Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

An instant was all she needed. She would remember him.

Dylan didn’t understand. There had been a flaming object thrown from the back room, then a crash of heat and noise that seemed to suck all the air out of his lungs, a pressure wave of fire, scorching him, burning his ski mask. Now he was staggering after Tupelo in full retreat, his eyes stinging and watering, his vision shot to hell, and the mask was smoking, goddamn smoking as he tore it off and threw it aside.

Bitch had fucked him up somehow, maybe blinded him, scarred him, he didn’t know.

Tupelo pulled him into the rear hall. They stopped running near the back door and crouched down in a huddled conference. “You okay, man?” Tupes asked.

“Can’t see good.”

“You was staring right at that fireball.”

“Am I messed up? Did it fucking burn me?”

“No, man, you’re okay. Handsome as ever.”

“Still can’t see worth shit.”

“Give it a minute, bro. Your eyes’ll come back. Then we go in again, right? We go in and get her?”

Dylan didn’t have to think about it. “Yeah,” he said. “We get her.”

Abby couldn’t count on them to stay in the rear hall for long. She ran to the end table where she’d left her purse, snagged the strap, then ducked beside the couch. Inside was her gun, fully loaded, with two speedloaders holding six rounds apiece. And her cell phone. Those assholes had cut the landline, but she could still call for help on her cell.

First things first. She looped the purse strap around her neck. With Andrea’s gun in her left hand and her own Smith amp; Wesson in her right, she surveyed the shadows, waiting for the bad guys to come back.

Dylan’s eyesight was returning now, the purple afterimages of the fireball fading. Tupelo had been right. He was okay. A little shaken up, but nothing serious.

But what he would do to the old lady-now, that was serious. He had a major hard-on to nail her wrinkly ass.

“Okay,” he said. Slowly stood up. “We finish things.”

“You think she’s still in there?”

“I think so. We woulda heard her if she left.”

“Why would she hang around?”

“Guess she wants to see some more action. We’ll give it to her.”

He took a step down the hall and stopped. Behind him, there was a scatter of gunfire in the backyard.

Abby waited. Over the continuous chiming in her ears, she could hear the tattoo of her heart, the pull of breath through her open mouth.

And a new sound-gunshots.

Not in the house. Outside.

The sniper? Had he closed in on the bedroom windows? No, his gun was silenced.

She waited through a long moment. She couldn’t say how long. She had lost the ability to gauge time. It seemed as if hours had passed since the first noise of the intrusion, though objectively she knew it had been only a couple of minutes.

The shooting stopped.

Silence.

Then… movement in the rear hall.

Someone entering. Friend or foe? The police would identify themselves. If no one spoke, she was assuming the worst.

Flicker of illumination. A flashlight.

None of these guys had been using a flash. Abby didn’t think they would start now.

The glow brightened. A dark figure appeared on the threshold of the living room.

Decision time. If it was one of the bad guys, and the flashlight found her hiding place, she would be blown away before she could defend herself.

She raised the gun in her right hand. She could take the shot.

But she didn’t. Something in the figure’s stance and silhouette registered in her memory.

Abby set down both guns and stood up slowly, her hands lifted. She let the flashlight find her. When it did, she smiled.

“Hey, Tess,” she said. “Long time no see.”

“Anybody hit?” Dylan yelled as the van skidded out of the alley, making tracks for the freeway.

Beside him, Bran shook his head. “Tree gave me good cover.”

He glanced behind him. “Tupes?”

“No holes in me. Goddamn, what the fuck happened back there?”

“I dunno, I dunno.” Dylan just couldn’t figure it.

“I was drawing a bead on the window,” Bran said, “and all of a sudden there was somebody in the yard next door, and they was shooting.”

“Get a look at ’em?” Dylan asked.

Bran shook his head. “Too much foliage.”

“I didn’t see ’em, neither.” Tupelo hugged himself. “I was just trying to get my ass over the fence ’fore it got shot off.”

“So who was it?” Dylan pressed. “Who the fuck could it be?”

“Neighbor with a gun, maybe,” Bran offered.

“Or the cops,” Tupelo said.

Dylan knew it wasn’t the police. “Cops couldn’t get there that fast. And we ain’t seen a single cop car since we took off.”

“So it was a neighbor,” Bran said again.

“Maybe.” Dylan wasn’t sure. “What is it, a whole neighborhood full of gun nuts?”

“Old lady knows how to put up a fight, for sure,” Tupelo said.

“Yeah. Maybe somebody shoulda given us a heads-up about that.” Dylan found the freeway and took the southbound on-ramp. “Shit. Boss ain’t gonna like it.”

“Fuck the boss,” Bran murmured. “Let him take her out. See what kind of brass balls he got.”

“Boss’ll understand,” Tupelo said nervously from the rear.

“Hope so,” Dylan murmured. He fished his cell phone out of the glove compartment and pressed number one on speed-dial. “I really do.”

He had his doubts.

Ron Shanker was scared.

He sat alone in his office, staring at the telephone, which less than a minute ago had conveyed a report he had not wanted to hear. Dylan and his crew had never let him down before. This was a hell of a time for them to start.

For the moment no one knew about the debacle but him and the three men he’d hired. He wished he could keep it that way. He certainly intended to keep the news from anyone else in the club.

But there was one man who had to know.

His hand was shaking as he made the call. On the second ring, the phone was picked up.

“Is it done?” Reynolds asked without preliminaries.

Shanker shut his eyes. “No. It got messed up.”

There was a beat of awful silence before Reynolds asked tonelessly, “How?”

“The lady was armed. She fired at them. She barricaded herself a room and took shots at my crew.”

“She’s a middle-aged woman, for Christ’s sake.”

“She put up a fight, Jack. Even used some kind of goddamned grenade, they told me.”

“Bullshit.” Shanker heard Reynolds suck in a harsh breath. “You’re telling me she’s still alive? Your crew ran away?”

“They were taking fire, so they had to get out.”

Another stretch of silence on the line. Shanker couldn’t stand that silence.

“It’s bad, I know,” he said, just to hear a voice, any voice, even his own.

“It’s more than bad. I relied on you, Ron, and you let me down.”

He tightened his grip on the phone. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Damn straight you will. You get on the horn to your boys, and you send them back in.”

Shanker wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Back in?”

“Tell them to finish the job.”

“Jack, I don’t mean any disrespect here, but I don’t know how practical that’s gonna be.”

“Practical means getting the job done. They didn’t. So they go back in and get it right.”

Shanker tightened his grip on the phone. “The cops must’ve been called by now, Jack. I can’t send my guys into a neighborhood full of squad cars.”

“The police won’t be there forever. They’ll take a report, examine the crime scene, and go.”

“And probably take the lady of the house with them for questioning. Or for protection.”