Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds Read Online Free PDF

immediately followed by an angry voice. “Go away! I have a gun! I will shoot!”
    “Don’t make this hard on yourself,” countered the head of security. “Think about your family. There’s no sense in anyone getting hurt today.”
    There was a pause on the other side before José’s voice rang strong. “This is my home! I will die to protect it. Wouldn’t all of you fight to keep your family safe?”
    For a moment, Cunningham thought that the squatter’s argument might actually have an effect on his security team.
    His concerns, however, were unfounded. Whether it was professionalism, competition, or a case of ego-driven bravado, the private police force seemed unaffected by the pleading from within.
    The team leader motioned for another large gent to join him. Whispering a quick count to three, both of the hefty fellows threw their weight against the opening. The frame began to give, small cracks of splintered wood appearing around the knob.
    As the duo of human battering rams gathered themselves for another strike, the door exploded outwards, showering the security team with wooden shrapnel. The man assisting the security chief grasped his chest and howled in pain as the 12-gauge deer slug tore through his lung.
    That first shot was followed almost immediately by a second, and then a third, the lead slugs ripping and tearing through wood, plaster, and flesh.
    Bedlam erupted in the hall.
    Whether it was the sight of two coworkers withering in pain or the splatters of bloody tissue running down the wall, the remaining breachers fell back.
    Only a few seconds passed before they regrouped, some motivated by pride, others wanting revenge. With faces flushed with rage, the remaining men moved forward with weapons ready at the shoulder. One brave soul kicked hard at the now-weakened door, sending it flying inward while at the same time firing several blinds shot through the opening.
    Evidently, Mr. Harrington was a man who appreciated greenery. When José and his family had moved in, they had discovered over a dozen large potted plants throughout the expansive flat, the shriveled, brown foliage succumbing from a lack of water. But the remaining potting soil had another use.
    José was barricaded in the corner of the living room, secure behind a heavy chest, each drawer filled with dirt. It was an extremely effective bullet stop.
    Surviving the apocalypse had not only provided José with a basic knowledge of ballistics, but the normally-peaceful father had also developed a certain sense of rhythm as applied to gunfights. He instinctively knew when to stay low and when it was time to rise and use his weapon.
    He was also well aware that the men in the hallway could only enter his residence in a single file. Breaching experts often referred to this as a “fatal funnel,” such narrow obstacles neutralizing the deployment of their superior numbers. It was one-on-one, defender versus attacker, whenever such physical barriers came into play.
    José rose from behind his wooden mini-fortress just as the first invader appeared in the now-shattered doorway. His shotgun sang its song, a deadly spread of 00 buckshot stopping the assaulter’s forward momentum before the poor fellow could acquire a target.
    Three times the corridor shooters attempted to enter his home. The end result was two more bodies partially blocking the threshold while the thick carpeting ran with a crimson hue.
    Not only did José understand the concept of a fatal funnel, but years of surviving on the mean streets had also provided him with a basic grasp of small unit tactics.
    After hearing the first exchange of shots, the defender’s brother gathered himself and then sprang from a fire exit door. Blindsiding the Tower’s team, his presence added the critical element of surprise.
    Neither as coolheaded nor as experienced as his older brother, the sibling’s first shot veered high.
    Frantically working the duck gun’s pump, his second blast caught one of