Free Shooter (Burnout) by Dahlia West Page B

bed, woken by the shrill screaming, which didn't stop. He yanked open the nightstand drawer, grabbed his .44 caliber Desert Eagle and launched himself out of bed. In three strides he was down the hall, in another two he'd thrown open his own front door. He bounded down the steps of the front porch, crossed the lawn and took Hayley's steps two at a time. Not having stopped for keys, he planted his bare foot right next to the doorknob. The wood of the frame splintered and the door exploded inward.
     
    He scanned the living area and finding it secure, rounded the corner and entered the darkened hallway, gun up, sweeping the dark corners. The screaming had subsided but he could hear her crying through the door. He twisted the knob of Hayley's bedroom door. When it didn't give, he slammed his shoulder into it. The door only moved a scant inch.
     
    "What the fuck?" he muttered and slammed into the door again. "Hayley! Hayley open this door!" he shouted.
     
    The crying stopped and he hit the door a third time as hard as he could. He heard a crash on the other side and checked again but still couldn't get the god damn thing to open.
     
    "Hayley, talk to me," he demanded. "What the fuck is going on? Are you alright? What's blocking the door?"
     
    He heard a choking sob and then she answered, "Chris?"
     
    "Yeah, honey. It's me. Are you alone? Are you alright? Get this god damn door open!"
     
    "I- it's alright," she called, her voice cracking under the strain. "Everything's fine. It's okay."
     
    "The hell it is. Get this door open," he ordered.
     
    "I'm fine, really," she said, her voice regaining some of its composure. "Just...you can go. I'm okay. It was just a bad dream."
     
    "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself. "Open the door," he said more loudly.
     
    "No, really, I-"
     
    "Hayley. I want eyes on you. Right now. Open this door or I'll get an axe and chop it the fuck down."
     
    A moment passed and then he heard her struggling with something on the other side of the door. His whole body tensed with the need to see her. Whatever it was, it was taking far too long. "Hayley," he growled.
     
    "I'm getting it. Just hang on," she called out.
     
    Finally he heard the flimsy doorknob lock flip and the door creaked open a few inches. Hayley blocked it with her body. "I'm fine," she informed him.
     
    Ignoring her attempts to shut him out, he shouldered the door open and stalked past her. Directly across from the doorway was the side wall that encompassed the clothes closet. It had a giant hole in the dry wall. His eyes scanned the room and found the highboy dresser sitting at an odd angle between the bed and the closet door.
     
    "That," he said, pointing at the highboy, "was what was blocking the door?"
     
    She chewed her lip and nodded. Obviously when Chris threw his weight into the door, it had merely succeeded in toppling the highboy into the closet wall, still rendering entry impossible.
     
    Chris scrutinized Hayley from head to toe. She was wearing sleep shorts and t-shirt, both in good order, no rips or tears. Her legs, arms, and face looked okay other than her eyes were a little puffy from crying.
     
    He strode past her and flung open the closet doors, peering inside, when he turned, Hayley caught sight of the .44, pointed at the floor, and stumbled back, eyes wide in terror.
     
    "I thought you were in trouble," he said by way of explanation.
     
    His eyes moved over the room, assessing it. Nothing else seemed out of place. Everything looked normal. His gaze settled on four indentations on the brand new carpet in front of the door. "Hayley, if-" he said, taking a step toward her. She instantly moved away from him.
     
    He sighed and placed the .44 on top of the highboy behind him, then turned back to her. "You're okay?" he asked, and she nodded slightly. "Jesus, Hayley, you scared the hell out of me."
     
    "I'm sorry," she told him. She started to cry and he felt like an ass because he knew he sounded harsher than