by Trevor Scott
He wandered in slowly toward the fireplace, where his uncle was fiddling with the coals with a metal poker.
“What’s up,” Max asked.
“You tell me,” Pasquale said. “My sister, your aunt, said she nearly tripped over a dead chef in the kitchen.”
Max told his uncle what had happened so far, right up until the time that his son Bobby volunteered to run for help.
“And Frank?” Pasquale asked.
“He’s out trying to fix the power.”
“I could help him.”
“Better if you stay here,” Max said. “Are you armed?”
“Damn straight,” Pasquale said. “Always.”
“That’s what I thought. Is that a nine mil?”
“Yep.”
“You have anything else in your truck?”
“Not at this time. Why?”
“I have a feeling we could use it before the night ends,” Max said. He wasn’t sure why he had said that, but something deep inside him had allowed this assessment.
The first indication that everything had gone to hell in just a few seconds was a familiar tink from breaking glass. Then Max heard the disconcerting sound of a bullet buzzing past his head. He screamed for everyone to hit the deck, bringing his uncle down with him.
The three ladies screamed in various levels of volume, but they also ducked first to the sofa seats before sliding to the floor.
Max needed to move fast.
16
Without thinking, Max got up and pulled his gun. He rushed around the large room blowing out the new candles, bullets following him around the room and peppering the wallpaper. The shots were coming from the back of the estate, somewhere near the parking lot.
He rolled to the ground at the far wall and glanced up at the holes in the windows. What kind of rounds? Looked like from a handgun, he thought. Good. Not as accurate from a distance.
Max got up and ran to the last two candles, extinguishing the flames with his fingers. Then he dove behind a large set of furniture and crawled toward his family.
“Pasquale,” Max said, keeping his voice down.
“Yeah. What’s the plan?”
“I’m going after the shooter outside,” Max said. “When I start shooting, grab the ladies and get them upstairs.”
“Roger that.” Pasquale also had his 9mm handgun out and ready.
“I’ll have the doctor and Martha lock themselves in the manager’s room,” Max said. “Give me thirty seconds.”
Getting up quickly, feeling better about doing so in the darkness, Max rushed around the back door of the living room, through the library, and came out the other side near the dining room. Then he kept his gun leveled ahead of him as he found Martha’s room. The door was closed.
“It’s Max,” he said against the door. “Are you locked in there?”
“Yes,” came a muffled voice.
“Good. Stay put until I give you the all clear.”
Now Max had just one concern. His cousin Frank, who was somewhere outside trying to fix the power. But he had no idea where he was, so he had to simply draw the shooter out. He moved around to the entrance leading to the parking lot, and he used the thick doors for protection.
His breathing increased, knowing he had to move or his uncle and the women would be vulnerable. With one quick motion, his gun leading the way, Max rushed out through the second door, vectoring away from the last known spot of the shooter. The darkness and the heavy rain made it impossible for him to see any movement, so he had to rely on the flash from the shooter’s muzzle, which came after he had gotten some twenty feet from the door. As he ran, he fired five shots at the shooter’s position. Then he ran at top speed toward his truck. Most average shooters couldn’t hit a man in a full run moving across his field of view.
Max had parked like always, pointing outward from the parking spot. He reached his truck and the shooter used this moment to fire at him. His truck took the lead as Max rounded to the back end and unlocked the topper over his bed, giving the shooter no target unless he moved.
He took this moment to crawl inside and tap in the code to his gun safe. He pulled out his AR-15, loaded with a full 30-round magazine of military-grade 5.56 mm bullets. Then he found two extra magazines, which he clipped to his web belt, and his night vision goggles, which he put on his head, turned on, and lowered to his eyes.
Crawling back out, he quietly lifted the tailgate and clicked it into place. Now he lowered the window but didn’t lock it—in case he needed more firepower.
Max turned on his Eotech holographic sight and flipped his magnifier to extend his range for longer shots. He holstered his 9mm handgun and raised his rifle to his eyes, bringing in his surroundings to a pale florescent green. Now he owned the night.
Moving along the right side of his truck, his eyes scanning for targets, Max waited for movement. But he needed to be careful, since his cousin Frank was still outside somewhere. The shooter had been hiding behind a large pine tree. He focused his aim at that tree until he saw movement.
The shooter moved out from the right side of the tree and started to shoot toward Max’s truck. Max had his safety off and two rounds fired within seconds, dropping the shooter to the wet surface.
He needed to see who had been shooting at them, so he rushed across the wide expanse of the gravel parking lot and the grass on the other side, until he got to the fallen man.
Max kicked away the man’s gun and rolled the guy to his back. His two bullets had hit the man center mass, probably killing him instantly. He wasn’t sure who this man could be, so he pulled out his phone and took a couple of quick pictures of the man’s face. Then he felt around and found the shooter’s cell phone, which also had no service. Max shoved into his back pocket. Also on the man was a large folding knife, which he could have used to kill the chef and puncture all the tires. Before moving on, Max stopped in his tracks when he heard a voice coming from behind the large tree the man had used for cover and concealment. At the base of the tree was a small hand-held radio. More talking came from the radio as Max picked it up and turned down the volume. The radio had a clip on the back, so Max attached it to the back of his web belt. This man wasn’t alone. So, where was his friend or friends?
But something was missing. Even through the NVGs, Max could tell that the man had no blood on him. You don’t stab a man like the chef was stabbed and not get sprayed with blood. Where was the second man?
He turned and scanned the area looking for any movement. Nothing. Then he moved tactically across the open space toward the estate. But instead of going inside, he moved around the outside of the large building to try to find his cousin Frank.
Max went to his left, knowing the right side was where the living room sat. If he were to keep moving around that side, he would come across the four-season room and the back patio where weddings were held. That meant only the left side of the building could hold the power supply and the generator. Normally, in places with heavy generator use, that noisy equipment would be held in a separate outbuilding to keep from driving residents crazy. But that wasn’t the case here.
Passing the delivery entrance that led to the kitchen, Max wondered if that was how the killer had gotten in and stabbed the chef.
The rain pounded on him, making it hard for Max to see through the NVGs. But he finally got to an extension of the estate that looked a little newer. He gazed up and saw that the power lines entered the building here. Then he thought he saw movement for just a split second.
Now he realized what he was seeing. Frank had set up what looked like a small pup tent over the top of the large generator.
Max moved slowly toward the tent, his heart racing. It would kill him to find Frank dead inside. With one quick motion, Max threw the door flap open.
Sitting at the far end was Frank, an electrician’s knife in his hand.
“Frank, it’s Max,” he said.
His cousin moved to turn on his head lamp, but Max told him not to
do so.
“What’s going on?” Frank said. “I heard the shots.”
“Did Bobby get out before the shooting started?” Max asked.
“Yeah. He took a short cut through the trees down the hill toward the road,” Frank said.
“Good.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“As far as I know, just the shooter,” Max said. “We need to forget about getting the power on and get you inside to safety. Then we’ll lock down the estate.”
“That’s going to be hard,” Frank said, scooting toward Max and the exit to the small tent. “There are multiple entrances, and not very good locks.”
“Alright,” Max said. “At least the building will give you some cover. You wouldn’t happen to have a gun on you.”
“In my truck,” Frank said. “Glock nine mil with two full mags.”
“Good. Let’s go get it.”
Frank’s truck was parked right by Max’s vehicle. His cousin quickly grabbed his gun from the center console and then found his extra magazine, shoving that into his back pocket.
“Let’s go,” Max said. “There’s more than one shooter.”
“How do you know?”
Before Max could answer, they both heard a shot coming from the estate. Then a few more shots.
17
Just after Max ran out of the estate and the shooting started, Robin and her Uncle Pasquale helped Christina, her mother and her aunt up and out of the living room. Together, they moved along the south side of the structure, through the library and the dining room, coming out on the hallway on the other side of the foyer and entrance.
Robin made sure they all made it up the stairs.
“Go to Aunt Anna’s room,” Robin said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Pasquale, gun out at the ready, said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting the doctor and Martha,” Robin said.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
“No. Wait for us and we’ll barricade ourselves in that room.”
Just then the gunfire got heavier, coming from two different locations.
“Your brother might need my help,” Pasquale said.
“Max will be fine,” she said hopefully. “The shooter might need more help.”
Pasquale gave her a thumbs-up and limped up the stairs after his sister and his ex-wife.
Robin backtracked to the manager’s residence. The door was closed, so she checked the glass nob to see if it was locked. It was.
“It’s Robin,” she said softly. “Please open up.”
Reluctantly, the bolt opened and Dr. Kamala Sen peered out at Robin. “I heard more shooting outside.”
“My brother has gone after the shooter. We should go upstairs together to Anna’s room. Uncle Pasquale has a gun for protection. Can Martha move?”
“Of course,” Martha said from behind Kamala.
“She needs help,” the doctor said.
Shooting outside startled all of them, but it also made them rush toward the stairs. Together, Robin and Kamala helped the younger woman up the stairs. At the top of the second level, Robin closed the door.
“Is there any way to lock this down?” Robin asked Martha.
“Not really,” Martha said. “We almost never lock the estate. Even if we did, the locks are almost useless.”
Robin pointed for the other women to go down the hallway to her Aunt Anna’s room. Just then, Uncle Pasquale appeared at the end of the hallway and waved for them with his cell phone light.
They got down to the end room and Kamala went to the right into her room for a second to retrieve her small bag. Then they all crowded into Anna’s room. It must have been the largest room in the entire estate, though, situated on the southwest corner right above the living room. At least they were one room away from the shooting, Robin thought. That might give them some protection.
“Help me with this,” Pasquale said to Robin and the others, as he stood on the end of a large dresser.
With her uncle on one end and Robin and Christina on the other, they were able to move the heavy oak dresser in front of the door.
“That might not be enough,” Robin said.
Pasquale glanced around and saw a large chaise lounge chair near the outer edge of the room, sitting between two large windows. Together, Pasquale and Robin moved this large lounge chair and set it on top of the dresser.
“We should close these curtains,” Jackie said.
Robin turned just in time to see Jackie fall to the ground. Then she heard the shot.
Pasquale moved with remarkable speed across the room, his gun out again. Stepping over his ex-wife, Pasquale aimed his gun out the window and shot three times in a random spray. Then he shut the curtains and went to help his ex-wife.
But the doctor was already there helping Aunt Jackie, holding pressure on a stomach wound. Christina also came over and held her mother’s hand.
“How bad is it?” Robin asked.
“Looks like a through and through,” Kamala said. “Could you grab my bag?”
Robin found the doctor’s bag and set it on the Persian rug that was now soaking up the professor’s blood.
“There’s a first aid kit inside the main area of the bag,” Kamala said with remarkable calm.
Robin found the kit and unzipped it. Inside, she found a number of large gauze pads, which she opened and handed to Kamala.
“I’ve got no pain meds,” Kamala said to Jackie.
“Anna always has wine,” Jackie said with difficulty.
“Unfortunately, wine doesn’t make a good anesthetic,” the doctor said.
“Just let me drink it,” Jackie said. “I’m half pickled already.”
While they were helping Jackie with her wound, Pasquale crawled around the room and closed the curtains on the two remaining windows, bringing the room to near complete darkness.
Then he got on his butt and scooted toward his ex-wife, shining the light from his cell phone, along with the others.
The doctor said to Pasquale, “When this is over, you need to set up an appointment with me to fix that knee.”
“It was shot up years ago in the Army,” Pasquale said. “Do you think you can fix it?”
“I’ll give you an MRI and we’ll see,” Kamala said. Then the doctor turned back to Robin and asked, “Could you find a box that says Dermabond?”
Robin dug through the first aid kit, finally pulling it all onto the floor.
“No,” Kamala said. “It’s in a separate box inside the bag. Too big for the first aid kit.”
Robin went back to the bag and found the box, which she opened and found a number of tubes that resembled thick pens. She handed one to the doctor.
Within seconds, the doctor had pinched the front wound on Jackie’s stomach and sealed it with the skin adhesive. Kamala held the skin together until it no longer seeped blood.
“It’s holding,” Kamala declared. “Now for the exit wound.”
Robin helped the doctor roll Jackie to the side without the wound. The exit wound was still seeping blood. The doctor first held pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding. Then, with the glue pen in hand, she sealed the exit wound.
After both sides were sealed, the doctor used a fresh gauze pad, taping it over the glued wound.
When the doctor had done all she could, they all lifted Jackie onto the bed and put her under the covers.
Anna turned to Martha and said, “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll pay for the sheets and the Persian rug.”
Robin paced the floor for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on outside. Was her brother alright? What was going on here? She tried not to show concern, but she felt she was failing miserably.
18
Max was concerned about the shots he had heard, but the first one came from the back side of the estate—outside. The other shots seemed to be return fire. Those must have come from his Uncle Pasquale.
More voices came across on the radio Max had found just a
s Max and Frank got into the first-floor foyer of the estate.
“What the hell are they saying?” Frank asked in a loud whisper.
“I don’t know,” Max said, but he was sure about the language he knew very little about. He had heard this before during his tours in the middle east. And it was never a welcoming voice.
Max led his cousin back to Martha’s room, but she had gone. So had the doctor.
“Where’d they go?” Frank asked.
“Upstairs.”
“Should we join them up there?”
“No. We need to take up defensive positions down here until Bobby can get the police out here.”
More voices came across the radio. At least two distinct people.
Max pulled the radio from his belt and tried to remember what he knew of this language. He knew only a few phrases, and they were not pleasant terms. Pressing the button, Max said into the radio something he had learned in Afghanistan. This wasn’t Pashto. He spoke Dari, Afghan Persian, and hoped these people would understand it.
“What was that?” Frank asked.
More voices came across the radio, which made Max laugh out loud. “They understood.”
“What did you say?”
“I was speaking Dari. Something I learned in Afghanistan. I told them I was going to kill all of you goat fuckers.”
“These are ragheads?” Frank asked.
“More precisely, they’re Persians or Iranians,” Max said. “They’re speaking Farsi, but I guess Dari is close enough for them to understand.”
“Why the hell are Iranians attacking us?”
He didn’t have time to explain to his cousin the dynamics of a Persian family. “I’ll explain later, cousin. We need to get into position. Do you know the entrances?”
“Front door, which is actually like the back door,” Frank said. “Service entrance through the kitchen. And then a door on either side of the four-season room, which funnels into the main dining room.”
Max checked his rifle to make sure he had everything ready for close-quarters fighting. Instinctively, he had already flipped out his sight magnifier. Now he would use only his holographic sight.