The producer grasped the handle and opened the door. “Don’t bother. I’ll figure it out,” he said as he climbed out of the car.
There was an edge to Salomon’s voice. He was making the alcohol-induced transition from maudlin to angry.
Ralston shook his head. He shouldn’t have let his friend consume so much booze. But, at the end of the day, that’s what sorrows were meant to be drowned in. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked as the producer shut the car door and began to walk away.
Salomon didn’t bother to turn; he just waved over his shoulder and mounted the steps to the entrance of his home.
Ralston knew him well enough to know that he’d probably go inside and keep drinking. There was little he could do about it. “Try to get some sleep,” he recommended as the producer reached the top of the stairs and opened his etched glass front door.
Ralston waited and watched until his friend was safely inside before putting his Porsche in gear and pulling out of the motor court.
On his way down the winding drive, he wondered if he should turn back. Of all the nights of the year, this was the roughest for Salomon.
Had she not been murdered three years ago, it would have been his daughter Rachael’s twenty-first birthday. Within a year of Rachael’s murder, Larry’s marriage had fallen apart. Losing a child was a pain no parent should ever have to bear, having been abandoned by his spouse in the process was almost too much.
When his wife left him and moved back east, Larry never fully recovered. Though actresses, some very well known, threw themselves at him, he hadn’t been with another woman since. He had no desire. The only thing that had kept him going was his work.
What if this time he does something stupid? Ralston wondered. Alcohol and depression were a very bad combination.
The thought plagued him all the way down to the gate, and probably would have bothered him all the way home, had something else not captured his attention. Tire tracks.
How could there be tire marks on top of his? Ralston slowed down to study the tracks. They were different than those of his Porsche and appeared to have veered off to the left, taking the service drive that led to the rear of the property.
Salomon was one of the few wealthy Hollywood people he knew who didn’t maintain around-the-clock domestic staff. And while it was well after midnight and therefore technically “morning,” it was still too early for landscapers or any of Salomon’s other help to have arrived. Someone had to have come in through the gate behind them. Ralston decided to take a look.
Backing up, he killed his lights and turned onto the service drive. In a town like L.A., where you are what you drive, the red 911 had suited him perfectly. Because of the distinct engine whine, though, this was the first time Ralston ever wished he was driving a whisper-quiet Prius.
The service road was far less dramatic than the estate’s main drive. Instead of a lushly landscaped serpentine approach, it was a boring, blacktopped lane with two switchbacks abutted by cinderblock retaining walls.
After the second switchback, the service road opened up onto a darkened view of the far side of Salomon’s house and the silhouettes of outbuildings that supported the estate.
Ralston brought his Porsche to a stop using the parking brake so as not to illuminate his tail lights and watched. A Ford Econoline van was in the process of turning around so that it was facing back down the service road in the direction from which it had come.
Its driver killed the headlamps, but left the marker lights illuminated. Ralston waited, but nothing happened. No one got out. No one got in.
He couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at some sort of getaway vehicle. Was Larry Salomon’s home being burgled?
It didn’t take him long to get tired of waiting. Removing his cell phone, he decided to call Salomon to see if maybe there was some other explanation.
He depressed the speed dial key for Salomon’s cell phone, but the call failed to connect. Scrolling through his address book, he tried the number again, but the call still didn’t go through. Looking at his signal strength, he saw he wasn’t getting any bars at all. He couldn’t remember ever having trouble getting reception up here before.
That was all it took. He’d been taught not to believe in coincidences. Releasing the parking brake, he put his car in gear, and as he did, a very bad feeling began to overtake him.
CHAPTER 4
It was at times like these that Luke Ralston wanted to throttle the State of California for not being more cooperative when it came to the carrying of firearms. Here it was the middle of the night, a strange van had followed his car onto a private gated estate, and he was unarmed. While the van and its driver might have had a completely legitimate reason for being there, he doubted it, and he would have very much appreciated having a weapon right now.
Knowing that if the van and its driver were up to no good they would very likely be armed, Ralston proceeded accordingly.
Speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence of action had been drilled into the very fiber of his DNA in his military career. While he couldn’t preemptively attack the van and its driver, he could take immediate control of the situation by using both speed and surprise.
Increasing his speed, he turned on his headlights, engaged the high beams, and raced toward the van.
At that moment, the driver leaped from the van with what appeared to be a shotgun. Ralston pinned the accelerator to the floor.
The weapon exploded with a roar and a round slammed into the front of Ralston’s Porsche. The shooter had been aiming at the headlights. Big mistake.
Ralston continued to pick up speed, aiming right for the driver. As the man pumped his weapon to chamber another round, Ralston killed his lights-plunging the man’s dilated eyes into darkness.
All the shooter could do was aim for the sound of the car that was barreling down on him, which is exactly what happened.
Whether the driver of the van was just that good, or just that lucky, Ralston had no idea, but his second shot exploded with another booming roar and tore a hole right through the windshield. Buckshot would have deflected off the glass. Whoever was shooting at him must have been using slugs. Ralston didn’t need to look over to know that the seat next to him was shredded. A few more inches to the left and he would have been shredded as well.
With the 911’s engine screaming, Ralston readied himself for what was about to happen.
Flipping his lights and high beams back on, he once again flooded the shooter’s eyes with light. There was the roar of the shotgun once more, but it was the last thing the man did before the right front quarter of Ralston’s car struck the man’s lower body.
Rather than being thrown clear, the large man was pulled halfway beneath the car. Ralston fought to maintain control. As if guided by some unseen force that wanted to raise the car and snatch the body from underneath the suspension, the Porsche’s right side tilted up, and Ralston thought for sure the car was going to flip. But just as it had begun to rise, it slammed back down.
Ralston maintained a death grip on the Porsche’s steering wheel as he tried to regain control.
It wasn’t until the car spun through the wet grass and slammed into the side of one of the outbuildings that the horror finally came to a stop. But as that horror ended, a new one began.
Unbuckling his seat belt, Ralston struggled to get out of the car. It was a mess. Adrenaline and fear coursed through his body.
What sounded like a muffled gunshot from inside the house suddenly refocused his mind on the threat that still remained.
It was pointless to waste time searching for the driver’s shotgun. Without a flashlight the chances of rapidly
