"—the fuck was that?"
The guard at the door never finished his sentence. Quinn's K-Bar punched through his sternum with a crunch. The man gasped, hot blood bubbling over Quinn's knuckles as he twisted the blade.
"Frank? You okay—"
Quinn yanked the knife free just as the first thug at the table looked up. Recognition flared in his bloodshot eyes a half-second before Quinn kicked the table into his gut. Plates shattered. The man toppled backward, chair splintering beneath him.
"Gun! Get your—"
Quinn was already moving. He drove the K-Bar through the second man's gun hand, pinning it to the table. The revolver discharged into the floorboards as Quinn smashed his forehead into the man's nose. Cartilage crumpled. A quick slash opened his throat.
Blood sprayed across the kitchen table, dripping onto the fried eggs that had been left uneaten.
George stood frozen by the stove, his guitar slung across his back, fingers clutching the neck like a lifeline. His face had gone the color of curdled milk.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered.
Quinn wiped his blade on the dead man's shirt. "Compound. Where is it?"
George's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before words came. "Old meat processing plant. Ten miles west on Route 12." His eyes darted to the bodies. "But you can't just—"
"How many men?"
"Twenty. Maybe thirty." George's hands shook. "They got walls. Watchtowers. Richter's got himself a goddamn army."
Quinn moved to the window, peering through the bullet holes in the boards. The SUV sat untouched in the yard. Three rounds left in the revolver at his hip.
Footsteps sounded from the cellar. Sarah emerged first, dragging their duffel bags stuffed with sniper rifles and shell-packed shotguns. Helen followed, her small hands gripping the railing. Her eyes tracked the blood trails across the floor but her expression never changed.
Sarah tossed Quinn a long-range rifle from the duffle. "We doing this?"
Quinn nodded.
"I'm going too," Helen said, her voice flat as a blade.
George grabbed Quinn's arm. "You ain't listening! They'll cut you down before you get within a mile of that place!"
Sarah slapped a compact sniper rifle into Helen's hands. "Aim for the head."
Helen cycled the bolt with practiced ease. "I know how to kill."
George's face collapsed. He fumbled in his pocket, produced a set of keys. "Take the Ford. Tank's full." His voice broke. "Bring her home."
They moved in darkness, headlights off, the truck crawling along Route 12 like a shadow. The compound emerged in the distance—floodlights, chain-link, armed silhouettes patrolling the perimeter.
Quinn parked deep in the brush, the branches scraping the truck's paint as they concealed it.
They advanced through the undergrowth until the fence loomed ahead. Without a word, Helen began scaling a gnarled oak, her small frame disappearing into the leaves.
Quinn and Sarah exchanged glances.
"Cover her," Quinn said. "Drop as many as you can."
Above them, Helen's rifle barrel slid between the branches, finding its first target.