seemed to be made of lead and for which they had no use. On the way home, they had discussed giving it to Sandra’s brother, El-wood, who was getting married.
Knowing that her husband couldn’t unlock the front door with his arms full, Sandra preceded him past the three-foot-high brick wall that was topped with a four-foot-high aluminum rail fence—one that Britton bitterly complained had cost a bundle yet had done absolutely nothing to keep the local dogs from doing their business on his small but meticulously kept lawn.
Sandra was just inside the fence when Jack looked down the street again.
This time he saw what he was afraid he was going to see: a pale green Chrysler Town & Country minivan. It was slowly turning the ninety-degree bend in Churchill Lane. Then it rapidly accelerated.
“Sandy, get down behind the wall!” Britton ordered.
“What?”
He rushed to his wife, pushed her off the walkway and down onto the ground behind the wall, then covered her body with his.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, half angrily, half fearfully.
There came the sound of squealing tires.
Britton reached inside his jacket and pulled a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .357 Magnum revolver from his shoulder holster. He rolled off of his wife and onto his back, bringing up the pistol with both hands and aiming at the top of the wall in case someone came over it.
There then came the sound of automatic-weapons fire—
And then squealing tires and a revved-up engine.
Britton crawled to where he could look out the gate to the street. He saw the Town & Country turn onto Wessex Lane but knew there wasn’t time for a shot at the minivan. And he realized he couldn’t have fired if there had been time; another cluster of houses was in the line of fire.
He stood up, put the pistol back in the shoulder holster, then went to Sandra and pulled her to her feet.
“What the hell was that, Jack?” she asked, her voice faint.
“Let’s get you in the house,” he said, avoiding the question. “Into the cellar.”
He took her arm and led her up the walk to the door.
“I dropped the goddamn keys,” Sandra said.
He ran back to the fence, drawing the pistol again as he ran, found the keys, and then ran back to his front door.
There were half a dozen neat little holes in the door, and one of the small panes of glass in the door had been shattered.
He got the door unlocked and propelled Sandra through the living room to the door of the cellar, which he had finished out with a big-screen TV, a sectional couch, and a wet bar.
“Honey,” he said, his tone forceful, “stay down there until I tell you. If you want to be useful, make us a drink while I call the cavalry.”
“I don’t think this is funny, Jack, goddamn you!”
“I’ll be right outside. And when the cops get here, I’m going to need a drink.”
He closed the cellar door after she started down the stairs. Then he went quickly to the front door, took up a position where he could safely see out onto the street, and looked. He saw nothing alarming.
He took his cellular telephone from its belt clip and punched 9-1-1.
He didn’t even hear the phone ring a single time before a voice said: “Nine-one-one Emergency. Operator four-seven-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Assist officer! Shots fired! Thirty-six ninety Churchill Lane. Thirty-six ninety Churchill Lane.” He’d repeated the address, making sure the police dispatcher got it correct. “Two or more shooters in a pale green Chrysler Town & Country minivan. They went westbound on Wessex from Churchill. They used automatic weapons, possibly Kalashnikov rifles.”
He broke the connection, then looked out the window again, this time seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.
The MX-5 had bullet holes in the passenger door. The metal was torn outward, meaning that the bullets had passed through the driver’s door first.
When he heard the howl of sirens, he went outside. He looked up and down the street, and then, taking the revolver out of its holster again, walked down to the sidewalk to see what else had happened to the Miata.
The first unit to respond to the call was DJ 811, a rather rough-looking Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor patrol car assigned to the Eighth District. The howl of its siren died as it turned onto Churchill Lane, and when Britton saw it coming around the curve, he noticed that the overhead lights were not flashing.
Britton turned his attention back to the Miata. The driver’s-side window was shattered and several bullets had penetrated the windshield. The windshield had not shattered, but Britton couldn’t help but think how the holes in it looked amazingly like someone had stuck all over it those cheap bullet-hole decals that could be bought at most auto-supply shops.
He walked around the front of the car and saw that it had taken hits in the right fender, the right front tire, and the hood.
He smelled gasoline.
Then he heard a voice bark: “Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Put your hands on the top of your head! Put your hands on the top of your head!”
Britton saw that two cops in a patrol car had arrived.
They were both out of their car and had their service Glock semiautomatics aimed at him from behind the passenger door and across the hood.
Both looked as if they had graduated from the academy last week.
The order reminded Britton that he was still holding the Smith & Wesson. At his side, to be sure, pointing at the ground. But holding it.
“Three-six-nine! Three-six-nine!” Britton shouted, using the old Philadelphia police radio code for police officer.
The two very young cops, their Glocks still leveled on him, suddenly looked much older and in charge.
The one behind the driver door repeated the order: “Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Put your hands on the top of your head! Put your hands on the top of your head!”
Britton’s problem was that he did not think he could safely do as ordered—“Drop the gun!”
The Smith & Wesson Model 29 is a double-action model, meaning he could squeeze the trigger to fire a round with the hammer forward or cocked back. The latter required less pressure from the trigger finger.
It was Britton’s belief that one well-aimed shot was more effective than a barrage of shots aimed in the general direction of a miscreant. He also knew that a shot fired in the single-action mode—with the hammer drawn back—was far more likely to strike its intended target than one fired by pulling hard on the trigger with the hammer in the forward—or uncocked—position. The extra effort required to fire from the uncocked position tended to disturb one’s aim.
He had, therefore, formed the habit, whenever drawing his weapon with any chance whatever that he might have to pull the trigger, of cocking the hammer. And he had done so just now when he walked out of his front door.
“Three-six-nine!” Britton said again. “I’m Jack Britton. I’m a detective. This is my house. My wife and I are the ones who were—”
“I’m not going to tell you again, you sonofabitch! Drop the gun! Drop the gun!”
