Chapter 5: When Mice May Defeat Lions

The drive home from the bar was about three times as loud as what Charlie normally preferred. The Escalade’s sound system was doing its best to hold together, speakers rattling from the bass of the song Charlotte had chosen, but the real issue wasn’t the music. It was Charlotte herself, sitting in the passenger seat with her arms drumming furiously on the dashboard, belting the lyrics with all the confidence of a concert headliner and none of the pitch control.

Charlie normally wouldn’t have minded her singing. In fact, on road trips he sometimes egged her on just to fill the silence, maybe even joined in when the mood struck. But not tonight. Not when she was five shades past drunk and convinced volume was a proper replacement for her usual vocal talent. His eardrums were getting pounded harder than the dashboard, and even his thoughts had to shout to be heard.

He stole a quick glance at her, shaking his head. “You trying to wake the dead over there? Or just punish me for being the designated driver?”

Charlotte whipped her head toward him, hair sticking to her face where sweat had glued strands across her cheeks. “Both!” she yelled, then laughed hard at her own answer before diving back into the chorus, pointing a finger at Charlie as if demanding he sing along.

He waved her off, focusing on the road. “Not happening.”

Her response was a loud, drawn-out “booooooo,” followed by a fit of giggles.

Charlie tried again to lower the volume a notch, but her hand shot out to swat his away. “Nope! I got to pick the music, you agreed!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t agree to permanent hearing loss.”

She ignored him completely, tossing her head back against the seat and carrying the final note of the song like it was a national anthem. He clenched the steering wheel tighter, mentally begging the next traffic light to turn green before his ears started performing seppuku.

“Oh my god! We gotta stop!”

His foot slammed the brake to the floor when she suddenly stopped singing and shouted out. The vehicle behind him, a blue Lincoln, hammered on their horn, the driver flipped him off as it passed by. In turn, they got honked at by a black SUV as it was coming the other way.

“What? What’s wrong?”

His hand instinctively drifted between the seat and the driver-side door, where his handgun was stowed for quick access.

This week’s rotation of truck-gun was his P226, though he was about to resign that one to permanent safe status in favor of something else. His mind was already running scenarios when Charlotte clarified with all the seriousness of a hostage negotiator.

“Food! We gotta stop at Buddy Burger!”

Charlie stared at her, jaw slack. “You nearly gave me a heart attack over a midnight snack?”

“Yep!” She grinned, wholly unbothered. “Come on, pull over. Please? I need Buddy Burger in my life.”

He groaned. “You are lucky you’re my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister,” she shot back.

“And thank fucking god for that. I couldn’t imagine dealing with two of you.”

She smacked his arm playfully and pointed ahead like she was calling shots in combat. “There! Buddy Burger, exit three-quarters of a mile. Take it!”

He sighed but flicked on the turn signal. “You better appreciate the sacrifice my arteries are about to make for you.”

Charlotte leaned back, satisfied, lowering the music just long enough for Charlie to place their orders at the crackling drive-thru speaker. He hadn’t planned on food, but now that she’d mentioned it he realized his stomach was growling too.

Her order came out as it always had since high school: a double cheeseburger with pickles and mustard, no mayo, no ketchup, fries on the side, small drink.

Charlie mirrored her but tacked on bacon, an extra-large side of fries, and upsized his drink.

When the bags were handed over, Charlotte cheered like they’d won a trophy. She immediately unwrapped her burger and inhaled deeply, eyes closing in reverence. Charlie, on the other hand, wasn’t about to risk eating behind the wheel. He’d seen too many distracted-driver crash videos to think himself immune. So he pulled into the far corner of the lot beneath a flickering sodium-orange streetlamp.

They sat there with the radio turned down, the occasional rustle of wrappers filling the silence.

“Can you believe they’re still making the fries like this?” Charlie said around a mouthful of the chili-infused potato. They had a reputation for driving lesser men mad with the heat.

“I know right?” Charlotte answered with her mouth full too, not a shred of shame. “I was craving these fries the whole time I was in the city.”

Charlie smirked. “You remember the first time Mom ate one? How red her face got?”

“Yeah! She accused you of putting pepper spray in her food!”

For a few minutes it was peaceful, almost nostalgic. But Charlie’s instincts didn’t let him relax for long. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, slow, deliberate movement. A black SUV rolled past on the street, around five under the limit. Tinted windows made it impossible to see who was inside.

Charlie frowned. He was good at remembering vehicles, and that one stuck out. He’d already seen it once tonight, back on the road just after the Lincoln incident. And now here it was again, crawling past while he and Charlotte sat parked in perfect view.

He kept his tone light, forcing normalcy. “So, tell me. You and James, huh?”

Charlotte choked on her drink, coughing violently enough to spill some down her shirt. “What? No! Ew. Why would you, why would you even say that?”

Charlie arched an eyebrow, biting into his burger. “You just answered your own question. The lady doth protest too much.”

Her cheeks flushed red even in the dim orange glow. “I do not protest too much. There’s nothing to protest because there’s nothing going on.”

“Uh huh.” He dragged out the syllables. “You were staring at him like he hung the moon every time he spoke. Pretty sure half the bar noticed.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Charlotte buried herself in her fries, eyes locked down. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I? Because the way you got all defensive right now kinda proves my point.”

She muttered something unintelligible and shoved another fry into her mouth.

Charlie let the silence hang a beat longer, then smirked. “It’s fine, you know. James is a good man.”

Her glare could’ve melted steel. “Shut up, Charlie.”

He chuckled, turning back to his food. Teasing her never got old.

The SUV passed the corner and disappeared. Charlie kept chewing casually, though his eyes flicked to the rearview more often than not. He didn’t mention it to Charlotte. No need to rattle her, especially not with how drunk she was. She’d just call him paranoid anyway. Maybe he was.

When he finished his burger he handed over the rest of his fries. She accepted them gladly, humming along to a quieter song now, the food mellowing her down.

By the time he backed out of the lot and merged onto the road, she was halfway through a story about some coworker in the city who had a cat that hated everyone except Charlotte. Charlie only half listened, eyes glued to the mirrors.

The SUV was back.

Each time Charlie turned, so did they. On longer stretches of road he tested them, pushing the throttle until their headlights faded, but they always caught up at the next red light.

He kept his face neutral, his hands steady on the wheel, though his mind was running hot. The priority was simple: get Charlotte home. Get her inside and asleep before anything went down. If it happened on the road he might have the advantage, unless they were packing something strong enough to punch through the Escalade’s armor.

Charlotte noticed his silence eventually. “You okay? You’ve been all serious-face since we left Buddy Burger.”

“Just tired.” He forced a yawn. “You burned me out with that concert performance earlier.”

She smirked. “You loved it.”

“Sure,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the mirror again.

When he finally pulled into the driveway the SUV casually rolled on by, as if it was just another commuter heading somewhere else. Charlie knew better, that road was a dead end, he didn’t have any neighbors in that direction. That meant they either hadn’t done their homework on his house or they didn’t care.

Charlotte was blissfully unaware. She just thanked him for getting her home and stepped out with food in hand, walking up toward the porch light. Charlie stayed in the cab a moment longer, the engine idling, his eyes fixed on the empty street.

Once Charlotte was through the front door he finally got out. His rifle and kit were still in the back, but if they had someone watching they’d see him arming up in the open. He’d need to get inside, where his other toys were waiting. He calmly walked toward the porch and inside, locking the door behind him, and arming the security system.

Charlie locked every door and window in the house, curtains were closed, blinds pulled tight. The lights were killed one by one until the place was in darkness. Normally he left a lamp on in the living room, as to avoid stubbing his toe during a late night toilet trip, but tonight he needed the house as dark as possible.

Charlotte had already long passed out in the guest room by the time he was done securing the house. She’d be safe. He’d had the whole house sound-proofed, and each bedroom reinforced with steel that’d stop anything up to a 30-06. Sure it made getting a good phone signal inside a living hell, but that’s the price of security.

Then to the gunroom he went.

Downstairs he had an armory, but that was all merchandise, he kept the best stuff for himself. His gunroom, in an emergency, would work as a panic room, but he didn’t feel like locking himself in that night. He geared up. Plate carrier snug, helmet buckled, NVG’s mounted. The breaker box he’d had installed to the wall was flipped, all lights in the house would be officially dead.

The ritual was calming to him, in its own way. Muscle memory took over as he checked every strap, each buckle. Knife edge checked, then blade sheathed. Then came the really hard part.

Deciding which gun he wanted to fight with.

The P90? Plenty of capacity, good against light armor, compact. Benelli M4? Devastating but messy, drywall repair nightmare. His hand hovered over racks bristling with steel and polymer..

Decisions decisions.

Ultimately he decided on the MP5SD. With good aim it’d more than suffice for anything less than a full swat unit. He checked the red dot to make sure it still had battery, chambered the first round, and walked back into the living room.

The nook just beside the front door was a perfect spot to wait. Whoever built the original house had probably intended it as a spot to hang coats and stow shoes, but to Charlie it was the kind of ambush spot you couldn't pass up. When the front door was opened he’d be invisible to whoever came in, they’d pass right by. Best angle in the house.

And so there he waited. He thought about how he’d need to clean up before Charlotte awoke in the morning, did he have enough paint and spackle for that?

That was a problem for later.

They kept him waiting long enough for his mind to start whispering that maybe it had just been paranoia. Maybe that SUV really was just a lot of coincidences. Maybe nobody was coming.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Motion alert. Front Yard.

Charlie killed the notification, then tucked it away. His ears strained beneath the electronic hum of his headset, listening.

There it was. Porch boards creaking under deliberate footsteps. The real estate agent had suggested a contractor to fix that noise, Charlie had turned him down for just this occasion. There was the slight noise of metal on metal as tools got to work on the deadbolt, then the doorknob.

The locks clicked open, then slowly opened a few inches until suddenly being stopped by the chain. He heard the quietest of curses before the jaws of a bolt cutter poked through to snip the steel chain.

They had come prepared.

The door opened further and the first man stepped inside, pistol in hand. Charlie could see the silhouette through the grain of the NVG’s, his gait was cautious, precise. It was trained, disciplined. This wasn’t just some thug with a gun.

Charlie didn’t move an inch, his breath held, until the man passed by oblivious. Then came the second right behind, then a third.

They fanned out through the living room, their backs to him. He stepped out from his hidey hole behind the nearest, drew the blade from his side, and drove it into the side of the man’s neck.

Perfect strike, the spinal column was severed, he dropped like a sack of rocks with barely a sound as Charlie caught his body and lowered it. He left the knife where it was, it’d be too noisy to pull it out now. One man had ventured through the door to the garage, the other was trying to open the door to the basement.

Charlie walked up behind him, silent as a shadow, and pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the intruder’s head. A smart man, he froze.

“Put down your gun, quiet.”

The man obliged, slowly kneeling to place his pistol on the floor.

“Great, now—”

The man cut him off with a sudden shout.

“IN HERE! HE—”

Not one to take being interrupted lightly, Charlie plugged the back of his dome with a 147gr hollowpoint. He could already hear the third man coming back. He sprinted toward the garage and met the man at the door.

Charlie caught the intruder in the wrist with another slug of 9mm, and the handgun fell from his hand toward the floor. Before it could make an impact Charlie kicked it toward the living room. The pistol vanished under the couch, joining the TV remote and some spare change. The look on the intruder’s face, even through the ski mask, was one of panic. The beginnings of a pained scream began to bubble up.

“Hi,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Welcome to my home.”

Before the sound building up in the man’s throat could come forward Charlie punched out with the barrel of his gun. One sharp jab to the nose, followed by a third round of 9mm, and he collapsed to the floor, dead.

Charlie immediately straightened, listening for any others. No noise from Charlotte’s room, she hadn’t heard a thing.

“Right, now who the fuck had the bright idea to come into my damn home.”

His phone buzzed again. Not a motion alert. A text.

From James.

One word.

“Help.”