Blood on the Kitchen Floor
The kitchen door swung open, boots thundering inside.
Hudson remained motionless, his heart pounding like a drum of war.
Four gun-wielding men. Black tactical gear. Muzzles raised. They moved cautiously, sweeping the kitchen.
"Clear left."
"Inspect the corners."
Hudson's hold on the meat cleaver tightened.
And then—one of them stepped into the oil spill.
His boot slipped. He hadn't even had a chance to respond when his feet were pulled out from under him.
CRASH!
He fell heavily to the floor, his gun clattering to the ground.
Hudson lunged.
The cleaver came down rapidly, biting deep into the hijacker's face, cutting his balaclava in two.
A wet, sickening crunch.
The knife bit into bone—cheek, jaw, and teeth crunching as Hudson yanked it out. Blood spattered his shirt. The man jerked, making a rough gurgling noise before he went slack.
The others reacted instantly.
"CONTACT!"
Gunfire erupted.
Hudson ducked behind the steel counter, bullets ripping through hanging pots and slicing through shelves. A flour sack exploded, releasing a white cloud into the air.
But he wasn't done.
He patted the pocket of his jeans, lit the butane torch, and rolled it out onto the spill of oil.
FOOM!
The fires took hold at once, burning into life. The nearest hijacker screamed as the flames wrapped around his leg, his trousers burning into his flesh. He collapsed onto the floor, thrashing, trying to put out the flames with his hands.
Hudson wouldn't permit him.
He grabbed the pepper grinder—heavy, wooden—and struck the man on the head with it.
CRACK!
The hijacker remained motionless.
That left two.
One of them attacked, brandishing a knife.
Hudson dodged the wild slash, picked up a cast-iron skillet, and swung with every ounce of strength.
It had the impact of a sledgehammer hitting concrete.
The man stumbled, stunned. Hudson did not give him time to regain his senses. He gripped the pan in both hands and clunked it against his head—again. Again. Again.
Each impact was brutal. Sickening.
Once Hudson was done with it, the man's face was unrecognizable, with blood pooling beneath him.
One left.
This one was smarter. He didn't charge. He raised his rifle.
Hudson hardly had time to react.
BANG!
A bullet grazed his arm. He hissed, burning pain running through his nerves.
He grabbed a meat tenderizer hammer from the counter, waited—before tossing it.
The blunt end struck the hijacker's nose, and he fell backward. Hudson rushed at him, taking the man's rifle before the man could get his footing back.
They struggled—grappling for control.
The rifle fired in frantic bursts, bullets tearing through walls.
Hudson slammed the stock into the man's ribs—once, twice.
Then he shoved the barrel against the hijacker's chin—
Pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The man's skull burst open at the top, staining the ceiling red.
Silence.
Hudson, chest laboring, bloody palms, his body shaking with the adrenaline, stood there.
Four men. Dead.