A Fine Balance

by Susan Johnson

  “Sure,” Jack said, rather than argue and moved to the bed. “Let’s go take the bike out of the garage.” Lifting Zeke into his arms, Jack chose the route through the kitchen to avoid the front door. As for Jillian’s absence, he’d decided to tell Zeke that his mother was attending a meeting at school if he asked. He’d already texted Em with the details. But Zeke took one look at Jack’s black and red Harley Electra Glide and forgot about everything except playing big boy on the motorcycle. Opening the garage doors, Jack fired up the bike and holding Zeke in his lap, explained all the gauges and controls before taking him behind the house for a short ride.

  By the time they returned to the garage, Larry and Em were waiting, a bag of Larry’s toys in hand--one a fire engine that Zeke particularly liked. The little boy happily agreed to go and play in Larry’s workshop. And when he asked about his mom before he left, the story about her absence was accepted without question. Zeke promised to make a fire engine for Jack and as he was buckled into his car seat he was busy blowing kisses.

  Moments later, watching Larry’s truck disappear down the frontage road, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Sam’s soft woof was one of agreement.

  Chapter 45

  Jack was packing his SUV, adding two high-powered rifles with night scopes to his arsenal along with enough ammo to get the job done when his cell rang.

  “Jesus, talk about timing,” Jack answered. “I’m driving into the city. Where are you?”

  “L A X.”

  “Ava with you?”

  “Course.” Chuck and Ava had discovered they were soul mates a few years back when they fought their way out of an ambush on the border of Tajikistan.

  “Perfect. I need Ava in Santa Barbara at the Four Seasons. Ray tracked down Remington’s wife and kids. They arrived yesterday. He’ll send Ava a dossier with background info.”

  “Ava just keeps an eye on the wife and kids?”

  “For now. If you can get a flight out of LAX in the next hour, great, otherwise, charter a jet. Call me with your ETA. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Couple three hours. I’ll get Ava on the road first if that’s okay.”

  “No problem. I’m waiting for dark before we move.”

  After slipping his phone back into his pocket, Jack felt Sam nudge his leg, looked down and saw the pup’s tail wagging furiously. “You know that word, move?” Then Jack laughed at the pup’s affirmative head bob. “You’re a goddamn genius. Ready for a ride then or would you rather stay at my mom’s?”

  That was definitely a don’t-fuck-with-me lip curl. “Gotcha. Let me give Ray a call and we’re outta here.” Leaning against the car, Jack punched his brother’s number. “I’m leaving for the city,” he said when Ray answered. “I’m gonna deal with Tweedy first so Remington doesn’t have a full posse at his back. If you could keep me supplied with any new phone numbers, addresses, up-to-date surveillance photos that’d be great. I have my laptop.”

  “Then check out the helicopter setting down on Remington’s palatial estate south of the city. You’ll see Jillian.”

  His heart racing, Jack shut his eyes for a second before asking, “Did she look okay?”

  “Yup. As far as we could see. She and Hayes went inside, two guys stayed on the terrace, the chopper took off five minutes later. We’re following it now to see where it lands.”

  “I don’t suppose we can get audio on the house.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Good. I also need you to send Remington a message. Tell him no one’s untouchable. If Jillian’s hurt, he loses his family.”

  “That should get his attention.”

  “Maybe. A snake’s a snake. But it might give him pause. Chuck and Ava just landed in LA. Reserve a cottage for Ava at the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara. She’s doing recon on Remington’s family so she needs your dossier on the wife. Chuck’s on his way to San Francisco. The party starts tonight. That’s about it.”

  “Wade and I could drive down with you.”

  “Nah. I need your computer skills and Wade’s nail’em-to-the cross prosecution plan to make sure this works out. Chuck and I’ll deal with Remington’s current stupidity.”

  “You sure? I wouldn’t want to face Mom if you were hurt and we hadn’t helped.”

  “You are helping. And if all goes as planned, I’ll be back in the morning. Keep me up to date on the satellite photos though. Those are critical.”

  “We’re on it. The douchebags move, we see it, you get a link.”

  “Ah--the world at our fingertips.”

  “If you have the right contacts,” Ray murmured.

  “No shit. Tell Jerry thanks to her Jillian will be home soon.”

  “Be careful,” Ray said. “That’s a sizeable crew down there.”

  “You got it.”

  “Don’t sound so cheerful. Better yet, tell me you have a plan other than kick down the door.”

  “Let’s just say I have primo night scopes.”

  “Ella would be proud.”

  “I figure she’s watching and keeping score. So I better not fuck up.”

  “Amen to that,” Ray muttered.

  “Just keep me on target. Chuck and I’ll do the rest. Talk to you later.” Jack didn’t want a lengthy discussion with Ray over tactics or strategy. Detailed attack plans were a waste of time in a firefight. All you needed were quick reflexes, fast twitch muscles and a cool head. Check, check, and check.

  Chapter 46

  Three hours later, just as Chuck was sliding into the passenger seat of Jack’s car at SFO, Ava--dressed in a sparkly tee and black silk pants in the event commando tactics were required--slipped her magenta leather Jimmy Choo’s over the foot rest on the bar stool next to Remington’s wife. Picking up the bar menu, she quickly perused it, then pointed at Lexi Remington’s drink and smiled. “Blood orange, elderberry liquor and small batch vodka from Riga, right? Is it as good as it looks?”

  “It’s delicious. Like the bartender who made it,” Lexi added with a head dip in the direction of a hunky blond surfer dude on the other side of the bar.

  “Perfect.” Ava grinned. “Don’t let me have more than five or I’ll miss my morning session with the trainer.” She put out her hand. “Chelsea Mercer. I’m on a spa weekend. My husband’s in Singapore on business.” She wrinkled her nose. “Again. Making money comes first, second, tenth and fiftieth with Reece.” She smiled brightly at the bartender, indicating with a little wave that she wanted the same drink. “On the other hand,” she added, flipping her long dark hair behind her ear and setting her embroidered Chanel evening bag on the bar, “he gives me all the toys I want so why complain.” She glanced at Lexi’s huge, flashy wedding ring that went with her even more flashy gold lame slip dress that fit like a second skin, barely covered her huge boobs and was essentially an invitation to view the merchandise underneath. “I’m guessing you’re also sans husband tonight if surfer boy is in your sights.”

  Lexi giggled. “Good guess.” A playful flicker of her brows. “I paid the babysitter for the entire night.”

  “My spiritual advisor tells me personal time is good for the soul.” Ava wiggled her fingers in a small brushing off motion that made the jeweled rings on her fingers flash in colorful display. “He calls it psychic cleansing.”

  “I couldn’t agree more”--Lexi met the bartenders eye for an overlong moment as he set down Ava’s drink--“spiritually speaking of course.” Remembering her manners, she said, “Chelsea, Derek, Derek, Chelsea,” and reaching out, brushed the young man’s tanned cheek. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  The handsome blond flashed a set of perfect white teeth. “Welcome to Santa Barbara, Chelsea.”

  “Derek gets off shift at ten,” Remington’s wife said with a wink for the bartender. “So I told him not to let me drink too much.”

  “Good idea.” Ava grinned. “Definitely more gratifying if you remember the details.”

  “Say, I’ll bet Derek has a friend.” Lexi looked up. “You d
o, don’t you, baby?” Her gaze swiveled back to Ava. “Any preferences?”

  “Ask me later.” Ava smiled politely. “I’ll be more relaxed after a drink or two.” She lifted her chin at the bartender. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough.”

  Ava laughed. “The perfect age.”

  Lexi tapped Ava’s arm, a slight frown on her porcelain brow. “I have first dibs,” she whispered.

  “Absolutely,” Ava replied as softly. “He’s all yours.” She raised her glass to Lexi. “Cheers.”

  Ava knew how to ingratiate and befriend like a pro and soon she and Lexi were sharing confidences as the bar filled with patrons and Derek was kept busy. Coincidently as it turned out, they were both trophy wives. Ava/Chelsea was a third wife she said, Lexi a second; they both agreed that older husbands didn’t quite fulfill female sexual fantasies. But they also agreed that the financial trade-offs more than compensated for that inadequacy. As did an occasional fling; the hidden camera in Ava’s purse clasp documenting Lexi’s current amusement: she and Derek exchanging heated glances, steamy kisses, whispered conversations between his bartending duties.

  Had Remington’s wife promised Derek a substantial financial reward for his sexual services, Ava wondered, or did the buff young man simply find beautiful, busty blondes irresistible?

  Not that it mattered.

  She was there to observe not engage.

  Unlike Jack and Chuck’s operation.

  Ava glanced at her watch, then out past the large expanse of windows to the rolling surf and vast ocean beyond.

  The shadows of twilight were staining the sky violet and taupe.

  Only a sliver of light rimmed the horizon.

  Soon it would be dark.

  Chapter 47

  Tweedy’s townhouse in San Francisco was set back from the street. The neo-Romanesque stone façade was distinct from the more conventional ‘painted ladies’ in the neighborhood. Two guards stood on either side of the front entrance, the four story structure fully lit; Tweedy could be seen moving about in his third floor apartment. If others were inside, they weren’t visible.

  The row of houses faced a large park, now deserted. The neighborhood was home to affluent families who believed in shared dinner-time followed by homework and/or bed-time stories. Jack had factored those parenting principles into his time line.

  Although if gunfire disturbed any of the evening rituals, 911 would be dialed toot sweet and in an area this posh, the police would be quick to answer. Jack’s choice of MP5-Ns with sound suppressors should help lessen the noise. As for the sniper rifles, with luck, four quick shots would go unnoticed.

  In the event someone in the neighbor had particularly keen hearing, Ray had Goggle mapped the nearest precinct station. After taking into account the 911 operator’s efficiency, possible traffic, the number of patrol cars in the vicinity, Jack had estimated they had fifteen minutes to get in and out. Ten would be better.

  Jack had been parked in his SUV on the far side of the park for close to an hour, watching the two guards at the front door fuck around. They twitched and paced like meth heads, smoked non-stop, talked on the phone, drank a couple beers that someone brought out to them. He hadn’t had a decent shot.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered, “are your two tweaking like mine?” Jack wore a small hearing device in his left ear that gave him audio contact with Chuck.

  “Fuck no, I’ve got zombies here. They haven’t moved off the wall for a week.” Chuck was concealed in the alley behind the townhouse, fifty yards from the back door.

  “I need a clean shot. We’re fucked if one gets away.”

  “We’ve waited before. Hell, we waited three days for that ship to unload in LA.”

  “Okay, ten minutes more, then I don’t give a shit. I’ll blow them away, noise or no noise. ” This wasn’t the same as the port of LA bust. Jillian was at risk.

  As if Sam understood the material difference, he lay utterly still in the back seat, his hackles raised, ears on point.

  Five minutes later, Jack spoke softly into his mic. “There is a fucking god. Mine are finally standing close enough for a one, two.” At a wider angle, the shooting pattern was more difficult; also the second man had time to react. “How about you? You ready to rock?”

  “Yup, safety off. First round locked in. Easy shots. Just say the word.”

  “On three.” Jack readjusted his elbow on the door frame, moved the night scope just a fraction, tracking the first mark, staying with him. “One, two”--

  Two shots rang out, pivot just a bit, new targets in the night scopes, that small jolt as the high-powered rifles fired and four of Tweedy’s posse fell dead with kill shots to the head.

  “See you on the third floor,” Jack murmured, tossing the rifle on the passenger seat, shoving the car door open with his foot and leaning over to grab his subgun.

  As Jack stretched right, Sam leaped over the seat, sailed through the narrow breach between Jack’s shoulder and the door frame and landed on the grass.

  “Not gonna happen,” Jack muttered, exiting the car. “No dogs allowed.”

  Sam moved back a few steps.

  Shit. Even if he could catch him, wrestling the large dog into the car would take time he didn’t have. “Okay,” Jack said. “You’re on your own. Try not to get shot.” Pushing the car door shut, he turned, and broke into a run. Sam loped at his side, sticking like glue.

  At the front door, Jack quickly scanned the bodies, not that he expected any sign of life with head shots, but…goddamn, look at that. One man was missing part of an index finger. Morrie would have to check it out; he was on the clock.

  “My door’s locked. Yours?”

  “Same,” Chuck said.

  They fired a tight professional pattern of suppressed rounds to the locks, the shots echoing in their ear pieces.

  “Drag in the bodies,” Jack murmured.

  “Roger that.”

  Moments later, Jack shut the front door, moved past the two dead men and made for the stairs, his subgun at high port. “Take it easy. They’re not all hillbillies. Some of these guys know what they’re doing.”

  “Not my two,” Chuck murmured. “Kitchen’s empty. Looking for the servants’ stairs.”

  “I’m heading up the main staircase.”

  Jack was midway to the second floor when Sam softly growled. Easing back against the wall, Jack stopped, caught a whisper of movement above him, estimated the distance, position and waited. Come on, fucker, move just a little closer, give me a glimpse.

  Nothing. Silence. The guy wasn’t going to be a hero.

  With time ticking away, Jack couldn’t afford to wait. Sprinting up the remaining stairs, he spun around the corner, fired a sustained burst at the man with an AK whose reaction time could have been better; he didn’t get off a shot. Jack double tapped the guy’s head as he went down, then stepped over the body.

  Unsure of the welcoming committee on the third floor, Jack navigated the next flight of stairs with caution; one step, stop, listen, another step, stop, listen, rinse and repeat, Sam a silent ghost at his side. A flash-bang suddenly exploded in the back of the house--Chuck’s problem solver of choice. “You okay?” Jack murmured.

  “My ears are fucking ringing. Three more down. Ain’t stopping now til I see your pretty face.”

  “Couple more steps and I’m on Tweedy’s floor. Fuck!” A spray of rounds tore past him from below and Jack felt a sting in his left arm. Leaping up the last stairs, he swung around the corner, then dropped to his knees as the force of the hit struck.

  “Talk to me,” Chuck rapped out.

  Jack saw the blood, sucked in a breath. “A nick. Nothin’. Gotta go. Some idiot’s squandering a full mag on the ceiling.” Rolling away from the shredded plaster raining down on him, Jack waited for the bonehead to empty his clip.

  A sudden silence meant the shooter was reloading. Jack quickly reached around, touched the torn flesh on his arm, felt blood seeping through
his fingers. Seeping was good. It wasn’t life-threatening.

  Jamming a fresh 30 mag into his Heckler, Jack said, “See you in Tweedy’s apartment. I’m not looking to arrest him.”

  “Got it.”

  Settling his weight under his feet, Jack was beginning to rise when the door at the end of the corridor burst open and two of Tweedy’s tattooed crazies dashed out, blasting bullets. Indiscriminately. Un-targeted. Like rank amateurs.

  A shot kicked up near Jack’s foot, another buzzed past his face, bullets cracked into the walls as he raced toward them, firing full automatic, intent on a quick kill with a gunman at his back.

  Jack wasn’t an amateur; his head shots hit home, blood and brain matter painted the walls. As the two walking dead hung there for a moment before the laws of gravity toppled them, Jack glanced toward the open doorway. Were there more of those suckers inside. Should he keep going? Or not? A split second debate, a quicker answer. Fuck no, he had a shooter behind him.

  He was a half-step into a turn when a wild, blood-curdling scream carved the air. Whirling around, his finger locked on the trigger, Jack skidded to a stop at the ghastly sight. Teeth barred, eyes blazing, Sam was savaging a man he’d knocked to the floor.

  Suddenly, the feral cry went silent.

  Sam had torn out the man’s vocal chords.

  Jack watched in horror as the dog ripped out great gouts of flesh from the man’s throat, spewing blood, sliming the walls and floor. Fuuuuck. Jack raced to pull Sam away. Only a few seconds had passed since that first unearthly cry, but it was already too late. Blood was pooling dark on the floor, the man’s eyes were blank, his skin turning grey.

  Jack recognized the deceased--or what was left of him. It was the skinhead who’d cruelly chained and mistreated Sam at the derelict gas station.

  Civilizations rise and fall, he thought, but instinct lives on.

  Visceral, gut-deep, wild. Noble.

  Sam had saved his life. The fully loaded AK beside the shooter would have blown him away.

  “I owe you,” Jack said, under his breath, or maybe he just thought it.