The movement toppled the entire chair to the left and his shoulder slammed painfully against the hard stone floor. As the rest of the windows shattered in a crescendo of jagged fragments and the chatter of semiautomatic fire continued outside, two more of Franciscus’ men fell twisted and shrieking. Across from Venn, Harmony heaved herself so that her tipping chair collided with Clune’s. The impact knocked his chair over but hers remained propped up at an angle. Franciscus’ instincts, honed like Venn’s in the military, had caused him to drop prone and flatten himself against the floor. His remaining man crouched, yelling incoherently, but he didn’t seem to Venn to have been hit. “Franciscus,” Venn bellowed over the torrent of noise. “Cut us loose.” Franciscus didn’t answer, but shuffled himself round, still prone, so that his head was nearer the front, from where the shooting was coming. “God damn it, man,” Venn shouted. “We don’t know how many of them there are out there.
