“What’s that for?”
“No jacket. No guns. I want them to see.”
“They open the door. Then what?”
“We take their guns away.”
“What?”
“Now listen to me, Sy. There’s no time. Just listen and don’t argue. I had a dozen years with the martial arts. I was trained by one of the best in Los Angeles. I can take the gun from the man who’s holding it on me. Don’t question that. It’s you I’m worried about, and I need you because there’s two of them. But if you’re afraid to try it, I’ll try it alone.”
“You’re damn right I’m afraid. Shit. What the hell. You got any pointers?”
“Yes. These are terrorists. Amateurs. They kill with their demented ideology. They plan and they think in their own demented way. But they’re not trained, and when they kill they have to think first. That takes two seconds, one second-even half a second is enough. Hit at the wrist, like this.” He made a chopping motion, his palm held flat. “Don’t try to grab the gun-just hit at the wrist, and when you make that chop, make it with every ounce of strength in your body. If you hit right, you’ll break his wrist. But don’t go for the gun. If the gun remains in his hand, kick him in the testicles with all your strength. Watch his eyes. Wait for the moment when his eyes flicker toward me.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Don’t watch me. There’ll be two of them, probably each with a handgun. If your man has a rifle or a shotgun-that’s an outside chance-the same thing, the wrist. I’m hoping that when we’re in, they’ll tell us to turn around. If they do, you hesitate. I’ll turn immediately and use my foot. But don’t watch me. Watch the eyes of the man who has a gun on you. Do you think you can do it?”
“No, but what the hell.” Beckman peeled off his coat.
“We go in with our hands up. Don’t put down your hands. With your hands up, you have a fraction of a second more.”
They put their jackets, their guns, and the fat man’s clothes in the luggage compartment. The street was empty, as are most streets in Los Angeles in midday. Then they walked down the block to the shabby little house with the red Mercedes in the driveway. Two wooden steps led up to a tiny porch. Both men in their shirtsleeves mounted the steps.
Masuto knocked. No response. He knocked again. Wood creaked. Masuto felt the hot summer sun. He was sweating. Then, a voice.
“Who is it?”
Masuto recognized the voice. It was the voice he had heard on the telephone.
“Masuto. My partner’s with me. We’re unarmed. I’m playing it your way. We’ll stay with my daughter. We’re out of it.”
“If this is a trick, Masuto, if you have a swat squad outside, the kid will die. First. I swear it.”
“No tricks. Just the two of us, unarmed. Alone.”
Words in another language. Words replying. He was right. There were two of them-hopefully no others.
“I’m going to open the door, Masuto. You come in with your hands up. Then your partner, with his hands up. Believe it, mister. Any tricks, your daughter dies.”
“I believe you,” Masuto said.
The door opened, and Masuto entered, followed by Beckman, both with their hands raised. The man who had opened the door was on Masuto’s left. He kicked the door shut and stepped back. He was a slender, dark-faced, dark-haired young man, and he was covering Masuto with a heavy automatic pistol. The room itself was empty, except for some boxes and pillows on the floor. The other man, shorter, heavier, was on the right, pointing a revolver at Beckman. He was about three feet from Beckman as they entered.
“Keep your hands up and turn around, both of you,” the thin man said. Masuto turned immediately. Beckman hesitated, watching the eyes of the man facing him, and then the eyes flickered. Beckman never saw Masuto’s motion; he was fixed on the eyes of the man covering him. As Masuto turned his back to the thin man, his body unleashed like a spring, and he drove his shoe into the thin man’s testicles with a force that threw him across the room. It was more than a karate kick; it was an explosion of all his pent-up, controlled fear and anger and frustration, so violent that he slammed off his feet onto the floor. Beckman, in the same instant, forgot all that Masuto had spelled out for him and hit the man on the right with all his strength. Beckman had been a professional boxer before he became a policeman. He hit the shorter man squarely in the center of his face, feeling the nasal bones crunch under the blow. The man staggered and then collapsed like a sack. Masuto rolled over and grasped the automatic, which had fallen out of the thin man’s hand.
The thin man lay huddled across the room, his knees drawn up, whimpering with pain. The other man lay motionless on the floor, blood pouring from his nose. Beckman was clutching his right hand with his left hand.
“God almighty, I broke my hand!”
Masuto handed him the automatic pistol. Beckman took it in his left hand. There were two doors on the right side of the room they had entered. The first opened into a filthy kitchen, with two chairs and a table of dirty dishes and sandwich bags and soda pop bottles. Masuto threw open the other door. It was a bedroom. Two mattresses on the floor, some blankets and a single chair. Ana lay on one of the mattresses, her hands and feet tied, her mouth gagged with a handkerchief. Masuto took off the handkerchief, and Ana began to scream hysterically. Masuto went to work on the cords that tied her hands and her feet.
Beckman rushed into the room.
“It’s all right, Sy. Stay with those two bastards.”
The cords were off. Masuto took the child in his arms. He was on his knees, rocking her back and forth, clutching her tightly. “It’s all right, baby, it’s all right now. Everything’s all right now. We’re going home.”
Bit by bit, her screams turned into whimpers. She buried her face in Masuto’s shirt, and holding her tightly, he rose and went into the next room. The thin man still lay curled up, clutching his groin and moaning in pain. The other man was unconscious on the floor, his face in a growing pool of blood. Beckman had both the automatic pistol and the revolver stuck into his belt, and he was massaging his right hand and grimacing with pain.
“Sure as God, I broke my hand, Masao. How is she?”
Still holding the child with her face in his shirt, Masuto took his handcuffs from his back pocket and threw them to Beckman. “Cuff them both,” he said shortly, “and stay with them. I’ll be back with the car in an hour. She’s all right. I’m taking her home.
“This one needs an ambulance,” pointing to the unconscious man. “I broke his nose.”
“He’ll live.”
When he put Ana down on the seat next to him in his car, thinking how much she looked like one of those Japanese dolls they sold in Little Tokyo in downtown Los Angeles, with her jet black hair, her straight bangs and her round face, she had stopped sobbing and was able to smile at him and say, “You look funny, daddy.”
“Why?”
“Your face is so dirty.”
“We’ll go home, and we’ll both wash, and everything that happened is only a bad dream.”
“It was real,” she whispered.
“Yes, it was real,” he said to himself. “Only too real.”
He drove onto the freeway. There was no traffic to speak of at this time of the day, and in exactly twenty minutes he was in front of his house in Culver City. Kati must have been at the window, because Ana was hardly out of the car when Kati had her in her arms.
11
It was half past two in the afternoon when Masuto returned to the cottage on Fountain Avenue. The two dark men still lay on the floor, their wrists handcuffed behind them, the shorter man with a smashed face that was a bloody mask, blood all over his clothes. Beckman was leaning against the wall with the two guns stuck in his
