by Blair Howard
“Tell her what, dammit. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
I nodded, then began to walk slowly toward him. I flipped the baton open. As I drew closer, he cowered back until he was almost leaning on his wife, his hands up to shield his face. I stopped in front of him, looked at the red mark on his hand where the baton had connected earlier.
“Last chance, Johnny.”
“I don’t—aaaargh!”
I brought the baton around in a fast backhand swing, as hard as I could against his right wrist. The crack as the bone broke was sickening, even to me. His wife jumped to her feet, looking wildly around for something, I had no idea what.
“Sit down,” I shouted at her. “Your piece of shit husband has put out a contract on me. Twenty-five thousand goddamn dollars.”
She didn’t sit, but she looked like she’d been stabbed. The look, first one of shock and then of anger, was something to see. Kathryn Greene screwed up her face and yelled, “You stupid son of a bitch.” And then she punched him, hard. The blow connected with his left ear and all but knocked his head from his shoulders. He staggered sideways and rolled along the wall holding his wrist, howling like a dog. I closed the baton and slipped it back into my pocket
Kathryn’s anger was, however, like a donkey’s gallop, soon over, and she dropped back down into her chair, flapping her hand to relieve the pain in her knuckles. She put her elbows on the desktop and let her head drop into her hands, and sat quietly, but only for a few seconds. Soon enough she had come up out of her hands, all business. She straightened the collar of her jacket and looked up at me.
“I don’t know if what you say is true. If it is, I didn’t know about it. If it is true, the contract will be lifted immediately.” She twisted round in her seat, scowled down at her husband, and said, “See to it.”
He nodded, still nursing his wrist. His ear was the color of a rotten tomato. It would probably look like a cauliflower by morning.
“Now then, Mr. Starke,” she said, briskly. “If there’s nothing more, I suggest you leave. I’ll have Jason and Miguel clean up the mess.” Again she looked at her husband. “Please close the door behind you.”
And we did.
“Jeez, Harry,” Bob said as we rode down in the elevator. “I didn’t know you had that thing with you. Nice stroke, by the way. What did you say your handicap was?”
“Hmmm, on a good day, nine. Never more than ten.”
He grinned, then shook his head. “Damned if I don’t believe you. And did you see his ear? Damn it, Harry, I’d like to get to know that lady. I wonder if I should ask her out.” He’s joking, of course, I think.
I grinned at him. “Bob, I actually believe you’d do that.”
“You betcha. Maybe when this is done with, I will. So what now?” he asked as we climbed into the car.
“Dinner. What else? Hell, I can’t go back up there without it, now can I?”
“Guess not.”
“Chinese sound good? I want a little General Tso’s Chicken, and maybe some dim sum, some hot and sour soup, and crispy noodles. We’ll get some sweet ’n’ sour chicken, chicken in garlic sauce, fried rice, steamed rice—and how about some egg rolls? I like egg rolls. Jeez, Bob, I’m starving.”
He looked sideways at me, shaking his head as I headed for P.F. Chang’s.
“You’re feeling better, right?”
I grinned back at him, but I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
Chapter 8
Tuesday Evening, Late
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. By nine o’clock Benny still hadn’t called, and we were all on edge. Eventually I gave in and called him. I knew there’d be few people, if any, in the Sorbonne that early on a weekday.
The phone rang on and on interminably. I was just about to hang it up when his partner, Laura, answered.
“Sorbonne.”
“Hey, Laura. It’s Harry Starke. Where’s your little friend?”
“Hello, Harry. You mean Benny? He’s not here. He ain’t been here all day. Do you have any idea how much work it is getting this place ready to open each day? Of course you don’t. You’re a man. So whadda ya want me to tell him when he gets here, if he ever does?”
Crap. Where the hell is he?
“Nothing. Just tell him I called. Have a good evening, Laura.”
“You too, hun.”
I wasn’t surprised, and I really shouldn’t have called, but what the hell; I was in one of those moods. I was restless and impatient, and I needed to get over it and settle down. Right about then a stiff measure of Laphroaig would probably have set me right, but I didn’t dare; I didn’t know what the rest of the night might hold. I just had to get a grip and… what else I had no idea.
We were all still outside at ten o’clock that evening, seated around the pool, enjoying one of the finest views in five states. The city lights were at their brightest. The great river twinkled and shimmered as it curved first to the left and then to the right around the far eastern edge of the twinkling panorama. Life would have been good if not for the dark cloud hanging over us, a cloud that wouldn’t lift until I’d finished with Tree and his gang of villains.
At ten thirty, I went into the house, changed into swim trunks, and headed back out to the pool. I dived into the water from the springboard and settled into a slow, rhythmic crawl that propelled me rapidly from one end of the pool to the other. By the time I’d finished swimming laps I was feeling somewhat better, but Benny still hadn’t called, and I was getting worried.
I hope to hell nothing’s happened to the fat little bastard.
Slowly, one after another, the others headed into the house, leaving me alone with Amanda. I went and turned off the floodlights. Except for the underwater lights in the pool, and those of the city far below, it was quite dark.
And once again my thoughts turned to Henry. The pool reminded me of the good times we’d all had at the family gatherings at my father’s house on Riverview Road. Henry, goofy little Hank, had been a big part of them.
I turned my head to speak to Amanda, to reminisce, but she leaned toward me and placed a finger on my lips and shook her head. She understood. She rose, went to the steps, tested the temperature with her toe, then stepped down into the water and swam a slow breast stroke from one end of the pool to the other and back again, the underwater lights throwing her body into stark relief; she was a black shadow moving across the rippling surface of the water. She swam to the edge of the pool in front of me and beckoned. I smiled and shook my head. She shrugged, turned in the water, pushed off and swam to the far side of the pool and in a single fluid motion, hoisted herself out of the water, onto the top of the infinity wall. She stood there for a moment with her back to me, feet apart, staring down at the city lights, which provided just enough of a glow to outline her body. She was wearing her favorite pink bikini; it left little to the imagination. And the droplets of water on her shoulders and in her hair shone like colored jewels.
She sat down along the top of the wall, threw back her head, and shook out her hair. She was a lovely silhouette against the glittering city, and from this that angle she seemed to be sitting on top of the water—an optical illusion, but a breathtakingly beautiful one.
How long I sat there watching her, I have no idea. I was away with the birds, if you will; my mind drifting back and forth over the past three years that I’d known her, the extraordinary circumstances that had brought us together. My brother’s death had brought my feelings for Amanda sharply into focus, and I knew, then more than ever before, that I loved her dearly, and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
I lay on my lounger watching her and listened to the night. For a moment or two I was even at peace. Only the dull murmur of the insects and the gentle lapping of the water disturbed the stillness of the night. I think Amanda must have been able to feel me staring at her, because she turned her head, lowered it, looked at me through her eyelashes, and smiled that special smile.
I smiled back her, lay my head back, closed my eyes and… suddenly I felt the hair on the back of my neck begin to prickle, and I was overwhelmed by a horrible feeling that something was wrong. I had no idea what brought it on. I’d heard nothing… and maybe that was it; maybe it was too quiet.
I opened my eyes, instantly alert, and stood and looked out over the pool down the slope into the gardens. Nothing. It was dark down there, but….
What the hell is that?
Somewhere down the slope, beyond the stone wall that formed the perimeter of the gardens, something was moving. And then I heard it: the sharp crack of a twig snapping underfoot.
I gestured for Amanda to get off the wall. I needn’t have bothered. She’d heard the sound too, and had already slipped noiselessly into the water.
I met her on my hands and knees at the poolside, gave her my hand, and in a single swift, fluid movement I hauled her out of the water. She came up like an arrow; she almost flew up beside me.
Crack. There it was again.
“Quick,” I whispered. “Into the house.”
I held her hand as we ran, heads down, through the open door.
“Get Rose and Dad and take them to the panic room.”
She nodded, then turned and ran through the house, water flying in all directions.
Oh yeah, we had one of those, a panic room. She’d thought I was paranoid when I suggested we have one built into the basement. I’m sure she was glad of it then, though.
I ran down the hall and barged into Bob’s room. He was snoring like a hog. My intention was to shake him awake, but before I could, he was up and had me by the throat, the barrel of a 1911 pushing into the side of my neck. I didn’t know whether to be pissed or impressed; I settled for the latter.
“Christ, Bob. It’s me. Lemme go for God’s sake.”
And he did. “You should know better than to creep up on me in the middle of the night, buddy,” he growled, and the pressure on my neck relaxed.
“So you weren’t asleep?”
“I never sleep. What’s up?”
“I’m not sure. There’s someone creeping around out there, on the slopes beyond the garden wall.”
He nodded, climbed out of bed, slipped into a T-shirt and a pair of loafers, and grabbed both of his 1911s. “Let’s take a look.”
“Wait. I need to—”
“Nah, you don’t. Take one of these.” He tossed one of the Sigs to me. “Let’s go see who’s out there.”
We stood in the shadows under the canopy at the rear of the pool house, and listened. There was someone out there all right. We hadn’t been there but a couple of seconds when I spotted a shadow climb cautiously up over the top of the far perimeter wall, and then tumble down into the darkness.
Crap, I’m glad he’s down there and I’m up here, I thought, hefting the heavy weapon. I nudged Bob.
“I see him,” he whispered.
But there was more than just one. Over the next thirty seconds or so I counted no less than six more shadowy figures moving quickly over the wall and then up the slopes through the gardens toward the house. I looked down at the Sig in my hand and shook my head.
Seven of them, Christ. And at least one‘s carrying an AR. Phone! Where the hell is my phone?
It wasn’t in my pants pocket. I looked around and spotted it lying on the table by the pool, right where I’d left it when I went to fish Amanda out of the water.
“I guess Greene didn’t lift the contract on me after all,” I whispered. “I think we’ll need to pay him and his good lady another little visit when this is over.”
“Oh, we will,” Bob whispered back.
“Stay here. I’ll be back.”
“Okay, Arnold.” He grinned at me in the darkness.
I took a deep breath, then ran, head down, staying low, to the table, snatched up the phone, turned quickly, and completed the round trip. Back under the canopy, I hit the speed dial for 911.
“911 operator. What is your emergency?”
"Home invasion. At least six intruders coming through the grounds. All armed, possibly with automatic weapons.”
“Where are you, sir, and what is your name?”
I gave her my name, reeled off the address, and then hung up, and just as I did, two black figures leaped up out of the shadows, over the stone balustrade onto the patio. I hit the switch and turned on floodlights, and suddenly a half acre of patio and gardens was bathed in white light. It took them completely by surprise.
One guy was teetering on edge of the infinity wall, trying to shield his eyes with one hand and find a target for what looked like an AR15 in his other. Dressed all in black from head to toe, he looked like a damned ninja; he also looked like he was walking on water.
Bob took a two-handed grip on the Sig, spread his feet, and took aim. I put a hand on his arm, then yelled, “Give it up; the cops are their way.”
The guy on the pool wall reacted, probably in panic and, one-handed, let fly a stream of automatic fire, most of it hitting the water. Shit, that’s no AR. It’s an M16 for God’s sake.
Bam! The guy on the pool wall topped over backwards into oblivion.
I felt as if I’d been hit in the head with a hammer. Bob had fired that damned .45 less than twelve inches from my left ear. But there was no time to react beyond clapping my free hand over my ear.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bob fired three more times, the muzzle flashes fleetingly overwhelming the floods, lighting up the patio; my brain felt like a lump of concrete, and I could hear nothing.
“Son of a—” I couldn’t even finish the curse. I’d spotted two more of them coming over the wall beyond the far end of the pool.
Bam, bam, bam! I fired as quickly as I could pull the trigger. The recoil of the heavy weapon slammed the grip into the heel of my hand. I hit one man high in the chest, and clipped the other’s right arm as he flung himself sideways, a stream of .223s stitching their way up the pool house wall, showering us with chips of concrete.
Bob emptied his Sig into the night. I could already feel blood running down the left side of my face, courtesy of the shards of concrete.
“Go left,” I yelled. “I’ll go through the house and circle around the pool.”
He nodded, dumped his empty mag, slammed in another, and disappeared around the corner of the building.
Involuntarily, I glanced down at my Sig. Shit! I ejected the mag, glanced at it, then slammed it back in. Four left. Jeez, why didn’t I grab extras? Oh well, here goes nothing.
I sucked in a deep breath and began to back away from the pool house, trying to keep it between me and the rapidly approaching intruders.
I was almost to the sliding door when I was treated to a hail of automatic fire. The glass blew inward, shattering into thousands of tiny shards of safety glass that flew in every direction. I dived through the hole in the door, rolled across the kitchen floor, then leaped to my feet and ran through the house.
Bob? He must have been doing okay; I could see the muzzle flash of the .45 through the kitchen window.
I ran out through the front door and around the corner of the building, then had to leap back as a hail of fire from the south side of gardens tore into the stone wall above my head.
I flung myself down on my hands and knees, and when I poked my head out I spotted a dark figure running toward me.
Without thinking, I jumped to my feet, stepped out into the open, and opened fire with the Sig at exactly the same time as he did. I felt the wind of the heavy slugs as they passed over my left shoulder. I probably would have heard them too, had my ears not still been ringing. He’d missed.
I hadn’t.
I saw three of my rounds hit him dead center mass. His chest literally exploded in a mist of blood and bone. He was actually lifted off his feet by the impacts and hurled over backwards. He tumbled a few yards down the slope on the right side of the pool, and then lay still.
Jesus. How many more of them? I’d now seen at least ten. Shit. Here c
omes another.
He came at me out of the darkness beyond the ornamental stone wall, moving fast and low, a wildly morphing shadow that leaped over the wall and onto the patio. He was less than fifteen feet away when I raised the Sig, and I knew right then that I was in trouble. The slide was back. The damn thing was empty.
He must have known it too, because he slowed to a walk, and then stopped maybe eight feet in front of me. I was in the dead zone—just a little too far away to make a grab for his gun, and too close for him to miss, and even beneath the black balaclava I could see he was grinning. He raised his weapon and took careful aim….
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
The man shuddered and shook as the bullets tore into him, the force of the impacts jerking him like a puppet on strings. He staggered back several steps and then keeled over sideways, dead before he hit the ground, a sad heap of wasted skin, blood, and bone.
My head was pounding from the muzzle blasts and the concussion, my ears throbbing, and no wonder. When I spun around, Jacque was standing no more than four feet behind me, feet wide apart, the Glock 19 clasped in both hands and still pointed at where the intruder had just been standing.
And then it was over. The few shadows still left on their feet melted away into the darkness, down the slopes from whence they’d come, and once again there was only the silence. After the cacophony of the last few minutes, it was almost palpable, but then I could hear the sound of approaching sirens, barely, as if at the bottom of a well. My hearing was coming back.
The attack couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, but it had seemed like an hour.
I looked at Jacque; she was white as a sheet and still frozen to the spot. I went to her.
“Hey,” I said, gently pushing her hands down and taking the Glock from her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She said it, but I’m still not sure she was. I put my arm around her shoulder and steered her back across the patio and into the house, through the glass-less rear doors.
Amanda met us in the kitchen. She flung her arms around my neck and squeezed like there was no tomorrow. Little did she know that there almost hadn’t been.
