The explosion of a single gunshot propelled Scott from his bed. He ran, or tried to, stumbling out into the hallway, hurling himself down the stairs, and sliding into the Great Room. He should have known it was too much to ask for a peaceful Christmas Eve.

Johnny stood there, gun in hand, smoke curling around him.  Of course. "Got him," he said smugly, nudging one of the dead man's black boots as he holstered his pistol. "Caught him trying to sneak in through the chimney."

Scott rushed over, a sick feeling in his throat. Blood ran from the big man's red coat, like roots into the matching red puddle on the floor. Looking up, he noticed the shiny new packages beneath the tree. He looked at Johnny, arching one brow. "Sneaking in?"

"Yeah," said Johnny, his eyes meeting his brother's in an icy stare as he toed the opened bag of coal at his feet under the desk. "In."

--Christmas, 2010