Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“She’ll wake up very quickly when she sees this,” Dana said as she hefted the gun. “She may have refused to talk to you, but I assure you she’s going to talk to me.”

Brad turned onto the road to Marsha Erickson’s house shortly before eleven-thirty. Dana ordered Brad to kill his lights, and they drove by moonlight until the house came into view.

“Stop here,” Dana commanded just before they reached the place where the road became the driveway.

“Did you see that car when you were here before?” Dana asked, pointing at a black SUV that was parked in front of the garage, facing back toward the road.

“No, but it could have been in the garage.”

“Then why isn’t it in the garage now, and why is it positioned for a getaway? Pull into those trees,” Dana told him.

When they were hidden Dana took her ankle gun out of the holster and held it out to Brad.

“What’s that for?” he asked, making no move to touch the weapon.

“Do you know how to shoot?”

“No. I’ve never even held a gun.”

“If you have to use this, aim at the chest and keep shooting.”

“I’m not shooting anyone,” Brad answered, alarmed.

“Brad, I hope to heaven that the SUV belongs to Marsha Erickson because the people who are after me will not hesitate to kill you. So you’d better lose the knee-jerk liberal attitude about gun control fast.”

Brad stared at the weapon for a moment before grasping it with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if Dana had handed him a dead animal. She got out of Brad’s car.

“If you hear shots, call 911, report a break-in, then get out of here. Do not follow me inside under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but-”

“No buts. If you hear shots, take off fast.”

Dana shut the door and jogged toward the back of Marsha Erickson’s house. As she turned the corner she heard a high-pitched scream. There was a sliding door in the living room that opened onto a back patio. The lock had been jimmied and the door was open wide enough to admit her. The living room was dark, but light bled into it from a short hall.

“Bring her into the living room,” Dana heard a man say. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t have time to think about where she’d heard it. She dashed behind a large armchair and crouched down. Seconds later, a thick-set man dragged Marsha Erickson toward the living room. Erickson’s hands and ankles were secured by plastic handcuffs, but she was fighting him and the man had to brace himself to move her along the carpet. The blond man from her apartment who had shot at Dana from the speedboat followed Erickson into the living room.

“Help me with this bitch. She weighs a fucking ton,” Erickson’s tormentor complained.

The blond man hit Erickson in the stomach and she stopped struggling as she was forced to gasp for air. The blond grabbed her legs and helped his partner get their victim onto the living room rug. Then he knelt by her head and spoke to her in the calm tone you would use with a recalcitrant child.

“You behave, Fatty, and we’ll make this painless. Give us any shit and you’ll take a long time to die. Understand?”

Erickson had gotten her wind back and she croaked out a yes.

“Good,” the blond said. Then he smashed a gloved fist into Erickson’s nose. Dana heard cartilage crack and blood gushed out.

“That’s for giving us a hard time.”

The blond turned to his companion. “Smash up some stuff. Make it look like a burglary.”

The thick-set man started toward the television. Dana stood up and shot him. He was falling when the blond dove behind the sofa. Her second shot went wide and blasted a vase to pieces. The blond fired back, and Dana’s left shoulder felt like it had been smashed by a ball-peen hammer. She fell on her back and her gun flew out of her hand.

“You!” the blond said as he walked toward her.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Dana said, grimacing with pain.

“Woulda, shoulda, coulda.” The man laughed. “Hey, we all have regrets. I regret not fucking you when I had the chance. Now the opportunity presents itself again and you’re all bloody, which-believe me-is a big turnoff. So, I guess I’ll just have to kill you instead.”

Over the blond’s shoulder, Dana saw Brad creeping across the patio. She pulled her legs up and curled into a fetal position.

“Please, don’t kill me,” she begged as she slid her hand toward her ankle.

“Uh, uh, babe. You know that old saw about ‘Fool me once…’? That ankle gun thing was great the first time, but it’s not going to work again. So very slowly lift up your pant leg and toss the piece over here.”

“I don’t have the gun.”

“Pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

Dana raised her pants cuff slowly. “Where is it?” the man demanded.

“Put up your hands,” Brad said, his voice shaking so badly he could barely get the words out.

“Don’t talk! Kill him!” Dana yelled at Brad, who was holding the ankle gun in both hands, trying to keep it steady.

The blond whirled and fired. A bullet whizzed by Brad’s ear and the glass in the sliding door exploded. Brad closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger again and again until it clicked on an empty chamber. When he opened his eyes there was no one standing in front of him. He looked down and his knees buckled. The blond man was stretched out on the floor, facedown, moaning.

“Oh, my God! I shot him,” Brad said. He dropped the gun and groped for the wall so he wouldn’t collapse.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dana said between clenched teeth. “All of your shots missed, which is pretty amazing from less than ten feet. You were a good diversion, though. While he was focused on you, I got my gun back.”

Brad looked disappointed. Dana rolled her eyes. “Will you get this asshole’s gun and call 911, like I told you to do before? And get an ambulance for me and Mrs. Erickson.”

Dana dragged herself into a sitting position and braced her back against the sofa so she could keep an eye on the blond as Brad inched cautiously toward the wounded man.

“I shot him six times, for Christ’s sake,” Dana said. “Just get the gun.”

“Sorry, but I’ve never been in a shoot-out. I’m a little shaken.”

“What you are is an idiot. Didn’t I tell you to get the hell out of here if you heard shots?”

“I am an idiot,” Brad said as he grabbed the wounded man’s gun, “but it worked out okay, didn’t it?”

Dana sighed. “Yeah. I owe you. Now call the ambulance.”

Brad dialed 911 on his cell. He felt light-headed and a little nauseated, but he was able to hold it together while he talked to the dispatcher. As soon as he was through with the call, he knelt down to work on the plastic cuffs that bound Mrs. Erickson.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Marsha Erickson’s face was a mass of blood, and she had trouble focusing. Brad felt awful. He was certain that his first visit had triggered the chain of events that had led to the beating. When Erickson recognized him her eyes widened.

“You!”

“I’m really sorry about this.”

“What have you done to me?”

“I haven’t done anything. Christopher Farrington sent those men to kill you. You’d be dead if we hadn’t come by.”

“No one would have come here if you hadn’t shown up in the first place.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dana said. “You’re a loose end that Christopher Farrington needed to tie up. He’d have tried to kill you even if Miller had never visited you. If you want to stay alive you’d better think about telling what you know about your daughter and the president.”

Pain was making Dana woozy, and she was having difficulty keeping her gun trained on the blond. She knew she might pass out, which meant that Brad Miller would have to handle the situation. She didn’t have much faith in his ability to do that. If the wounded man was in any condition to fight, he’d eat Brad for lunch.