The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9)

by Gregg Loomis

  A screen beside the bed displayed an electronic schematic of the property lines. Red dots appeared across both the front and rear. The presentation did not mean there were only two intruders but two breaches of the electronic fence.

  “Incursions,” Lang corrected. Gurt’s English vocabulary sometimes slipped when she was agitated or excited. “Could be any number. Let’s put the security measures into effect,” he added, sliding out of bed.

  Neither took time to find slippers or bathrobe but went about a well-rehearsed routine. Lang snatched a .40 caliber Glock from a drawer in his bedside table. He stopped by the closet, reached inside and slid his arm through the sling of a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun with an eight-shot tubular magazine. It was fully loaded with shells, each containing nine pellets of hardened 00 buck. He hesitated for a split second before using his free hand to scoop up a handful of loose ammunition. He paused long enough to slip his cell phone into the single pocket of his pajama pants

  On the other side of the bedroom, Gurt was in her closet. She emerged armed, Glock in one hand and the loop of the sling of an M16 automatic rifle in the other. Lang did not have to look to confirm the thirty-round box magazine or the AN/Pus 2 night scope attached to the weapon.

  Not your average collection of home-protection weapons; but then, neither Lang nor Gurt had reason to believe an invasion of the home would be by ordinary robbers or those as inept as that Laurel and Hardy team of ONI housebreakers, Semitz and Rogers.

  Lang went down the steps. Gurt followed, pausing long enough to shut Manfred’s door softly to not disturb either the sleeping child or Grumps. In the etching of light seeping through the windows, she could see the dog as he snored next to her son’s bed.

  Downstairs, she activated the same mechanism that slid plates of steel over not only the doors and windows that had entrapped the two naval officers but those on the rest of the house.

  Not a moment too soon, judging by the whir of an electric lock pick from the front door.

  “There are four of them,” Lang announced, looking at the television in the den.

  In addition to the normal channels, the home-security service included a few not available to cable subscribers. The screen was displaying images from a series of Fluke Ti 400 thermal imaging cameras discreetly mounted on half a dozen of the property’s oak trees.

  Gurt was watching the small TV in the kitchen. “I see them. Two of the ones not on the front porch seem to be covering the corners. The fourth is advancing on the pool house. He’s carrying a weapon larger than a hand gun.”

  Leon.

  Until Leon had become part of their family, no one had considered protective devices for the pool house. Lang mentally cursed his procrastination and baseless hope that the part of their lives that necessitated such precautions was past. That vain optimism had left Leon’s present residence unprotected.

  Shit!

  “We can’t just leave Leon to whatever these people want,” Lang said.

  Gurt sighed her agreement. “We’ll have to put down the shields.”

  “That or call the police.”

  “You want to put Leon’s life in the hands of 911?”

  Both minds went to a spate of news articles about the local emergency phone service: Busy signals, an ambulance sent to a wrong address while a heart-attack victim perished, a fire call answered by a crew, who, seeing no actual fire, didn’t bother to get off the truck, leaving a family of four to die in the flames that exploded through the roof within seconds of the departure of the hook and ladder. The twenty-year-old system worked not by GPS but by proximity to cell phone towers if the victim happened not to know the zip code in which his emergency was occurring.

  “I guess not,” Lang admitted, reluctant to expose Manfred to the potential dangers of abandoning the security system.

  He moved to the front of the house. “I’ll go ahead and call the cops for all the good that will do. I’m cutting off the system. Just as soon as the shield lifts, here’s the plan . . .”

  Within seconds there was the sigh of well-oiled machinery.

  Lang made a brief call on the cell phone: “There’s a home invasion in progress at 472 Lafayette Circle, three-oh-three-oh-nine. No ma’m, I don’t have time to repeat.”

  He hung up, doubting the call would achieve anything beyond providing clean up for what could very easily become a messy situation.

  Plus, if there was any question he had summoned the authorities, both his and the police’s recording systems would resolve it. He had no time to ponder the absurdity of having an emergency response operator who had trouble with simple, expletive English as this one had.

  Instead, he positioned himself in front of the door, listening for Gurt’s signal. The whir of the lock pick had stopped. There may not be time to wait.To lower the chances of being seen, Gurt duck-walked down the three steps from the kitchen before sprawling out on the walk from the drive. The day’s warmth had leached from the clay bricks, now hard and cold through the flimsy cotton of the shirt in which she slept. Tonight, it might be her shroud.

  She smiled as she thought of the assemblage of curious neighbors and police, staring at the near nude body of a woman wearing only a man’s shirt and holding a military issue rifle in dead hands. The possibilities of speculation among onlookers was endless.

  She rarely stopped to consider the reason such irrelevant and macabre thoughts spooled through her head in potentially deadly situations. When she did, she supposed it was some mental quirk, a natural response to pressure, a tension-relieving device.

  She could ponder that later. At the moment, she concentrated on sweeping the back yard with the eerie green halo of the night scope. Trees, the dark pit of the swimming pool, furniture grouped around the grill like some herd of wild animals around a watering hole. All dark shapes with fuzzy edges.

  Movement caught her attention. The blob of action took on the form of a human being, a man carrying the weapon she had noted earlier. Either he was unsure of himself or he thought his presence might have been detected. He moved quickly from tree to bush, taking advantage of such cover as existed with a certainty that suggested he was wearing night vision glasses.

  Gurt’s finger tightened around the trigger and she began that sequence of regular breathing that is taught a marksman the first time he (or she) picks up a rifle.

  Careful! This is not shooting on a dirt backed range. You are about to send a 5.56 mm missile moving at 3900 feet per second for over nearly a mile in an intensely populated area. Be sure to line your shot up with a sure backstop. Shooting one of your neighbors in his bed would be very bad form.

  She had to suppress a nervous chuckle at her own wit.

  There it was! The figure paused in front of a massive red oak. No doubt he planned on the tree breaking his silhouette should anyone be watching. Unfortunately for him, trees exuded very little body heat, not enough to even blur his image in the scope.

  Particularly the head. A head shot would pretty well end it. Breathe in, breathe out, breath in . . . hold it.

  The crack of the rifle split the silence of the night like an ax splitting a log.

  The figure in the scope spun, flinging his weapon away as though repudiating such earthly things, before he slumped forward to slip to the ground.

  The front of the house was quiet. As far as Lang knew, the electric lock pick had done its job. The door was unlocked but still closed.

  If so, what was its operator waiting for? Perhaps a signal that would initiate a full attack?

  The sudden rifle shot from behind the house had given him pause. It was Lang’s signal to act.

  The shotgun in his right hand, he used his left to turn the door knob. As it clicked, he snatched the door open, simultaneously bringing his weapon to bear.

  The figure in front of him could have been in Halloween costume: full Ninja black, including Balaclava. There was nothing costume about the AK 47 the man held.

  The astonishment of the door suddenly swinging op
en from within was probably what made the intruder pause a nano-second before raising his rifle.

  It was the last mistake he would ever make. The cannon-like boom of the shotgun sent lead slamming into his chest at a range that did not allow spread of the pattern. Nine lead balls struck him as a single, solid shot with a force that literally lifted him off his feet and hurled him backward as though struck by a fist. The damage done to flesh and bone was evidenced by the wet slap of a bloody body meeting the concrete walkway.

  An automatic weapon chattered and the door’s frame shattered, spraying Lang with splinters.

  Lang threw himself backward into the foyer, kicking the door closed only seconds before a burst of lead hammered against the steel that was at the center of the front door between two wood panels.

  He had to do something to make sure Gurt was okay.

  According to the brief plan he had laid out before Gurt slipped out of the back door, she would move west, toward Peachtree Street; he to the east.

  Couldn’t use the front door. The shooter’s last fullisade told him that exit could be fatal. With the windows’ shield withdrawn, Lang could see lights popping on up and down the street like some planned light show as the commotion provoked his neighbors’ curiosity.

  The window!

  Crossing to the other side of the house he stood beside a pair of windows, the double pane type, which, in pre-air conditioning days, would have allowed the lower pane to slide upward, letting in such breeze as might be available in hot summer months. Such windows would be unlikely in a contemporary home.

  Leaning the shotgun against the wall, Lang slipped his fingers into the old brass slots and heaved.

  Nothing.

  He started to repeat the effort, stopped. Reaching to the top of the lower pane, he moved the simple latch. The window slid open with a minimum of effort.

  Since the window no longer served as a ventilation device, there was no screen.

  Lang pulled the night vision harness over his head, lowered the twin scopes, stepped into the darkness and crouched beneath the window sill.

  Lights from next door made puddles of illumination he needed to avoid. He was considering his next move when a flash of motion caught the corner of his eye.

  There the man was, moving stealthily toward the front of the house, no doubt curious about his comrade after the boom of the shotgun.

  Curiosity and cats.

  The intruder slunk past as Lang pressed himself against the house and immersed himself in its deepest shadow. He held his weapon at the ready, thankful he had not turned on the lights that would surely have revealed his position. Conversely, night-vision equipment was limited to fairly narrow beams. Also, he wanted to make sure the fourth man wasn’t nearby. Hopefully, Gurt had him covered.

  Reasonably certain his target was alone, Lang stepped away from the house into the center of neighbors’ lights as though in the spotlight of a stage. If possible, he’d like to take one or more alive, perhaps learn the full motive of his antagonists. He guessed the rifle shot meant Gurt had eliminated one and the man sprawled in front of the door wasn’t going to be talking. Not in this world, anyway.

  “Hold it! Right there!”

  Even if the man didn’t understand English, the tone and circumstances should have frozen him.

  But neither did.

  He spun, his rifle at his hip.

  He never had a chance to use it.

  Although a distance of fifty feet or so prevented the spectacular result at the front door, Lang guessed multiple 00 shot struck the target. But he was taking no chances. The man was there, then he was gone.

  It took a second or two for Lang’s night vision goggles to find the motionless body sprawled on the ground.

  Lang jacked another shell into the Mossberg’s chamber, keeping the muzzle leveled at the prostate figure. The AK 47 lay beside its owner. A swift kick put it out of reach should the man somehow survived the shotgun’s blast.

  That was when he heard the sirens.

  At the same time he felt a chill.

  Where was Gurt?

  She should have finished her task of taking out the remaining intruder. But there had been no further gun fire, nothing.

  48.

  Moments Later

  The neighborhood was drenched in flashing lights: red, white, and blue, giving an unworldly appearance to the increasing crowd. Women with their hair wrapped in curlers (wired for inter galactic communications?), men in night shirts, pajama pants, or bathrobes open enough to show boxer shorts or whitey-tightie’s. All in states of undress that would have been unthinkable by daylight. Children of varying ages, some in parents’ arms, wide-eyed at the excitement.

  There was an air of anticipation as well as curiosity as an ominous, military-type vehicle disgorged a squad of SWAT-uniformed police who wordlessly surrounded the house, automatic rifles at the ready.

  Pulsating blue lights in its grill allowed an unmarked Ford Taurus to bypass the yellow tape uniformed officers were unspooling. It pulled into Lang’s driveway and stopped. A tall black man in a suit emerged, his shaven scalp reflecting a mélange of color from the surrounding lights. He stopped and looked around as though surveying the rapidly growing audience before speaking to a uniformed officer who pointed him in Lang’s direction.

  To even the most casual observer, it was obvious the two men were acquainted.

  The black man extended a hand. “Mr. Reilly.”

  Lang shifted the shotgun to his left hand and shook. “Detective Franklin Morse, I presume.”

  “Sure ain’t Dr. Livingston,” the detective said as he watched two figures, androgynous in the shadows, photograph what was left of the man Lang had blown away from the front door. The flash of their cameras turned a pool of blood an oily black. “Looks like the OK Coral right here in Ansley Park,” he drawled. “‘Course, when I got th’ call an’ address, I ‘spected somethin’ like this. I mean, ever time I sees you and the missus, there’s bodies lyin’ ‘round. What be the count this time?”

  Lang shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Some of us just live exciting lives, Detective.” He became serious. “I’m not sure. I don’t see Gurt.”

  The line could have been a stage cue. The battered front door swung open revealing what could have been a cover picture for magazines as diverse as American Rifleman, All Animal, Parent’s Magazine or, even, Playboy. All that was needed was an American flag as a backdrop for Gurt, right hand holding rifle, left arm draped over Manfred’s shoulder with Grumps in front, stretching as he extended what could have been a mile of pink tongue. The shortness of the shirt she still wore would have caught Hugh Heffner’s eye.

  Manfred was rubbing his eyes with his fists and yawning almost as widely as the dog.

  “All the light woke him,” Gurt explained almost apologetically.

  A burst of automatic gunfire not twenty-five yards from his bedroom, two shotgun blasts and a rifle shot, not to mention more sirens than a four-alarm fire and the lights woke him?

  But Lang asked. “There was one more intruder . . .?”

  Gurt dismissed the question with a jerk of her head toward the rear of the house. “Oh, he’s not going anywhere. I used his belt to tie him to the picnic table.”

  Specifics would come later. Right now there were the cops to deal with.

  Morse took a step forward, squinting at Gurt’s rifle in clear contrast to the focus of attention of those male spectators Lang could see. “Don’t suppose that’s an automatic weapon. Illegal to possess an automatic weapon.”

  Lang stepped in front of Gurt. “Detective, I submit you have more than enough on your plate without acting on behalf of the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms boys. For instance, were you to run the serial number on that rifle, you’d be amazed to find it doesn’t exist. I wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your career dealing with the paper work that would generate.”

  Morse ran a hand across his glistening scalp. For years he had believed the
violence that seemed to bloom around this couple like dandelions on a summer lawn was not simply bad luck. There was something here beyond both his understanding and pay grade, something best left alone as long as they broke no laws.

  He was about to reply when a pair of black Chevy Tahoes pulled up to the curb. Two men got out of each, two men whose similarity of haircuts, demeanor, and blue jackets with the gold “FBI” letters across the back made the following introduction unnecessary.

  It took place anyway as the first held up a pocket folder with golden shield to no one in particular. “Special Agent, William Warren, F.B.I.”

  The other three followed with the precision of a chorus line.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was in charge.

  Warren displayed his creds to Morse. “Detective, this is a federal matter. The Bureau has jurisdiction here.”

  Morse lifted his eyebrows, a smile teasing his lips. “That mean my people can pick up their toys, go home and catch up on the rest of their night’s sleep?”

  Warren, more accustomed to disputes with local law enforcement than someone who obviously would be delighted to wash their hands of the matter, was taken aback.

  Before he could respond, a woman with sculpted blonde hair and a great deal more make-up than the hour would suggest shouldered her way into the tight circle of Morse, Lang, and the four F.B.I. men. “Page Wood, Five Live News.”

  She shoved a microphone into Lang’s face. “You’re Mr. Reilly, right? You live here, right? What exactly happened? Who did the shooting?”

  In the general melee, Lang had not noticed the arrival of two trucks adorned with dish antennae and bearing the logo of local TV stations. A third was stopped at the yellow crime scene tape, its driver arguing with a uniformed cop.

  He gently pushed the microphone away. “I’m sure Detective Morse here can give you better details than I.”

  Morse shot him a poisonous glare. “No comment at this time.”

  “Who are the intruders?” She asked. “Why is the F.B.I. involved?”