“You think they’ll try for her here at the house?”
“I doan know,” Clete said. “They might if they git frustrated enough. They’ll figger out where she is sooner or later, probably sooner, but attackin’ this place is purty extreme.”
“What kind of security you got here?”
Clete grinned. “Me,” he said. “There ain’t even supposed to be houses where we are. This is the Spring Lake Forrest Preserve. Back in the day, even before the first Daily was Mayor a Chicago, when Alfonse Capone and his boys was runnin’ the show, palms was greased, dispensations was made, an’ this place was built. Donlea Road, which is the closest street, wasn’t more than a gravel access road to the preserve. We’re just south a Spring Lake. We got West County Line Road to the north, Algonquin Road to the south, Old Sutton Road to the east, and Bateman road to the west. No subdivisions, no shoppin’ malls, no streetlights and no streets. We are remote. In them days, remote meant secure. Hell, Crockett, this place don’t even have a generator. All we got is metal tape on the windows connected to a alarm company over in Barrington Hills. There’s never been a need to upgrade, an’ Ivy wouldn’t want a bunch of security guys swarmin’ all over the place anyway.”
“So we’re exposed.”
“Like a goddam Hustler centerfold.”
“And there are just the four of us in the house.”
“Three,” Clete said. “Stitch stays out in the storage barn. Got a little place fixed up out there. He don’t like crowds much.”
Crockett nodded. “Starting tonight,” he said, “we move him into the house. Make him night guard or something.”
“Good idea,” Clete agreed. “It’ll keep him by himself and make him feel useful. Plus, he’ll go to the wall for us. You won’t find Stitch sleepin’ on guard duty.”
“What about Ivy?” Crockett asked.
“She’s not a target. I’ll talk her into stayin’ at Marta’s place for a while. Those two git along good. It’ll be like a vacation or somethin’. Marta’ll love to have her. She can’t stay here. We don’t want nobody around that’s not real mobile.”
Goody patted the arms on his wheelchair. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
Clete grinned. “You don’t qualify,” he said. “You, I want around. I think we need to go on light alert.”
“I agree,” Goody said. “Have you told Crockett about my condition?”
“No.”
“Ah. Crockett, my boy, I’m without the use of my appliances these days. Blasted arthritis in my back has precluded the use of my man-made extremities. Therefore, I’m confined to this beastly chair. That diminishes my value to some degree, I’m afraid.”
“I’d rather have you at my back than a three legged man,” Crockett said.
“Kind of you to say so, Lad,” Goody smiled.
“I’ll get Stitch in here,” Clete continued. “From now on, we all stay in the house, and we all go armed. I don’t mean we strut around with AK-47’s, but we want to make sure we got some tactical weapons available. I think we need to carry handguns at least. I got a Glock that Stitch can use. Goody, I figger you got what you need?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t,” Crockett complained. “If you recall, that Boster sonofabitch took my 686 Smith when he nailed my ass at the airport.”
“I got something for you,” Clete said, rising and walking to the pantry.
“Some damn fifty-seven shot, spray and pray autoloader, I suppose,” Crockett bitched.
Clete returned with a hard gun case. He put it on the table in front of Crockett. “See for yourself, ya grouchy ol’ bastard,” he said.
Crockett opened the case. Stainless steel gleamed dully up at him. “Damn,” he breathed.
Clete grinned. “That shut ya up?” he asked.
Crockett lifted out a brand new, 686 Smith & Wesson revolver with inlet grips and a two-and-a-half inch barrel. Beside where it had rested in the case were three boxes of Black Talon .357 magnum rounds and four speed loaders.
“This is beautiful, Clete,” Crockett murmured.
“That ain’t all. I also gotcha a Bianchi high rise and a quadra-case for them loadin’ things.”
Crockett opened the cylinder to make sure the chambers were clear, spun it, and closed the weapon up again. He looked at Clete. “Thanks, Texican.”
Clete shook his head. “You doan git it, do ya?” he said.
“Get what?”
“That ain’t no 686, son.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. That is a 686-Plus.”
“A 686-Plus?”
“That there ain’t no six-shooter, Crockett. Check the speed loaders or the cylinder again. That there is a seven-shooter.”
“What?”
“Yessir.”
Crockett opened the cylinder and counted the chambers. Seven. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Smith’s been makin ‘em for quite a while,” Clete went on. “You just ain’t keepin’ up with technology, Pard.”
“Speaking of technology,” Goody interjected, “I have some toys in the basement, including some of those delightful little SA-80 carbines that you two trained with. Later today I’ll journey down and retrieve a few, go over them, and have them ready by tomorrow.”
“Good,” Crockett said.
“I’ll follow up on Metzger today,” Clete said. “And I’ll call a place in Downer’s Grove I know and get some portable security out here. Motion detectors or laser generators to create some kind of security perimeter around the house. Let us know if anybody’s sneakin’ around out there.”
“I’ll go back to basics,” Crockett said. “Get the girls to help and go through the whole place making sure everything is buttoned up and secure from the attic down through the basement. Windows, doors, air vents, everything.”
“Thirty-seven rooms,” Clete said. “Some of ‘em ain’t been open in fifteen years. Good luck.”
“That should do it then,” Goody said. “By the end of tomorrow we should be as secure as we can make this place, including a warning perimeter, and as armed as our resources allow.”
“When do you think they’ll come?” Crockett asked.
“They might not come at all,” Clete said. “They might just watch the place until we get careless or bored, and try something out in the world. If they was reasonable, they’d wait until we got complacent, an’ avoid any kinda confrontation here completely.”
“Not likely,” Crockett said.
“Naw,” Clete said, “it ain’t. Best guess is that they’ll hit us within a week or two. No sooner’n tomorrow night.”
Clete’s best guess could have been better. As it turned out he was wrong by one day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Perimeter Breached
The rest of the day was spent in preparation. Ivy reluctantly allowed Clete to summon a company limo and went off to spend some time with Marta. Goody resurrected four of the SA-80 sub-machine carbines from their cosmoline covered storage, carefully dismantling the weapons, cleaning them to the minutest detail, and re-assembling them to his highly elevated satisfaction. The live-in house staff was dismissed and given lodging at a Clarion Inn nearby in Lisle, Illinois, at full salary, for as long as it might take for things to get back to normal. Cletus spent most of the day on the phone, and Crocket, Satin and Carson delved into some areas of the house that hadn’t been used in years.
Lunch was catch as catch can, but Goody suspended his labors to prepare a late dinner of broiled salmon, scalloped potatoes, and baby peas, accompanied by an endive salad and puffed cinnamon and sugar piecrust for desert. Ruby, less than predictable in her schedule, arrived home just moments before mealtime, and sat with everyone for dinner.
Clete took time during the meal to apprise her of the situation, but she seemed to take only passing interest, other than to ask what she could do to help, and volunteering to take the following morning off to assist in ma
king the rest of the house secure.
After the meal, Goody produced a box of headsets, one for each of the men.
“Communication could be vital, lads,” he said. “These are similar to the ones Crockett and Cletus used during their clandestine forays in to the field, and seemed to work quite well. Alas, Ladies, four is all I have, but you shouldn’t find yourselves in the thick of the fray at any rate. I strongly suspect that the other gentlemen in the group will agree with me when I say that, should our situation become fraught with hostile activity, those of you numbered in the fairer persuasion should be under cover and not mucking about the field of battle, as it were. Would you agree, lads?”
The lads agreed.
“Right,” Goody went on. “There it is, then. I should expect you ladies, after being apprised that the situation does indeed call for extreme action, to place yourselves in your respective bathtubs, behind closed and locked bathroom doors, inside bedrooms whose doors are also closed and locked. The locks will slow the entry of possible miscreants, while the cast-iron construction of the bathing vessels will offer adequate protection against small arms fire. You will do these things for three reasons. Firstly, because I am asking you to do these things and I have had much more experience in such matters than you. Secondly, because nobody here who might be involved in actual battle wants to have to worry about where any of you are. Noncombatants should stay safely out of the way. Friendly fire is just as lethal as enemy action. And thirdly, because compliance is the correct behavior to present to your gender based peers so that all of you, and I stress all of you will behave in the same sensible and prudent manner. Do I make myself clear?”
The ladies agreed.
“Excellent. In the meantime, I suggest that the boys keep their radios close to hand and that all of us, with the shining exception of our selfless night guard, Stitch, go to bed. Rest, during these trying times, is vital. Tomorrow we shall finish our preparation for what may, or may not, happen. Right. Off you go, then. I shall attend to the mundane necessities of cleaning up, dishes, and such. Do not trouble yourselves. Rest well.”
Crockett loitered in the kitchen area long enough to snatch a bottle of Merlot and two glasses before going to the Men’s Club. Once there he quickly showered and changed into dark blue pj’s. He placed the communication headset on his nightstand and removed the belt from a pair of slacks in his closet. That done, he filled the four speed loaders and strung them and his holster on the belt. He loaded his new revolver with seven rounds, installed it in the holster, and put the whole assemblage in a chair by the door to the hallway.
His tasks completed, he opened the Merlot so it could breathe, dragged a dog-eared copy of SHOGUN out of his large suitcase, put his crutches on the floor by the bed, and removed his leg. He was just getting comfortable when Nudge signaled from the hall. Sighing, Crockett crutched his way to the door, let the cat in, and went back to bed to read and wait for Carson. She arrived in about twenty minutes.
Four hours later, Stitch’s voice from the open bedroom door woke Crockett up.
“Crockett! Hey, man! Like, Crockett?”
“Wha?”
“Wake the fuck up, Dude! It’s Stitch, man. Fuckin’ phones are out! Got no cell, got no landline either. Didi mau, motherfucker! Meetcha in the messhall most ricki-tik! Don’t forget your headset.”
“Okay. Carson’s with me. I’ll take care of her.”
“Far out. Buster, man. Charlie could be inside the fuckin’ wire!”
Dizzy and confused, Crockett sat up and swung his foot to the floor, reaching for his leg. As he strapped it on, he spoke to Carson.
“You awake?”
“Whus goin’on?”
“Don’t turn on any lights. Get into my bathroom, lock the door, and lay down in the tub. Stay there!”
“Whazamatter?”
Crockett stood up and reached for the headset. “Maybe big trouble.”
“Trouble?”
Crockett connected the throat strap for the headset mic. “No questions. Do as you’re fucking told. Now! In the bathroom, in the tub. Stay there ‘til one of us comes to get you. Once you’re in the bathroom, kill the nightlight. Stay in the tub, in the dark. Don’t move around, don’t make any noise. Just go, goddammit!”
Without another word, Carson staggered toward the bathroom door, trailing the sheet behind her. Crockett waited until he saw her pass in front of the nightlight and close the door. After he heard the bolt lock he felt his way through the dark to the chair, slipped on his gunbelt, stepped carefully into the hall, revolver in hand, and clicked on the headset.
“Crockett here. Anybody on air?”
“Clete, here.”
“Air Cav up.”
“Everybody awake, Stitch?” Crockett asked.
“Soon. I just woke up Ruby. She said she’d get Goody. I’m headin’ back down now.”
“Clete here. Head for the kitchen area. It’s central and protected. Watch windows and line of sight. Use the stairs.”
“Crockett copies your last. En route.”
Thirty seconds later, Clete, Stitch, and Crockett were all in the kitchen pantry, out of sight.
“Either of you see or hear anything?” Clete asked.
“Not me,” Crockett said.
“Nothin’, dude,” Stitch said.
“It’s definitely action. Our phone lines have been cut and the local cells are jammed. I got a call off on my satellite phone to 911. Local law should be here within ten minutes or less. Meantime…”
The lights went out. The spotlights outside the atrium that usually flooded the center of the structure in a dim glow, were gone. The light on the kitchen stove, the microwave digital read-out, the clock above the sink, all were out. The house, without the common noises of air conditioning or idling appliances, became totally silent.
“Aw fuck,” Stitch said. “No moon, and the Zipperheads are definitely inside the perimeter, man.”
“Where?” Clete asked.
“If it was me,” Crockett said, “I’d come in through the atrium. Glass is easier than stone.”
“Right,” Clete said. “They’ve made us dark. That means they have night vision. They can see us. Keep to cover. Three meter intervals. Follow me.”
At that moment, Goody, in his wheelchair, a canvas bag on his lap, was just entering the third floor hallway when he heard a voice behind him.
“It’s okay, Goody, it’s me.”
“Ruby, Lass, I assume hostile action is forthcoming. You should be undercover!”
“There’s no power,” Ruby said, grabbing the handles of his wheelchair and striding off down the hall. “Without power the elevator doesn’t work. Where do you wanna go?”
“Down to the first floor, but you canna be doin’ this!”
“I’ll get you there,” Ruby said. “Now quiet down before the bad guys hear you.”
“Since the power’s gone, that probably means they’ll have night vision of some type,” Goody whispered. “If we encounter any hostiles, do exactly as you’re told.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ruby muttered, stopping the chair at the top of the first flight of stairs to re-apply her grip. “Hang on, Goody. Here we go.”
Ruby and Goody made the last five or six steps of the first flight with Ruby hanging on while bouncing on her butt behind the chair, as Goody managed to strip palm skin off both his hands. They were just turning to attempt the last flight when an immense roar and crash tore through the house from the direction of the atrium.
“Right, Lass,” Goody shouted above the fading din. “Have at it, and don’t spare the horses!”
Crockett, Clete, and Stitch were just entering the atrium when they heard the roar of an engine, and the outside glass wall imploded. As black as everything was, assorted sparks and such showed them a large dark SUV sliding into the room through the destroyed wall. Doors opened and slammed, shouts of instruction were repeated and answered, and at least four subjects deployed throughout that end of the l
arge room.
Clete voice crackled on the radio. “Hold your positions. I’m gonna draw fire. Shoot at the muzzle flashes.”
Goody’s voice came immediately behind Clete’s. “Belay that, Lads,” he said, “and cover your eyes. Right now.”
The flash grenade was so bright, it hurt Crockett’s eyes even through his hands and closed lids. To men with night vision optics, it was nothing less than devastating. Screams and random un-aimed gunfire cut through the air. As soon as the glow dissipated a bit, Crockett was on his feet, moving through the room. Fish in a barrel. He shot two, Stitch shot two, and Clete got one.
Fresh light immediately brightened the area again, and there sat Goody in his wheelchair holding a magnesium flare as Ruby stood behind him. Clete moved through the room, kicking weapons away from bodies. Stitch ran off toward the front of the house and returned with a battery-operated lantern. The distant sound of sirens floated through the room from where the glass wall once was.
“Anybody hurt?” Crockett shouted. The room became quiet. Ruby’s voice whispered through the silence.
“I think I am,” she said, and collapsed beside Goody’s chair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
No
Crockett took another sip of cold and bitter coffee as he sat in the waiting area of Good Shepherd Hospital in Barrington, Illinois. Still no word on Ruby. He’d just gotten off the phone with Clete for the second time since his arrival at the level II trauma center almost three hours before. The first call was to get their stories straight enough to withstand inspection, and to let Crockett know that Stitch, in a nice piece of foresight, had stashed Carson in his hidey-hole in the storage barn. The second call was to advise Crockett that the county’s crime scene bunch was on hand and two county deputies were on the way to the hospital. Crockett passed the information to Satin, who sat beside him, her hand resting on his thigh in a gesture of support. From anyone else, the touch would have been annoying.
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