They gave.
I put more weight behind my hand. The boards went away from the left side of the frame, showing me a row of shiny nail points.
I pushed them back farther, looked past them, saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing.
With my gun in my right fist, I stepped over the sill, down into the building. Another step to the left put me out of the window’s gray light.
I switched my gun to my left hand and used my right to push the boards back over the window.
A full minute of breathless listening got me nothing. Holding my gun-arm tight to my side, I began exploring the joint. Nothing but the floor came under my feet as I inch-by-inched them forward. My groping left hand felt nothing until it touched a rough wall. I seemed to have crossed a room that was empty.
I moved along the wall, hunting for a door. Half a dozen of my undersized steps brought me to one. I leaned an ear against it, and heard no sound.
I found the knob, turned it softly, eased the door back.
Something swished.
I did four things all together: let go the knob, jumped, pulled trigger, and had my left arm walloped with something hard and heavy as a tombstone.
The flare of my gun showed me nothing. It never does, though it’s easy to think you’ve seen things. Not knowing what else to do, I fired again, and once more.