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One, the most intense, seemed to be the ringleader. He was wearing a combat jacket. Floppy hair. A second, a handsome teenager, was holding his phone, probably to record the theft. The third, big, dangerously big.
My God, they looked young. Younger than high school, Goldschmidt reckoned. But that didn't mean they weren't evil. They were probably the sons of neo-Nazis or some Aryan assholes. Such a shame they hadn't formed their own opinions before their racist fathers, and mothers too probably, got ahold of their malleable brains and turned them into monsters.
Evil...
And deadly. Deadly as all bigots were.
Which is why Goldschmidt was now holding his Beretta double-barrel shotgun, loaded with 00 buckshot, each pellet the diameter of a .33-caliber slug.
He closed the weapon with a soft click.
The law on self-defense in California is very clear...
It certainly was, Officer Dance. Once somebody was in your home and you had a reasonable fear for your safety, you could shoot them.
And for all Goldschmidt knew, they too were armed.
Because this country was America. Where guns were plentiful and reluctance to use them rare.
The boys paused on the corner. Surveilling the area. N
oting, of course, that his car was gone--he'd parked it blocks away. That the lights were out. He wasn't home. Safe to come get your Schwinns.
The door's open, kids. Come on in.
Goldschmidt rose, thumbed off the shotgun's safety and walked into the kitchen, where he opened the door to the garage. That location, he'd checked, was considered part of your home too. And all he had to do was convince the prosecutor he'd legitimately feared for his life.
He'd memorized the sentence "I used the minimum amount of force necessary under the circumstances to protect myself."
He peered through the doorway, slightly ajar.
Come on, boys. Come on.
Chapter 89
And you, Officer Dance. Your weapon too. Let's go."
Without taking his eyes off them, the Latino tugged the curtain shut, a gauzy shield against passersby.
"I'm not armed. Look, Serrano. Joaquin. Let's talk about--"
"Not armed." A smile.
"Really. I'm not."
"You say this, I say that."
"Listen--" Foster began.
"Shhh, you. Now, Agent Dance. How about you just tug up that fancy jacket of yours, turn around like my niece does, pirouette. I think that's what it's called. She in ballet class. She's pretty good."
Dance lifted her jacket and turned. Her eyes returned defiantly to his.
"Well, they don't trust you with guns, your bosses? My woman, she can shoot. She's good. You afraid of shooting. Too loud?"
Foster nodded toward the bathroom, where a man's legs were just visible. Crimson spatters covered the tile. "That's Escalanza?"
"The fuck're you to ask me questions?" the man sneered. "Shut up." He stepped to the windows and looked outside. Dance could see through the slit in the flyblown drapes. She saw no one other than Stemple, gazing out over the highway.
