With careful aim, the hunter tosses the first stone toward the far south window. A satisfied smirk dangles from his lips at the light tap of stone to glass. Psychotic laughter scuttles just within Jackson's mouth, begging for release, yet fading away into a recycled breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wolf spins with his tail low and hackles raise, to face the southwest corner of the house. Kyra feels the dog's fear overlaying his aggression. With a faint, wry smile, she thinks a silent prayer of thanks that she is not on the receiving end of Wolf's attentions.

Michael briefly turns his attention to the southwest, then back to his brother, dismissing the soft tap as a diversionary tactic. He allows his mind to settle, calming his breathing. With long-practiced ease, Michael centers himself then studies his surroundings; estimating distance and figuring spatial equations.

Matthew crouches beneath the western bank fo windows, watching the shadows deepen around him. With a mental slap, coming from Michael's sudden calm, Matthew focuses on calming himself. He locks his emotions into the closet within his mind, the slight trembling of his fingers stilling as he does so. The look that settles over his face is on of intense determination.

George moves with silent efficiency into the kitchen, crouching down behind the back door. As he examines the Mossberg, pumpaction shotgun in his hands, he reflects on past weekends with his brother's children. A small smile brings up the corners of his mouth at the memory of Byron's first attempt at shooting the Mossberg.

Wolf paces slowly toward Kyra, sniffing her face then lightly nuzzling her cheek. Smiling softly Kyra ruffles the dog's fur. He chuffs softly, then turns to stare at the front door, once again growling low. Kyra nods slightly then jacks a round into the chamber. The soft click resounds as a sharp crash, ricochetting off the walls of the near-silent house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A nasty leer spreads across Jackson's face as he hears the action of Kyra's small pistol. The near silent snick sounds thunderous in his own ears as the hunter sets the final detonator wire into the last wad of plastique.

Jackson backs with silent steps from the front door on the north wall of Kyra's house. As he makes his stealthy way to the east wall, Jackson draws the wireless trigger, counting down within his mind.

Just one minute more, my pretty little girl. You'll be my second victory. The hunter controls a cackle of glee as he remembers the smell of Byron Jameson's blood spilling across the floor of the scientist's office. I should have devoured him. But you will be a sweeter victory, my pretty little girl.

Again the nasty leer spreads across his lips as Jackson depresses the trigger. Simultaniously he fires his converted, fully auto 9mm in a spray across the east bay window.

~~~~~~~~

George flies into the corner of the refridgerator, the muzzle of the Mossberg hitting the wall and the butt hitting his thigh at the same time. He doesn't have time to register pain as the back door pins him to the wall for half a second. He slides in slow motion to the floor, the door landing heavily on top of his massive body. A low groan snakes from his throat as a single thought preceeds complete blackness.

C-4 equals FUBAR

Kyra dives between the couch and coffee table as dual explosions rip through her house. The front door, blown off its hinges, slams against the back of the couch, propelling it forward. For a moment anger burns through her as Kyra hears Wolf yelp. Her thoughts are turned away from the sudden silence of her dog, however, as gunfire immediately preceeds an angry shower of glass which rains down over the coffee table. Clenching her teeth upon the wail of rage which threatens, Kyra rolls under the protection of the coffee table.

A scream of feral rage carries Jackson into the house. He crashes to the floor, through the window, his momentum pushing him into a roll. He rises to a crouch, dropping the spent mag from his automatic and shoving a fresh mag home.

Michael lunges at the hunter as Jackson brings his gun to bear. Seeing the muzzle too late to stop his attack, Michael twists his body just enough.

Again gunfire errupts through the house as Jackson jerks back the trigger. Michael's enormous shoulder catches Jackson in the throat and he drops the 9mm as the two men tumble to the ground in a rolling heap.

Matthew, keeping low to the ground, runs from the dining room into the living room. He pauses only long enough to see his brother roll with Jackson into the hallway. Matthew jumps forward, intent on tearing Jackson off Michael.

Before Matthew gest his hands on the hunger, Jackson swings the butt of his automatic against the side of Matthew's head. The strength of the blow knocks Matthew to the side, the younger man landing heavily against the hallway wall. Paralyzed by pain, all oxygen rushes from matthew's body with an explosive grunt.

Michael uses the slight distraction to bring his hands down hard on Jackson's shoulders, simultaniously jerking his knee up into the hunter's groin. A violent explosion of sound cascades through the still smokey room as Jackson lets out a primal roar of pain and surprise. Michael rolls the Captain's momentarily frozen form, gaining the upper hand by straddling it. Without pause for thought, Michael quick-fires an assault of fists to Jackson's shoulders and face.

Kyra shakes her head, forcing herself to move from the seeming safety of the coffee table. She searches frantically for Michael, having lost sight of him as he lunged at Jackson. As smoke continues to flow through the front room, Kyra sees Matthew in the hall. A soft gasp falls from her throat upon sight of his still form.

Kyra moves further into the hall, her ears picking up the repeated sound of fists against flesh. She focuses on Michael's smoke-hazed body, calling out to him as he pummels Jackson in a blind rage.

"Enough, Michael. You got him."

With a feral growl, Michael sends one final punch to Jackson's broken and bloody face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kyra turns from her brief pause, once again folding her arms over her chest. She paces nervously back and forth between the couch and dining room table. Speaking softly, yet with a nervous edge, Kyra again curses the slow response time of the local sherriff.

"When are they going to get here, damn it?"

Matthew nods slowly, looking over at Jackson. He answers the question Kyra wasn't willing to ask. "He's tied securly, Kyra. He won't get loose."

Kyra shrugs slightly then begins her pacing once again. She watches her Uncle for a minute, never ceasing her aggitated motion. "You sure you're okay? The ambulance will be here to check you out."

George growls a muttered curse, bringing the make-shift bandage down from his forehead. Once again blood flows freely from the large gash just above his left eye.

"I'm fine. Shoulda known better is all. Shoulda known better."

Her voice snaps with an electric anger. "You're alive, damn it. That's a good thing!"

Michael moves to Kyra's side, placing his bruised hands on her shoulders. His voice is soft, yet authoritative.

"Kyra. Calm down. We're alive. We'll be okay. It's over. No major injuries. No casualties."

Her breath catches in her throat as Kyra looks into Michael's eyes. Tears fill her own and she falls into Michael's arms. As Michael wraps her tightly to him, visions of Ronnie fill Kyra's mind. She sees her brother in different stages of his life, yet every picture of his smiling face turns into a grotesque parody. A fragile, trembling whine escapes her mouth. Faint hopelessness creeps into her voice as Kyra turns her eyes to the still form of the husky.

"No casualties?"

~~~~~~~~~~~