.
    The man turned around. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket and was reaching for something at his waist. Red containers of gasoline and blue bottles of kerosene sat scattered around his feet, the heater behind him. When he saw Jack standing there pointing the gun at him, his eyes flashed first with recognition and then utter surprise.
    The arsonist’s surprise, the recognition in his eyes, how he’d gotten in the front door so easily… Jack’s mind was suddenly spinning, but his thoughts were interrupted by the guy’s eyes turning cold and his pulling out a gun. Jack fired three times. The first shot buried itself in the man’s shoulder, the second his side, and the third seemed to miss entirely, blasting chunks of concrete off the far wall. But one of the two impacts must have caused the guy to squeeze the trigger on his own gun because he shot himself in the leg.
    Screaming, the man dropped, but as he fell, he raised his gun and squeezed off three more shots of his own.
    Jack felt the first whiz past his head before he was able to spin off to the side of the doorway and out of sight. Reaching back around the doorframe, he fired blindly into the garage. He heard another scream. Then he ran across the doorway, a shot ringing out after him as he cleared the opening and kicked the door shut. There was no