Vincent nodded, then looked through the peephole. "It's Frank."
"Let him in," Joe ordered. "That'll give us six guys versus whoever's dumb enough to come up those stairs."
Vincent opened the door. "How ya doin', Frankie?"
"Not too bad, not too bad," Frank replied. "I figured an extra gun might help you out." He flashed an H&K .44 semiauto.
Vincent chuckled. "Can't hurt none. Come on in."
Frank looked around. "How many we got now?"
"Six, counting you," Joe said from the kitchen. "Phones are dead, though. Cops've been doin' some weird shit to the lines."
Frank frowned. "That ain't good." He turned. "I'm gonna keep an eye on our... visitors."
Frank headed for the living room as Vincent stood in the doorway. "Something feel weird to you?" he asked Joe.
Joe shrugged. "I dunno. It's Frank."
Vincent nodded.
"You wanna close the door?" Joe snapped. "'Cause if not, I got a nice welcome mat we can put out for the cops."
"Calm down, Joe," Vincent shot back. "Wha-?"
"What is it?" Joe asked.
Vincent looked down the stairs. Halfway down, Frank Castellano lay unconscious, a chloroform-soaked rag lying on the step beside him. His knees began shaking as he hurriedly waved Joe over. "J-J-Joe," he stammered.
Joe stood up angrily. "What? What's the problem now?" He stormed over and looked down the stairs. "H-o-l-eeeee shit," he breathed.
"If... if Frank's down there," Vincent asked, "then who did we just let in?"
Click! The Forellis froze at the sound of a handgun being un-safetied.
"I was getting to that part," Phil Smith said with a smirk.
