Mortal Pursuit

27

Crouching under the white branches of a eucalyptus tree just inside the rear gate, Trish surveyed the yard.

Getting in had been no problem. The gate had been left open, presumably so the man at the dock could reenter when called.

She doubted anyone was on patrol at the back of the house-the dock sentry would be expected to block access from the rear-but she was taking no chances. It was her modest ambition to still have a heartbeat in the morning.

The backyard was large, perhaps half an acre, but its layout was simple enough.

The paved path from the gate ran between the house’s west wall and the detached garage. East of the path lay a stretch of open lawn, then a gazebo. Beside the gazebo was a garden; beyond that, a swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and cabana.

No guards were in sight. Slowly she stood.

Mounted on a post next to the eucalyptus was a security system controller. She spared a moment to examine it. If she could rearm the system with the rear gate open, the alarm would be triggered and help would come.

No good. Evidently the operator had to punch in a numeric code, similar to the personal identification number used when interfacing with automatic tellers. She didn’t know the code.

Was there a panic switch Some systems offered a single button that could be depressed to trip the alarm. Not this one, though. It might be possible to activate the panic feature by typing in some special code or symbol, but she had no idea which keys to press, and she couldn’t stand here all night.

Okay, back to Plan A. She was thinking anyway. She was full of bright ideas.

Cautiously she moved forward, the Glock gripped in both hands, her arms shoulder high and horizontally extended in the pose of a tennis player at the net. Her bare forearms glistened, radial flexors standing out like taut ropes. Between her wrists the handcuff chain rattled softly.

The gazebo was her immediate destination. But reaching it would be dangerous.

She would have to cross twenty-five feet of open lawn, and although the yard was dark, she couldn’t know if someone was watching from a window.

Flashback: glow of a red-orange diode, a laser beam stamping a bull’s-eye on her forehead. Flashback: a bullet blowing past her face underwater.

Mustn’t think about that. Mustn’t think about anything.

Like those stupid ads said: Just do it.

Fast.

She darted across the treeless ground. Behind the gazebo she slid to her knees, panting.

No shots fired. At least she didn’t think there had been. Those guns were silenced, though. And she’d heard you couldn’t always tell if you’d been shot.

She patted her legs, her torso, looking for holes. None.

Okay. Okay.

Her stomach rolled. That granola bar hadn’t settled too well. Briefly she worried that she would be sick again.

No, ridiculous, she was fine, and every second she spent inside the Kent compound increased her odds of being seen, so come on, hurry up, get it done.

With shaking hands she put down the Glock, then unfolded the binoculars from her pocket. Warily she lifted her head over the gazebo’s low wall and scoped out the house.

Lights burned in three rear windows. One pair, in the east wing, framed what looked like a bedroom.

Ally was in there. Through the binoculars Trish could see her, squirming in a chair. Tied up-and alone.

Strange that the girl had been separated from the others. Disturbing, too, as if the killers had special plans for her.

The rear entrance had been left open, the doorway a rectangle of darkness.

She focused on the remaining lighted window, closest to her. The kitchen. Barbara Kent’s vantage point when she’d glimpsed a prowler by the gazebo.

Now Trish was the prowler. Peculiar thought.

The kitchen appeared empty. Only a small portion of the room was visible: the corner of a refrigerator … part of a cabinet … a wall-mounted telephone … a laminated noteboard littered with partly erased messages.

Below the noteboard, keys hung on a row of pegs.

The kitchen, then, was her objective. One of those key sets would surely include keys to the boats. If she—

Behind her, a rustle of bushes.

She whirled, dropping the binoculars, grabbing the gun.

Darkness. No movement.

But she’d heard something.

One of them Hiding Drawing a bead on her

There.

Not a bad guy, not death in a black jump suit. Only a rabbit, small and brown, frozen in profile ten feet away, observing her with one unblinking eye.

She lowered the Glock. The slight movement was enough to send the rabbit scurrying into shadows.

Catching her breath, fighting to control her racing heart, she stared after the rabbit. Such a little animal, so vulnerable, surviving only by constant watchfulness born of constant fear.

Tonight she knew the same vigilance, the same terror.

She knew how it was to be hunted.