A man and a woman were copulating on top of the table, taking it in turns to swig from a green bottle of wine. For several heartbeats neither of them took any notice as the two men appeared at their side.
Then the woman’s mouth dropped open, showing toothless gums, and she drew in a long breath ready to scream.
Mac didn’t hesitate. He pressed the muzzle of the Brazzi shotgun into the man’s back, just to the right of his spine, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot was muffled, but the effect was utterly devastating. The shot tore through the liver, shredding it to rags, then carried on almost unchecked into the woman’s lower stomach.
Mac knew enough about death to be certain he didn’t have to waste another round on either of them.
The man rolled off, the back of his shirt flaring into yellow flames from the proximity of the blast. He was rigid with shock, arms spread as he crashed to the floor. Blood was pouring from the massive exit wound above the hip.
The woman lay on the table, legs splayed. Both hands had gone to the gaping wound in her belly, as though she was trying to stuff the yellowish coils of intestine back inside herself.
The man was making a harsh rattling sound in his throat, and the woman was gasping, her breathing fast and shallow.
Nobody else on the first floor of the house seemed aware that the avengers were among them. Ahead of them, in the dining room, the light was on, and the singing was louder, accompanied by the smashing of glass. McGill had a moment to wish he’d put on his combat boots.
He glanced at John, whose face was white as death, eyes wide, mouth half-open.
“Here we go,” he said, and the young man managed a nod of agreement. It was a massacre.
Not one of the tatterdemalion gang even managed to fire a shot.
Mac stood to the left of the open door, John to the right.
The central figure in the room was standing at the head of the table, clutching a cognac bottle in his left hand, his right fondling the sagging breasts of a fat young woman.
The bottle was being used to conduct the singing of a revolting version of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” He was skinny, aged around fifty, with a short-handled ax tucked into his belt. He was wearing a stained black denim shirt with a strip of white plastic pinned around his wattled throat like a deliberate parody of a clergyman’s collar.
As soon as the two men opened fire, the room exploded in bedlam. Blood sprayed everywhere, walls and floor and ceiling dripping crimson. Bodies stumbled and fell. Men and women screamed and fought to get away from the ruthless execution. But the windows were barred, and the only exit from the room was blocked by the murderous shotguns.
It took less than ten seconds to butcher the majority of the raiders.
Both Mac and his son kept a single cartridge in the breech, standing ready.
The room stank of hot blood and shells and excrement, a smell that any soldier would recognize as the true scent of death.
Mac banged the butt of his Brazzi on the door. “Those who can walk, get the fuck out of my house. Take your wounded with you. All of them.”
John slipped seven more rounds into his pump-action Winchester Defender. He fired one off above the heads of the dazed crowd to emphasize his father’s words. “Move it!” he shouted, voice ragged and high with the tension.
From behind him, Mac heard Angel’s voice calling out to him. “How is it?”
“Under control. The guests are just readying to leave.”
He couldn’t believe how he felt. His heart was going like a trip-hammer, his mouth was dry, and his hands were sweating. With the help of his son he’d just massacred at least eight or nine men and women. Slaughtered them at point-blank range. Gunned them down as they stood there helplessly.
And it felt so good.
One by one the survivors were getting to their feet, dragging up their wounded comrades. The screaming had stopped, and there was only a low moaning from the injured.