—Definition of
A HAND-SCRIBBLED sign was taped to the wooden door leading to the path along the side of the Hunter home: PLEASE KEEP THIS DOOR CLOSED WE DON’T WANT TO LOSE OUR DOG. The man playing Philip Kindred knew this was a simple anti-burglary ruse; the Hunters didn’t own a dog.
He quietly scaled the wooden fence and dropped down loosely, sneakers slapping on concrete. Inside the house the TV was already on, the THX sound from the start of the DVD blaring superloud.
He quickly made his way down the cement path, past tidy trash cans and recycling bins, a perfectly coiled hose, a well-manicured berry tree, and then finally to the backyard. Right about now the actress playing Jane should be approaching the front door, ringing the bell…
Jonathan Hunter answered the door; he always answered the door. He had the exact total plus tip ($38) ready in his pocket, because each week they ordered the same items (one large Sicilian red, one round medium white, boneless wings with mild Cajun spices) from the same pizza parlor over on Ventura Boulevard. They always played the DVD past the FBI warning and the THX sound and the previews and paused it right on the company credits so they’d be ready to watch once the food arrived.
This was Family Movie Night; this night was sacred. Nothing could trump it. No business meetings, no travel plans, no matter how allegedly “important.” The network knew that, his staff knew it, and no one would dare suggest otherwise to Jonathan. His precious boy, Kevin Hunter, had been killed by some coward on a Saturday afternoon. Saturdays the family gathered to be with one another.
And while this ritual didn’t make the night terrors go away, it was a steady reminder of what mattered most.
Now the food was here, and Jonathan opened the door, already reaching into his jeans pocket for the cash. He never worried about who might be on the other side. Harry and Marvin vetted everyone who approached the Hunter home. Sometimes they even placed their own orders with the same pizza parlor.
Which was why Jonathan was stunned to see a girl, a plain-looking girl with a tiny face and stark eyes who pulled a .38 out of the insulated bag and shoved it into his throat, then pushed him back, stumbling, into his own vestibule.
The surprise was fleeting, however. Jonathan processed what was happening within a second and knew he was able to respond accordingly.
He pretended to flail a bit, his right hand brushing against the wall—where a big fat rubber button marked clear would summon the police instantly. There would be no alarm, no sounds, no warning of any kind. But the LAPD would know.
The girl pushed the gun into his throat just as he tapped the button, then allowed himself to be guided back into the living room, backward, the girl’s creepy eyes never leaving his. It was a matter of waiting for the cops to arrive.
There was no recognition in these early moments; Jonathan’s mind was honestly on Harry and Marvin outside, because if this girl made it to the front door without an ID check (and Harry and Marvin knew every deliveryman who worked at Perelli’s Italian Kitchen), that meant they were incapacitated or dead.
But she did look familiar. Something about the eyes. Her small, angry little face…
When Jonathan was finally allowed to turn around in his own living room, and he saw his wife, along with little Peter and Kate, arranged on the living room floor, and a sneering punk with a gun standing over them… everything clicked.
“Hey, Mr. Hunter,” Philip Kindred said. “Are you ready for some fun and games?”
Hardie didn’t know the Valley. He’d never sat a house there, never had occasion to drive through it, unless he was forced to fly into Burbank.
As he sped through the streets now, though, he was relieved that the landscape was strangely familiar. Except for the mountains in the background—which you really couldn’t see in the dark, anyway—it was one big fat sprawl, kind of like the suburbs of Philadelphia. No multimillion-dollar dollhouses clinging to the side of a mountain. Hardie felt like he’d come back down to earth.
Plan? There was no plan, other than forcing his way into the Hunter household and demanding to speak with Jonathan, even if he had to use his guns to convince him. Hardie had seen too many movies where the would-be hero tries to communicate some vital piece of information only to have it be too late—the dagger’s already sticking out of a back, or the bullet’s already taken off the top of a head. No, Hardie would stick a gun in Hunter’s face if he had to, force him to call Deke, and start the process of untangling this mess and, incidentally, saving all of their lives. Deke was beholden to no one. Deke was the real hero. Deke would figure this out.
Hardie was snapped out of his reverie when the street sign started to whizz by in a black-and-white blur— Bloomfield Street. He braked hard, screeching a little, then made a sharp right and cruised up the block.
When he reached 11804, there was a car parked out front. Even in the early evening, Hardie could see the tiny splatter of dark fluid on the windshield.
They were already here.
It was already happening.
Mann freaked the moment the LAPD cruiser made it halfway up Bloomfield.
“Who the fuck is that? How did that slip through?”
O’Neal pecked furiously at his netbook. “No idea. I’m tracking all of them, and this guy isn’t showing up. He’s not real.”
“Somebody with a broken transponder?”
“No. All others are accounted for.”
But when the rogue vehicle stopped directly in front of the target’s home, Mann went absolutely ballistic.
“We have to intercept NOW! There hasn’t been enough time.”
One look in the rearview and Hardie spotted the white van parked in a driveway a few doors down and across the street. Topless and her gang must have seen him by this point. Right now, they were probably preparing some quick way to kill him. Loading darts or needles or pain rays or some other crazy shit.
So…
Fuck it.
Most police cars were equipped with a push bumper—aka, nudge bars—welded to the chassis so that you could ram up somebody’s ass to ensure they’d pull over or never move again. He hoped this was one of those cars.
Hardie shifted gears and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The squad car jumped over the curb and smashed through a thick shrub and raced across the lawn. Hardie cut the wheel—hard—to the right. The car spun and skidded to a halt a few feet from the front door. He didn’t think. He just opened the door and grabbed a gun and went to the front door, which was unlocked. Cocky bastards.
—Kurtwood Smith,
THINGS HAD just gotten interesting. The father, Jonathan, was shirtless and kneeling in front of his wife,
