“So we’re good?” Gravity said.
“Yeah.”
I stepped back into the open walk-in closet just as they entered the room. A dark corner should keep me pretty well hidden, as long as I didn’t move.
A Smith and Wesson .40 dangled from Phil’s left hand. Blood smeared on the muzzle, probably from Nya’s head. He’d clocked her with it. She’d been smart enough to meet it with a thick part of her skull.
No, she wasn’t dumb.
And she wasn’t helpless. Now, she was armed.
But if I did my job right, that wouldn’t matter. Just insurance.
Gravity took up his post almost in front of me, next to Sternwood, his knife brandished.
“Watch this.” Gravity used his elbow to jostle his Dad like they were watching a boxing match together.
Phil Thales raised his gun at Nya. I couldn’t see the expression on her face—I didn’t need to.
I stepped forward and kicked Gravity in the small of the back, sending him sprawling forward, then fired up through the ceiling once.
Seven left.
“Drop it, Thales.” His chest was right at the other end of my barrel. I could see the spot where it would hit like someone had put a cameo over my eyes and shone a spotlight on him, dead center mass.
Beautiful clear shot.
He jerked his head round to look at me, trying to figure out whether I’d do it.
“You’ve got till three. Drop it. One.”
Thales didn’t move.
“Two.”
Sternwood yelled from my left and crossed in front of me. I opened my left eye and saw him heft his chair and smash it down on top of Gravity, who’d been winding up to throw his knife at me.
Thales moved.
“Doc, drop!”
Bang.
Thales fired. Sternwood hadn’t dropped fast enough.
I got my bead on him just as Nya jumped onto him from the side. She screamed, primal rage. Revenge for the murder of her friend? Protection for Sternwood? Maybe both. I didn’t have time to decide. Thales screamed and beat back at her with his gun.
I couldn’t get a clear shot.
Drop off him Nya. Drop off him now.
Stepping into the room. Trying like hell to get a better angle.
Nya yelled again and stabbed him under his right arm with my knife. He curled round, cradling the wound. She was still on him, ripping into him with her teeth. He twisted and turned and beat at her with his pistol trying to knock her loose. Her teeth latched on to the side of his head as she thrashed and screamed and stabbed at him.
There. Left shoulder. Clear shot.
Phil’s S&W smashed into Nya’s face. She fell off.
She took the ear with her.
Phil howled.
I squeezed.
He staggered. Left shoulder went dark.
Six left.
He turned. I shifted my aim for his head and started to squeeze again for a Mozambique.
Something knocked my right leg out form under me and my .45 went off as I smashed down to my knees. Plaster dust puffed at me from the right wall where the bullet struck, useless.
Some part of my brain said “five” but the rest of me didn’t know what to make of it.
My pistol skittered across the floor.
I dove forward after it. Something punched me in the kidney from behind. Gravity scrambled over me—he’d kicked my knee from behind. Stupid, Lantham. Stupid Stupid Stupid.
I dove for it, missed the grab, sent the .45 sliding farther out of my reach. Gravity was faster. He was going to get to it before I did.
Push up off the floor.
Get up on your haunches.
I reached for the ankle and ripped the .38 snub loose. I brought it up just as Gravity swung round with the .45 and pointed it straight at Sternwood’s head.
He said: “Shoot him, Phil.”
“I…I…” Phil was gasping for breath.
“Shoot him now, he can’t get both of us.” Gravity grabbed his old man by the collar and dragged him to standing. Sternwood was in bad shape, bleeding fast enough from the hole in his clavicle that he wasn’t going to last more than about ten minutes. “Now don’t do anything stupid, asshole, or they’re both dead.”
I heard a thud. Nya squealed. I swung my gun left until I had Phil at the end of it, holding Nya by her hair, the S&W pressed to her head.
“They’re both dead anyway.” I said. Gravity hid well enough behind Sternwood, and stayed moving enough, that I couldn’t get him. Phil I could get, but it would get Sternwood killed. I spoke evenly: “Let him go, Charles.”
“You drop it, and I’ll consider it.” He pulled the door open. He was going out the front. Once he was clear of the room, I could drop Phil and go out the back.
And risk Sternwood.
Dammit. I had to change the equation. Fast.
I said: “You can’t get out of here dragging him all the way.”
Phil started pushing Nya toward the door too.
Gravity stepped back through the door frame. A white blur rushed in from the right.
“Chuck!” Phil yelled, too late. A pot smashed across the back of Gravity’s head.
He crumpled to reveal Jason Rawles standing over him. “You fucking prick!”
Phil moved. I squeezed. Five.
Dead center mass. Phil staggered.
Bang. The back of Jason’s head blew out and he dropped like a rag doll.
Phil swung back to me. I popped my aim up eighteen inches and squeezed again.
Forehead shot. Phil went down. Four.
My ears were killing me. I walked forward to check the body. He’d fallen partly on top of Nya—I kicked him over and helped her up.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I think I’m okay.” She sounded shaky, but it was all I needed at the moment. I threw my right arm around her waist and lifted her over Bridget’s body, dropped her on the couch as gently as I could, then ran the two steps to Sternwood on the porch.
The Doc was still breathing. Losing a lot of blood. Gravity’s gun—my .45—was next to the Doc on the porch. I grabbed it and holstered it, then pulled out my LED flashlight. I checked Sternwood’s pupils. Dilating evenly. No head wound.
Good.
I put the flashlight between my teeth and ripped his shirt and wadded it up, pressed it against the wound.
“Doc.” I pulled the light back out of my mouth and held onto it with the spare fingers of my gun hand so I could talk. “Richard, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” He groaned.
“I need you to hold…Nya! Come hold this!”
She came out and pushed down where I told her. “Don’t let go or he’s gonna die.”
“Okay.” She did as directed—looked relieved to have something useful to do.
I helped her move him to the couch, made sure the compress was good and tight, and then went back out to the porch to survey the damage.
Rawles was as dead as it gets. Another stupid kid, laying in pieces on the ground.
And Gravity, the architect of this mayhem…
Gravity was gone.
He couldn’t have gone far, he’d been here not a minute ago.
I jumped down the steps to the skip-stone path that lead around the north side of the house, figuring he’d go that way. Closer to the driveway.
I cleared the edge of the house and there he was, running-stumbling toward Phil’s car. Ten yards. A nothing shot. Just beyond the low cinder block walls that marked the edge of the yard.
“Gravity!” I tossed the flashlight to my left and hit him with it. “Freeze!” He stopped and looked back at me, not sure which way to go. “You’re under arrest for…”
Off to my left, in the park, someone lit a pack of firecrackers. Gravity fell like someone cut his strings.
I flashed left with my light. A woman at the gully, a hundred yards away, with a serious piece of hardware. I fired twice. Three. Two.
She swung around
and sprayed the house. I dove forward and ate a facefull of potter’s soil, then scrambled forward to the wall. I popped open the cylinder on the revolver, dumped the brass, grabbed a speedloader off my belt and shoved in a fresh load. I snapped it closed. Less than three seconds.
You’re mine. I turned the flashlight on, pointed it at the wall roughly in the direction of my target.
One. Two. Three.
I set the flashlight on the wall, rolled to the left, and popped up. I fired at her position just as the wall next to me spit out a hail of shards and dust. The flashlight went dead.
Round six spat out the end of the revolver, and I heard a yelp.
I’d hit her.
And for about the next minute, she’d be mostly blind from the light.
I leapt over the wall, running flat out at her position. I shoved the .38 into my hip pocket and pulled out the .45 as I ran. Five shots left in the .45.
I covered the ground in maybe eight seconds. Maybe less. The house had to be backlighting me. Not good. I was banking that she’d dropped to the ground when I hit her.
And she had. At least, dropped her gun. A Knight’s PDW. Serious fucking hardware dead in the middle of the walking trail.
But she was nowhere around.
I looked on through the trees and saw a shadow running across the field toward the parking lot at the end of Poplar.
Flat out. Running till my lungs bled. I threw two slugs at her, missed. Three left. The .45 is shit at that kind of range, with shaky hands from running and adrenaline.
She changed directions to put houses in front of her. Backlit. Better target. Still out of range. I’d risk hitting a civilian asleep in their bed.
My feet pounded the ground, but she was too far ahead. She hit the pavement and sprinted up Poplar. I got up to the street just in time to catch her jumping into the passenger seat of a black BMW with dealer plates.
I kicked myself for being such a goddamned moron. It was the same car I passed at BAGG. And the Ackerman house. The one I’d parked behind when I got here. Perfect Bay Area camouflage.
It sped north on Railroad.
There was no way to find them.
I staggered to a standstill and leaned against the fence. My lungs ached like I’d been breathing acid. Every nerve jangled.
Every muscle went to rubber.
Sank to my haunches, then to the ground, holding onto that fence for dear life while I tried like hell to push the adrenaline out.
Still no time. Had to get back to get the ambulance and the cops.
A few minutes. Might have been ten. Might have been one. I don’t know—you can’t tell time when you’re that amped up. I somehow found my feet and staggered back along the path across the two-hundred-yards-plus-gully.
When I got to the shooter’s iron I took my jacket off and wrapped it, then picked it up in the vain hope that she hadn’t worn gloves or had somehow left fingerprints.
This was a professional’s weapon. I wasn’t going to find anything. But I did it right anyway. Sometimes you get lucky.
But fingerprints might not matter. She’d left blood on it. Tagged her close to the wrist on her left arm to get that much red and make her drop the thing. One more lead for the boys in blue—local hospitals always report gunshot wounds.
Back at the house, Sternwood was still breathing. Nya was still holding him, pressing that compress to him and trying hard not to look at Bridget or Phil on the floor in front of them.
The house had a land line. Maybe the last place around here that did.
It took the cops ten minutes to get there. Probably interrupted their evening donut meeting at 7-11.
They kept me there for three hours. They wanted to keep me more, but it’s a small department and I think they were just glad to be rid of me. They had my license number. They knew where to find me.
Nya went out wrapped in a blanket under her own power—a few bumps and bruises, but she was going to be okay. No cowardice in that woman at all, willing to stab her own father to defend a couple of barely-knowns who she’d decided were okay.
She was going to do just fine. Might even wind up a cop someday, if she could learn better impulse control.
I gave the flatfoots her home number. Dora was gonna be all kinds of shiny when she got that call.
Phil and Gravity went out in bags. So did Rawles.
Rawles, who should have been home, happy to have escaped the worst of it. Revenge is an expensive hobby.
Sternwood went out on a gurney. He was gonna live, but over the last two days they’d made him watch as they killed his girls in front of him. Gravity’s revenge, and a message from someone else.
Now Sternwood had also lost his son.
Gravity…or Charlie. Mowed down by…who? The people who mugged me. The people who tailed me earlier tonight. Probably the people who used him to get to Sternwood and the girls.
I had more pressing problems than the wound on my arm. One of them in particular had me scared to go anywhere near home.
They had used Gravity to get to Sternwood.
So who the hell were they?
3:00 AM, Tuesday
Half Moon Bay PD wasn’t happy to let me go. In the end I had to call my lawyer and have him pull the “You may be a big fish in that small pond, but I have a big water pump that can empty it and leave you high and dry” routine. I didn’t want to—they were doing their jobs and doing it pretty damn well under unusual circumstances, but I had bigger things on my mind.
There was only one person I knew where to find at this hour, and she was probably the last person on Earth who wanted to see me.
I had to pull her address from my payroll records, which meant more wardriving to find an open network once I reached San Mateo, then querying the office server over the net.
Google maps had me rolling up to her apartment complex in Castro Valley a little after three. Her lights were on—she was twenty and living on her own, I’d have been a little disappointed if she actually slept at night.
Two shallow concrete steps up from the tarmac brought me to the door set into the brick-facade wall.
Knock knock.
Her shadow through the peep-hole, checking to see who I was. Another thirty seconds of waiting, and the door opened to reveal Rachael in a terry-cloth robe that, judging by the embroidered logo, she’d stolen from the Rio in Las Vegas.
She crossed her arms, looked at me for about two seconds, then walloped me hard across the left cheek. Not a slap—a proper right hook. She wound up with her left, but I reached up and caught it.
I said: “I probably deserve that.”
“Yeah, you do. What kind of fucktard leaves his intern with a,” she clamped her voice down to a hiss, “body to deal with and asks her to cover up that he was there.”
“You weren’t supposed to know I was there.”
“Oh, that makes it all better. You left a note on my desk, dimwit.”
“Shit.” Figures I’d forget something.
“So why the hell are you here?”
I raised an eyebrow at her and shook my head just a little bit, “Because I’m out of my depth, and you’re the only person I can trust.”
She folded her arms across her chest again and tapped her foot at me. She looked me up and down. Her eyes flitted to the wound on my arm three times, the scuffs on my knuckles twice, the tear in my jacket, then came back up and met me. “Donald!” Here’s hoping the neighbors slept well.
A dazed-looking, fairly lean, naked Asian man blundered sideways out of the door to the right—presumably to the bedroom—and froze when he saw me. Well, most of him did. There was a certain amount of after-the-fact jiggling that was pretty difficult to ignore.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes. It’s time for you to go home now.”
“What, already?”
“I’ll call you. Seems I’ve got a work emergency.” She pinched her brow together at me as she said it, making it clear just how much I now owed her.
“Okay.” He returned through the door. Rachael didn’t move during the three minutes he was evidently collecting his belongings and arranging them into something resembling an outfit.
She just blocked my path, with her arms folded and her bare toes tapping on the aluminum door plate. I resisted cradling my aching face.
Donald emerged again, dressed incongruously in a bowler hat, corset-vest, and cargo pants outfitted with D-rings and rope braids. He picked up a brass-headed walking stick, kissed Rachel, and shouldered his way past me. Not happy about being kicked out, but not petulant either. Not even a glare at me as he left.
She picked ‘em well.
Once he was in his car, Rachael swept her arms into the living room.
“Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
I plopped down on her sofa while she went back into her room.
“You want ice for your face?” she shouted.
“That would be great.”
“It’s in the freezer.”
“Thanks a lot.” I hauled my broken-down ass out of the deep pile of pillows and into the one-butt kitchen. A bag of frozen peas would do the trick splendidly.
My ass found it’s resting spot, my cheek throbbed under the press of peas, and my hostess emerged from her room dressed in high-mobility clothes—BDUs over a body suit.
“You’ve done this before.”
“What?”
I nodded at her getup. “Tactical work.”
“Is that what we’re up for?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Okay.” She sat down on a leather Ikea chair opposite me. “If you’re showing up at my house at three in the morning, it’s serious.”
“You’ve had training?”
“My dad was in Desert Storm, now he’s a cop. I’m the son he never had. Do the math.
“Well that explains a lot, except…”
“Except what?”
“Why you covered my ass today.”
“You fucked up, mister fancy pants.”
“Right, we covered that. So why didn’t you rat me out?”
She leaned forward. “You mean why did I let a broken down disgraced cop with blinkered brains and questionable shower habits make me accessory-after-the-fact to first degree murder, with a little obstruction on the side?”
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