The Assassin

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When I had hidden in the kitchen for as long as my conscience, and good sense, would allow, I went back into the dining room. Everyone was gone. I got busy bussing the table, and the FBI types helped. As they worked, they talked shop gossip; I tried not to pay attention but found myself listening anyway. I was reminded that everyone has problems. They also weren’t happy that they were at Winchester’s doing what they thought was manual labor when they were highly trained, professional crime solvers.

When that job was done they made themselves coffee and got deeper into FBI internal politics. It was a few minutes after nine o’clock.

I checked that my earpiece was in tight and my belt radio was on, then wandered into the living room. Everyone was there except Marisa. Jake Grafton, Huntington Winchester, Isolde Petrou and Robin Cloyd were into the war on terror, while Jerry Hay Smith sat silently, probably secretly recording their remarks for a future column. Callie and Amy were huddled by the piano with their heads close together, probably talking mother-daughter stuff. After all, Amy had that boyfriend in Baltimore …

I inspected every window and door in the lower story, ensuring they were locked as the wind whispered against the windows. The wind was howling outside, but the house was of quality construction and tight. Goes to show what real money can do.

Went to the basement and looked around down there. One door went out. That Khadr — if he came alone — this basement door would attract him like a moth to a flame.

Still, underestimating him could be fatal for someone.

Would he come alone?

All the possibilities leapt to mind, everything from an assault by a dozen or two fired-up locals intent on earning their way into Paradise to a bomb against the building or a rocket into the house.

Clearly, there was no way to do more than we had done. We had four guys outside, and me, Grafton, Robin and the two pistol-packing pro crime solvers in. I wondered if either of the federal cops had ever been in a gunfight. Or if Robin had. That was our team unless Grafton had cavalry standing by somewhere that I didn’t know about. Even if he did, it was doubtful that they could get here in time to do much good. Whatever happened, if it happened, would happen damn quick.

Ahh.. nothing will happen.

I decided I was jumpy, working myself into a state because I was a little scared. The memory of the adventure in the stairwell was still fresh as newly spilled blood. My ears still buzzed from the gunshots in that concrete sounding chamber. My shoulder still ached from the bullet in London and hurt from the crease last night.

My worst problem was my adrenaline hangover. That and congenital paranoia.

When I finished the basement, I climbed the stairs to the top floor and began familiarizing myself with the layout, doors, light switches, closets, storage rooms, bathrooms, places to hide, furniture in odd places… all the things I would need to know if the power went off. Room by room, I looked at everything. This joint only had a half dozen bedrooms up here — it was really a small hotel.

One of the bedroom doors was closed. Marisa’s, I figured. I stood there for several seconds breathing in and out before I knocked.

Maybe half a minute passed before the door opened. She was wearing an ankle-length nightie. She walked away from me, and I closed the door. The only light came from the little reading lamp beside the bed.

She turned to face me.

“Tommy.. ” I don’t know exactly how it happened, but we wound up in a tight embrace, kissing. Her hunger was a tangible thing; her warmth and sensuality swept over me.

Afterward we lay together between the sheets in the darkness holding each other tightly. She had her head against my chest, as if she were listening to my heart.

I still had the bandage over the drain the doctor had installed in London, plus my new bandage on my souvenir shoulder crease. She ignored them both.

“Sometimes I wish,” she said, “that I were a different person, a normal person, with a normal family and normal problems.”

“Normal problems …” I echoed. “Don’t we all wish?”

“But I’m not.”

A blast of wind struck the house and rattled the window, which was cracked open about an inch. Cold air blew gently into the room through that crack. The sleet had stopped and now was just rain — a lot of rain, I could tell by the sound.

Somewhere a tree limb was rubbing against the house. The gutter, it sounded like. It was a random, scraping sound, whenever the wind blew hardest.

“You aren’t, either,” she said.

My earpiece and radio were on the floor someplace. I thought about putting it back on, yet I didn’t want to move to find it.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered.

“Khadr?” Qasim.

“One is as bad as the other,” I said, trying to sound normal.

She didn’t hesitate. “With our luck, we’ll get them both,” she said bitterly.

I kissed her one last time, as warmly and tenderly as I could, then got out of bed and dressed in the darkness as the wind moaned and rain hammered the glass.

Using the fence line and a little draw, Khadr crawled into the back of the barn. The journey from the fence to the barn, a distance of about a hundred yards, had taken him an hour. He was wet to the skin and cold, but he ignored both sensations.

Khadr was dressed all in black, with a black ski mask over his head and face, with holes only for his eyes, and black gloves on his hands. He killed swiftly, ruthlessly and without remorse, and he was very good at it. Tonight he was armed with a silenced pistol, a knife, a garroting wire and hard experience gained through fifty-five paid kills and six that weren’t. The pistol he carried in a black synthetic holster with the bottom cut out to make room for the silencer. The knife hung in a black sheath on his left side.

The large double door was closed and barred from the inside. Khadr pulled gently on the handle, then moved to the personnel door. It was unlocked. He slipped through into the barn, closed the door behind him and ensured it had latched, then moved sideways into a dark corner and stood waiting with the silenced pistol in his hand. Waiting and listening, alert with every sense attuned.

The horses knew he was there, of course, and shifted nervously in their stalls. No doubt they were looking his way, and they could probably see him, although he couldn’t see them. They didn’t whinny, however. These were tame horses, used to man’s presence. He heard the horses’ shuffle above the noise of the wind and rain, both of which came in driving gusts.

The only light in the barn was from the exit signs above the doors at either end. Khadr’s eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw the layout, the stalls and the dark shapes that hung above the doors, the horses, watching him, looking around.

He waited until the horses turned away, one by one, back to their feed bags or standing asleep or lolling in their stalls. He heard one horse lit down. Ten minutes passed with only the sounds of the storm; then he heard a gentle plop of a horse exercising its bowels.

He started down the passageway that led to the front entrance … and froze. Something … A man snoring. The sound was above him.

He searched the overhead, saw the platforms and the end of the hay bales stored there — and saw the areas where they weren’t.

From a pocket he removed a small infrared detector that looked like a telescope. Holding it up to his right eye, he scanned the overhead. Two heat sources …

Like a shadow he moved to the ladder against the wall, by a tack room, and stood at the bottom of the ladder looking upward. Listening.

The snoring was closer. One man … no, two — definitely two — above him.

He climbed the ladder, a lithe, agile black shadow, moving slowly and steadily. No one can move absolutely soundlessly, not even Khadr, but the sounds of the nor’easter on the uninsulated roof covered the tiny noises of the rungs taking his weight, the rubber soles of his shoes scraping on the wood.

He paused at the top, his pistol in his hand, every sense on full alert. Slowly, ever so slowly he raised his head, which was still covered with the black ski mask. In the dim, almost nonexistent light they were black lumps sleeping on mats, their feet at least ten feet from him. They appeared motionless, snoring gently. Over his head the roof reverberated.

Khadr forced himself to look around, to ensure that these were the only two men in the loft. The corners of this empty area of the loft were totally black, impenetrable. He used the infrared scanner. Empty.

At any moment one of the men could awaken or someone could enter the barn down below. He could afford to wait no longer.

He holstered the pistol and, using both hands, completed his climb, then stepped onto the loft floor.

Neither of the men stirred. Now he pulled the pistol again, automatically thumbing the safety to ensure it was on. Stepping carefully, feeling the floor with each foot before placing his weight on that spot, he moved toward them. They were in sleeping bags, three feet or so between them.

He moved so he was adjacent to their waists. He thumbed off the safety. Swiftly he bent down, placed the muzzle of the pistol inches from the head of the man on his left and pulled the trigger. A soft plop. A second later he put a bullet into the head of the man on his right.

He was about to holster the gun when the first man he shot sat up, groaning, one hand on his head. Khadr placed the muzzle of the silencer against the side of the man’s head and fired again. The victim tumbled over and lay still.

Now the killer holstered the gun and removed a penlight from his pocket. The beam was a tiny spot. Quickly he looked for the radios that he knew must be here.

He found them. The first man he shot had an earpiece in his ear. The wireless transceiver was lying near his head. Khadr inspected the transceiver, ensured it was on, then clipped it to his belt. The earpiece he inserted in his own ear.

He adjusted the squelch until he got static, then turned it down until the static faded into silence.

Guns lay on the floor nearby. M-16s and 1911-style automatics. He picked up one of the pistols, checked that it was loaded, cocked and locked, and shoved it into his waistband, just in case. If he had to use it, he would be in deep trouble, perhaps fatal trouble. For him. Still…

He went to the window and looked through the rain-smeared glass down into the yard. It was empty, but he knew there were people out there, waiting. Waiting for him. Shielding the penlight carefully, he looked at his watch. Only ten thirty. Lights were still on in the house. Four cars were parked near the small porch.

He would wait, Khadr decided. He had all night.

Standing silently, motionless, he took out his infrared scanner and began searching the area.

Behind him the leg of the first man he had shot moved, then stiffened, then finally relaxed and moved no more.

When I got downstairs, the party around the fireplace was breaking up. Callie and Amy were already upstairs, apparently, although I hadn’t heard them pass Marisa’s door. Smith made himself one last toddy, then carried it by me up the stairs. He refused to meet my eyes.

Winchester called his dog, who followed him into the hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen. Grafton trailed along after the collie. Robin was sitting with her shotgun across her lap in front of the fireplace. She watched me descend the stairs and follow the two into the hallway.

I found Grafton talking to the two FBI agents. “Tommy and Robin will take the first watch,” he said. “I want you to go upstairs and get some sleep. Tommy will wake you at three and you can relieve them.”

He glanced at me, and I nodded. From a backpack he extracted two night vision headsets. He explained how they worked to the FBI agents, who had never used them before. Showed them the on-off switch, the switch to cycle between infrared and starlight, and showed them the gain and contrast knobs. The federal cops looked dubious.

“If you’ve never used these before, you might be better off without them,” I suggested.

They both nodded.

Grafton handed me a set.

“Since we have more people than we’ve had the last few nights, I’m going to try to get a full night’s sleep,” Grafton continued, talking to the agents. “Same drill as in the past — I’ll have the radio on so I’ll hear anything anyone says on the net. I’m the reinforcements. If anyone sees anything, hears anything, suspects anything, say so on the net. Got it?”

He looked from face to face, then at me. We all nodded our understanding.

“Admiral,” one of the agents said, the taller of the two. “Realistically, what are we facing?”

“I honestly don’t know. We could be assaulted by a gang, bombed or attacked by stealth by one man. I don’t know. Last night at my place in Virginia four men tried to gain entrance to the building.”

The FBI types looked at each other. The shorter one, who I knew was married from his comments during dinner, unconsciously felt the pistol in his holster to reassure himself. When he saw me watching he lowered his hand.

Winchester went to the coatrack by the kitchen door and began donning a coat and slicker. The dog sat looking up at him expectantly.

“Hunt, why don’t you let Tommy take the dog for a walk?”

Winchester looked at me.

“Sure, Mr. Winchester,” I said with false enthusiasm. “I need to stretch my legs.”

“Okay.” Winchester took off the coat and held it out to me.

“Thanks,” Grafton murmured. He slapped me on the shoulder, my bad one, and headed for the living room to give the other set of goggles to Robin.

The dog looked at me as if I were its best pal.

“Her name is Molly,” Winchester said as he took the leash off the hook. Molly stood up and turned around excitedly and fanned the air with her tail. “She has to walk and sniff a while before she decides to go.”

I got dressed, arranged the slicker flap over my head and accepted the leash and Winchester’s flashlight. It was one of those black aircraft-aluminum jobs, with three or four D-cell batteries. I almost said no, then thought, why not? The rain wouldn’t do the night vision goggles any good at all, and I might need them later. I left them on a coat hook. After saying something polite, I opened the door, and the dog dragged me out into the night.

And a damned miserable night it was. Not yet freezing, but with the wet wind howling at least thirty knots, and gusting higher, and driving the raindrops into my face and legs like pellets, it felt like the arctic. The wind chill must have been near zero. Tree branches writhed and whipped in the wind, and low evergreens bent over from the blasts. Why the Pilgrims and other strait-laced religious types from Merry Old England ever wanted to take this place away from the Indians, I don’t know.

The dog liked it, though. She tugged me right along on her usual walk, I suppose. We went into the grass and along the hedges as she sniffed at everything. She found a couple of old dog-poop piles and inspected those carefully, but I got tired of that and pulled her on. She then charged to the end of the leash. Considering all the times she must have done this, you’d think she would have been leash-trained, but no.

I flashed the light around, just looking, shining it everywhere, in case there was a watcher. The guy in the hole by the corner of the barn could close his eyes or duck down; he didn’t need me giving away his position. Mostly, however, I watched the dog. Having had a little canine experience myself, I knew the dog would detect an intruder before I did. Molly certainly wouldn’t smell him in this hurricane, but she would sense him. Khadr. If he was out here. Or any other holy warrior waiting for a sucker infidel.

After a few minutes of this I led Molly on around the house. Might as well check out the whole area.

As I walked, bent down to protect myself against the wind, struggling to hold on to the pooch, I thought about my recent tryst with Marisa. Now there was a woman! But was she the real deal, or only acting a part?

The unanswered questions were right there, just beneath the surface. My paranoia was so ingrained by this time that I went over every look, word, touch, gesture — even her body language and the way she held herself — trying to find a false note. Ran the scenes over and over in my memory, looking …

The problem, I decided, is really me. I find it impossible to not turn over the rock to see what’s underneath.

Oh, God, Tommy, you idiot, what a way to live!

From the barn window, Khadr watched Tommy trudge through the wind and rain with the dog lunging on her leash until he disappeared around the house. He didn’t know who the man with the dog was — the infrared didn’t allow that kind of definition. Now that Tommy was gone, he used the infrared scanner again, although he realized he was only looking at this side of the house, and the areas to his left and right were obscured by his vantage point. There must be people out here! Getting as close to the glass as possible, he used the scanner to look down to the right and left.

There he was, a man, below, almost against the corner of the barn, to Khadr’s left. One man, in a hole, perhaps.

Khadr continued to look, scanning, trying to determine if this was the only man. He was still looking when Tommy Carmellini and the dog came back around the house. They entered at the door they had come out of.

A few minutes later some of the upstairs lights went dark. The people inside were going to bed.

So how was he going to get past the man in the hole and get inside?

Khadr began turning that problem over in his mind. In truth, he had no plan. He was looking for an opportunity, and if one developed, or he saw a way to make one, well and good. If not, he could always leave the way he had come in. He had a cell phone in his pocket to call Qasim to meet him.

After all, Qasim wanted to create terror, and the discovery of two dead men in the barn would certainly create it. And another opportunity might present itself tomorrow night, or the night after.

When I got back into the house, Winchester was waiting with a towel to dry the dog, who proceeded to shower us both anyway.

“You take real good care of that dog,” I commented.

“She belonged to Owen,” he said.

When he had the dog reasonably dry, he took her upstairs. Grafton was standing in the main living room with Robin watching the Weather Channel. The nor’easter was the storm of the day in America, apparently. Three reporters were on station to bring us the latest and greatest. They posed outside, of course, getting hammered by wind and rain as they gave their breathless reports.

All three talked about snow. When the radar picture came up, we could see it coming our way.

“Six inches by morning in this area,” Grafton murmured. “Power lines are already down in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.”

When the weather gurus went to a commercial, he used the remote to kill the sound of the savage beast. He left the picture on.

The admiral glanced at me and Robin. “Tonight may be the night. If you see, hear or smell anything, anything at all out of the ordinary, call me on the radio. I’ll have it on and the earpiece in my ear.”

“Sweet dreams,” Robin said brightly. She smiled. I decided that there is nothing like the smile of a lady holding a shotgun to jar your preconceptions.

Grafton ascended the stair and we were alone. “So how do you want to do this?” Robin asked. “Why don’t you settle in here behind something solid so no one can drill you through a window, and I’ll circulate? I suggest you also turn off the downstairs lights.” “After a while we trade off.” “Okay.”

She laid her shotgun on the bar and moved a chair behind it, then sat and put the weapon on her lap. The night vision goggles were within reach on the bar. I turned off the lights in the room, then, carrying my own scattergun, wandered back to the kitchen. I hadn’t managed much dinner and decided to inspect the refrigerator, just in case. While I was in there I shoved Winchester’s flashlight into my hip pocket. It threw a lot more light than my little penlight.

Jake Grafton found his wife just finishing her shower. She dressed in a long nightie as he washed his face and brushed his teeth. “No shower?” she said.

“I’m sleeping in my clothes.”

She didn’t have any response to that. He had an M-16 lying on the chair beside the bed. When she was under the covers and he was beside her with a blanket arranged over him, she turned off the light.

“I saw you talking to Isolde,” she said.

After Marisa went upstairs, Grafton had taken the banker to a corner of the living room for a private conversation.

“She thinks Qasim is a monster and Marisa is a victim,” he said.

“So who killed Jean Petrou?”

“I don’t know. Marisa thought he was selling information to Qasim, and he might have been. She followed him and saw them together once. She told Isolde about it. Either of them could have poisoned him. Both had access to Isolde’s prescription digitalis. Isolde says she didn’t and she doesn’t think Marisa did.”

“What do you think?”

“Marisa.”

A long silence followed that remark. Finally Callie said, “Tommy is pretty taken with her.”

“He’s a big boy.”

“Oh, comeon!”

“Listen to me. Marisa called Qasim while she was here, gave him our address in Rosslyn. She told him we were here, and she told him we were going to the political dinner on Thursday.”

“Does Tommy know that?”

“Not that. He knows Marisa may have killed her husband, and he knows she knocked him down when he was set to shoot the fleeing intruders at the Zetsche estate. Heck, she may have poisoned Alexander Surkov — that’s a long shot, but it’s a possibility. Tommy’s been around the mountain a time or two, and he’s trying to figure her out, same as me.”

She thought about that for a moment. “You wanted her to make that call, didn’t you?”

“I was sorta hoping she would.”

“So Qasim intends to assassinate the president?”

“I think he wants Marisa there to see him do it. That’s my best guess. He has been playing us like chessmen, forcing us to do what he wanted. Thursday night. That’s his payoff, I think. Maybe.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

Grafton lay there in the darkness listening to the rain and wind, trying to relax. After a while his wife went to sleep — he could tell by her breathing.

What if he had figured this all wrong and Marisa was an assassin? She was inside. What if she killed Winchester and Smith tonight? Or opened a door or window for Khadr?

After about half an hour, he got out of bed as quietly as possible, picked up the assault rifle and slipped out of the room. He closed the door behind him and made his way to the end of the hallway, which was lit with small night-lights at ankle height. There was a little straight-back chair there, along with a tiny table containing a dried flower arrangement, so he sat and tilted the chair back slightly against the wall. The rifle he kept on his lap.

From this vantage point he could see all the bedroom doors except Winchester’s, which was on the ground floor. Over his head was a small window. He sat listening to the rain/sleet mix patter against it and the rising sound of the wind. The gusts were worse now as the heart of the storm came down upon them.

I was watching the snow line march toward us on the television when the power went out. The picture dimmed, brightened, then went black. I glanced at the stairs and saw that the glow of the night-lights was gone. It was a few minutes after twelve.

“Uh-oh,” I said to Robin.

I put on my night vision goggles and fired them up. When I looked at Robin, I saw that she already had hers on.

I switched to infrared and went to a window to look out. Between the rain-smeared glass and all the water in the air outside, I couldn’t see much. I tried the ambient light setting and saw even less. Terrific!

I opened the door to the cabana and went out there. The pool was a sheet of black. The howl of the wind was breathtaking here in this unprotected area. Everything was wet; I could feel the water soaking into my shoes. It was miserably cold, too, whipping through my clothes. I didn’t stay out there long. I went back inside and locked the door.

Then I went downstairs and checked all the windows and doors.

The place was gloomy, even with the flashlight. The basement door was locked tight, but… I leaned a rake and shovel against it so they would fall over if the door was opened. Who knows, I might even hear one of them fall. I left the door at the top of the stairs open, on the off chance.

After I checked the main-floor windows, the front door, the main rear entrance and the kitchen door, I strolled around, waiting.

Seems that waiting is the way I spend half my life. One of these days I need to get a real job.

The wind was shaking the main barn doors and blowing through tiny openings here and there. Khadr waited for about thirty minutes after the power failure to give everyone a chance to settle down, then made his way by feel to the ladder and descended to the main floor of the barn.

The horses were restless. He opened their stall doors and let them wander out into the walkway of the barn. They immediately bunched up. The noise he and they made was lost in the storm.

Then he went to the door that led to the area between the barn and the house and unlatched the door. The doors quivered. They would blow open any second.

He walked back behind the horses, trying not to spook them.

Sure enough, within half a minute one of the now unlatched doors blew open and crashed against the barn with a bang. The startled horses whinnied and pranced. Khadr slapped the nearest one on the rump. That was enough to set them off. They charged for the open door and galloped through it.

He followed them to the doorway and molded his body to the wall, his pistol in his hand.

“What was that noise?” A male voice on my headset. “Harry?”

“The barn door blew open and the damn horses are out milling around. Uh-oh, they’re coming around the house toward’you.” “Oh, man, the main gate is open. They’ll go out into the road.” “Let them go, Nick. I’ll check out the barn.”

I heard someone coming down the stairs. Saw him in infrared, carrying a rifle. Grafton!

“Tommy?” he said aloud.

“I’m over here by the cabana door.”

“Robin?”

“Behind the bar.”

“Stay there.”

“Admiral, the best place for you is the basement,” I said. “If it’s Khadr, that’s probably the most likely entrance.”

“Okay,” he said. His penlight flashed on, and he headed for the kitchen and the stairs down.

“Stay where you are,” I told Robin.

“I can’t shoot with these damn goggles on,” she said disgustedly. “I can’t see the sights.”

“Just point the thing and pull the trigger.”

The lenses on Harry Longworth’s goggles were wet, which reduced their effectiveness by a large percentage. He wiped at the water with his fingers, then adjusted the gain and contrast. Standing outside the barn looking through the doorway — one door was open and the other was waving back and forth — he couldn’t see anything. A wet door, wet lens …

“Shit,” he said softly. He took off the goggles and let them dangle on his chest. He pulled his flashlight from his hip pocket and, shielding his body against the door, held the light in his left hand at arm’s length and shined it around the interior. The stall doors were open. He saw nothing.

He pulled the light back and used his left hand to key the mike button on the belt-mounted transceiver. “Hey, upstairs!”

Don’t tell me they slept through that bang when the door blew open!

Caution shrieked at him.

Well, he was going to have to go in there, one way or another.

He threw himself through the door and did a belly flop on the floor, his rifle out in front of him.

Khadr’s first bullet caught him in the neck. Before he could react, he felt rather than saw movement on his right. As he tried to swing his weapon to his right, another bullet hit him, this time ricocheting off his forehead, laying open a two-inch gash clear to the bone and stunning him. The third slug hit him above the ear and penetrated into his brain. He never felt the fourth and fifth bullets, both of which were fired point-blank into his skull.

Khadr took the time to change magazines in his pistol, then ran as fast as he could go toward the dark, silent house.

“Harry, the horses are going out the gate into the road.” I recognized Nick’s voice. He was in front of the house.

Harry didn’t answer, which was ominous.

Squatting, I opened the door to the cabana area and scanned it with the night vision goggles in infrared, then switched to ambient light. The sleet was forming a crust on everything. Even though I was crouched in the door, the wind buffeted me.

Something was happening over at the barn — that much seemed obvious. A distraction? I thought so, so I didn’t move. If Harry and the two guys asleep in the barn couldn’t handle it, one more guy wouldn’t help. My best choice was to stay put.

Yet I couldn’t really see much here in the doorway. I steadied myself with my left hand and moved outside, staying low, alongside the outside bar. From here I could see the pool, the outdoor sauna and toilet building and the hedge that surrounded the whole area. The hedge and trees were waving madly in the wind. I tried to ignore them and searched with the goggles for human movement.

I slipped down to the end of the outdoor bar so I could see around it.

One step, two … and something walloped me in the head and I went out cold.

Khadr didn’t look again at Carmellini, who lay sprawled on his face where he had been shot.

He used his infrared scanner to examine the interior of the house, then moved to the door and looked in.

He saw no one. But he did see the stairs leading up to the bedrooms above. That was where Grafton and Winchester would be.

Pistol in hand, he rose and trotted across the room toward the stairs.

Robin Cloyd poked her head above the bar in time to see the man running for the stairs. In infrared, he was quite plain.

“Tommy?” she asked loudly, above the noise coming though the open door.

The answer was a bullet that slammed into the bar with an audible whack, just inches from her shoulder. She didn’t hesitate. Robin pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The report was muffled somewhat by her headset and the adrenaline coursing through her, but she didn’t notice. What she did notice was that the muzzle flash had overwhelmed her goggles. Blind, she pumped the slide and fired again toward where she thought the running man might be. Did it again and again, then dropped down and began shoving shells into the bottom of the gun. She paused and keyed her mike, Tommy?

She heard a thumping from the staircase.

With two more shells in the gun, all she had, she flipped the goggles to ambient light and ran to the bottom of the stairwell. She saw something moving at the top of the stairs, so pointed the gun and fired upward.

After she worked the slide she saw no more movement.

I heard Robin’s voice in my ears. That’s when I realized that I had also heard her shotgun hammering.

I tore off the goggles and tried to rise. Later I found out that a bullet had hit the goggles, a bullet that would have killed me if I hadn’t been wearing them. I fell again. Worked at it and got up. I still had the shotgun.

I found the flashlight, fumbled with the switch, got it on and headed back inside, shouting Robin’s name.

I saw her in the light at the bottom of the stairs, saw her shoot once up the stairwell. She lowered the gun and started up, but I grabbed her arm.

“No.” I gave her my shotgun and pulled out the Colt.45.

With the flashlight in my left hand and the pistol in my right, I went up the stairs. Saw the blood all over the carpet. So she got lead into the son of a bitch. Good!

At the top of the stairs, I paused and used the light to scan the hallway, which was to my right. Empty. No, a door was opening. A head came out, looking toward the flashlight. I recognized the face: Jerry Hay Smith.

“Get back in there, you son of a bitch,” I roared.

The head disappeared.

The second door was open. A blood trail led that way.

I trotted toward it, looked in, using the flashlight.

A figure in black was standing there. He was holding Callie Grafton with his left arm and had a pistol against the side of her head. Even with the flashlight I could see the blood on his leg. And the ghastly white of her face.

“Drop the weapon or I’ll kill her,” he said roughly.

The distance between us was maybe twelve feet. He couldn’t see me, I knew, because the flashlight must be blinding him — that wasn’t a conscious thought, just something I knew. I don’t even remember thumbing off the safety. I lifted the Colt and aimed as best I could and shot him. He went over backward. Callie fell away to his left, my right, pulled down by his grasp.

I walked over, watching his right hand, which still held the pistol.

Blood was pumping out his neck below the black balaclava. He had taken the bullet in the jugular vein and was bleeding to death.

I didn’t wait. I could see the whites of his eyes through the opening in the black cloth when I emptied the pistol into him. When the gun wouldn’t shoot anymore, I reached down and jerked the black hood off his head.

Someone was there beside me. Marisa.

“It’s Khadr,” she said.

I shoved her out of the way and shined the light on Callie. She was conscious, with no bullet wounds. Relief flooded over me. I helped her up. She sat on the bed, didn’t even look at the corpse.

I popped the magazine out of the Colt and replaced it with the one in my pocket, then started out of the room. I met Jake Grafton coming in.

“Check on your wife,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “I’m going to see if there’re any more of them.”

In the hallway I met Smith and Winchester. “Who was it?” Winchester asked.

“A man who came to kill you,” I said as I shouldered past.

Robin gave me my shotgun, and I headed for the barn, using every bit of cover there was. The sleet had turned to snow. I hid, ran, hid, and ran again.

Harry Longworth’s feet were visible just inside the entrance to the barn. The howling wind was whipping the big doors open and shut, causing impacts that rocked the building. I dashed between the swinging doors and, after I had swept the flashlight around, briefly examined Harry. He was obviously dead.

I’m going to end up like that one of these days.

Taking my time, I inspected the whole place. I found the two dead men upstairs, and had just finished giving the bad news to Grafton on the radio when I heard the wail of the first police siren.

I sat down beside the dead men in the loft and cried. Maybe I was crying for them or maybe I was crying for me — I couldn’t tell.