Reaching the glass door, he peeked outside.
Nobody.
He released the catch and opened the door. Quickly, he eased through and shut the slider behind him, stopping short of closing it completely so it wouldn’t thump.
Maybe there’s still a chance.
Carns raced across the yard, skirting a kidney-shaped swimming pool and a barbecue pit. In one quick motion he vaulted a six-foot-high wooden fence at the back of the lot. He landed awkwardly in a neighboring yard, coming down hard on a redwood lawn chair. A sickening pop sounded as his ankle twisted beneath him.
Grimacing, Carns rose in a low crouch, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Ignoring searing bolts of pain shooting up his ankle, he dashed down a bricked walkway and past a gate to the next street up. Expecting with every step to feel the stab of a police bullet, Victor Carns ran as he’d never run before.
He was still a block from his car when he heard the sound of gunfire.
Maureen Baker rolled over in bed, wondering who could be calling at that hour of night. She flipped the switch on her bedside lamp. The light didn’t come on. Groaning, she fumbled on the nightstand for the phone.
Normally a heavy sleeper, John was awake now, too. “This had better be news we just won the lottery,” he warned, propping himself up on an elbow. He heard Maureen say “Hello,” then nothing. “Who was it?” he asked as she replaced the receiver.
“The police,” she whispered. “Someone broke into our garage.”
After inching his way down the side of the residence, Patterson hesitated at the northeast corner. Easing his head around the stucco wall, he looked into the back yard.
Someone moving?
Quietly, he worked his way farther around, staying clear of the windows.
There. Again.
As he watched, a dim shape emerged stealthily from the shadows. “Police. Don’t move,” Patterson ordered, gun locked on the figure. “Don’t even breathe.”
“It’s me,” Bottrell hissed.
“Damn.” Patterson lowered his weapon and crept over to Bottrell. Along the way he noticed that a patio sliding glass door was open a crack. The house was supposed to be locked.
“Sarge is calling for backup,” Bottrell informed Patterson when he arrived. “We’re supposed to watch the rear.”
“And what? Sit around till the guy decides to come out? There’re people in there.”
“So?”
“So the patio door’s open. It only takes one of us to watch the back. I’m goin’ in.”
“Sarge said to wait.”
“I didn’t hear him.”
“I’m telling you, Sarge said to wait.”
“And I’m telling you I had that guy. Now he’s inside. I’m goin’ in.”
John Baker liked guns. He had grown up hunting with his father in Iowa, and during a four year stint in the Marines John had shot at the top of his unit. In addition to a variety of rifles and shotguns, he owned a 9 mm Glock auto pistol with a seventeen-shot magazine. After purchasing the weapon three years back, he had taken it to the desert and run four boxes of shells through it, punching holes in assorted beer cans, cardboard targets, and unwary cacti. Though he hadn’t fired it since, he’d kept it handy, wrapped in a chamois on the top shelf of his closet.
John went to the closet now and got the gun. Unwrapping it, he moved to the dresser and groped in the top drawer for a clip of Winchester Super-X Silvertip cartridges he kept rolled in a pair of socks. Like most boys, their seven-year-old son Kyle was curious about guns, and John Baker adhered to the rule of keeping guns and ammunition separated at all times. Except times like now.
After jamming in the clip, he pulled back the slide and racked a shell into the chamber.
Maureen watched from the bed, her eyes wide with terror. “John…”
“Stay here,” John ordered, not trusting himself to say more. The gun felt heavy in his hands. Heart thudding, he moved to the bedroom door and squeezed out into the hall. Staying low, he crept to the stairs and peered to the darkened floor below. He could make out most of the entry, some of the living room, a little of the den.
The sound of an approaching siren wailed in the distance. Should be here in a minute, John thought. Outside, he heard someone on a bullhorn shouting that the house was surrounded and advising whoever was in the garage to come out with his hands up.
Without a sound, John eased forward to take in more of the entry.
Someone moving near the laundry room?
John stared into the darkness. Gripping the automatic, he trained it on the area where he thought he’d seen movement.
Nothing.
Had he been mistaken?
No. Someone was there.
Taking shallow breaths, John waited. Twenty seconds later the siren reached the house. As the police cruiser screeched to a stop outside, a flash of light flickered through the living room drapes, washing the downstairs in streaks of red and blue.
John saw him. He had his back to the entry and was standing beside the door to the garage. He had a gun.
Patterson paused in the hallway, attempting to quiet his breathing.
He’s not in any of the rooms down here, he thought. He must still be in the garage. If he had gone upstairs, there’d be screams, a struggle. Something.
Patterson considered carefully, trying to decide whether to search the garage or wait for the man to come through. But if he were coming in, he’d have already done it.
Maybe the door to the garage is locked.
Try it?
Patterson hesitated, reasoning that if the door to the garage were locked, the guy wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Without warning, the concussion of a large-caliber weapon rocked the room. Patterson felt the slug smash into the wall beside him.
He’s upstairs!
Rolling left, Patterson swung his revolver toward the second floor landing. A heartbeat later he fired. Somehow it didn’t feel like he thought it would. Mostly he was just scared.
The Glock jumped in his hands. For an instant John Baker saw the man pinned like a deer in the muzzle flash, and he knew he’d missed. The intruder dropped to his left. Gun coming up…
Shit, shit-he’s gonna shoot. Take him now!
The sharp bark of a pistol sounded from below. A bullet sizzled past. Blinded by the flash from the intruder’s shot, John Baker pulled the trigger as fast as he could, getting off five more rounds in rapid succession, his ears ringing with the explosions, the exultation of the hunt singing in his veins.
His first three shots missed, passing through a two-by-four interior wall, a storage closet, and eight inches of exterior wall. The fourth shot caught the surprised young officer in his left shoulder, shattering his clavicle and scapula. The fifth entered his left orbit. Traveling at 1,122 feet per second, the 115-grain projectile transected both optic nerves, passed through the cerebellum, and exited the right occipital area, taking a chunk of skull on its outward passage.
Patterson never got off a second shot.
Carns reached his car thirty seconds after the shooting began. He couldn’t believe he’d escaped. Thankful he had left the Toyota unlocked, he slipped behind the wheel and fumbled for his keys. Frantically pumping the gas, he twisted the ignition. The engine wouldn’t catch. For a heart-stopping moment he thought he’d flooded it. Finally, with a shudder, the engine coughed to life. Still gasping with terror, he slammed the car into gear and drove a back road to Valley Vista with his lights off. He turned left at the intersection and headed west.
