Dunne remembered the bloody corpses in his living room two years ago. The bodies of his wife, Vicky, and daughter, Ella, after the shotgun blast.
He hadn't been able to bring himself to touch them. It had been too terrible to bear.
He had sat across the room, staring at their blown-apart bodies, waiting for what had seemed like hours for the police. Waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and wake him up from what could only be a nightmare.
And now, it was about to happen again.
Two of Dunne's family members knelt before an armed killer—Jeremiah Weed, with a machine gun in each hand. The killer was about to murder Dunne's family right in front of him, while he watched. Dunne was the only one who could possibly intervene in time.
But there was one big difference from two years ago.
This time, Dunne was armed.
He had a pistol in each hand and a rifle slung over his back. He was only twenty feet from Weed...close enough, without being a marksman, to have a decent chance of hitting him.
Or of being hit. Weed could easily sweep those machine guns in an arc, cutting a swath through Gowdy and Hannahlee and continuing on to Dunne in seconds flat.
Familiar pangs of fear clutched at Dunne, freezing him on the spot. His hands sweated around the gun grips, and his stomach lurched like he was going to be sick.
Even as he realized he was wasting precious time, he couldn't get himself to move. Weed gave him a look, and that ratcheted up his terror even more.
"Enjoy the show, my friend." Weed laughed in Dunne's direction. "You'll be the star soon enough."
It was going to happen again.
The bloody corpses of his family at his feet. A mad dog killer walking away. Dunne left to live with the knowledge that he'd failed.
Only this time, it looked like one thing would be different.
"Don't feel left out," Weed told him. "I'll be killing you next."
This time, it looked like Dunne would not be left alive.