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MICHELLE DUCKED down behind Bergin’s sedan, her hand on the butt of her pistol. She’d felt the vibration of the phone in her pocket but didn’t have time to answer. She crab-walked to the rear of the car and tried the garage door. It was locked. She found the locking mechanism, turned it, and pulled upward. The door was heavy, but she was strong. Leverage wasn’t the problem. It was the sound. The running track and pulleys of the door must not have been lubricated in ages. Lifting it only a few inches caused a screech that hammered in Michelle’s ears.
She had just given away her position to whoever was in the house and gotten nothing in return for her troubles. She set the door back down and hustled to the front of the car. The door into the house was right there, only she had a feeling that walking through it right now would not be good for her health.
It might be the cops. It might be the FBI. If so, why didn’t they announce their presence? If they think I’m a burglar, they might not. And if I announce myself and it’s not the cops? Classic Catch-22.
She looked around the twelve-by-twelve box she was trapped in. Neither door was an option. That left the small square of window that opened out onto the side yard, away from the front door. She snagged a can of WD40 from the worktable, undid the window clasp, sprayed the track with the lubricant, slid up the window, thankfully with virtually no noise, and hoisted herself up and through, landing on her backside in the grass. She was up in an instant, her gun out, her nerves calm, her eyes and ears alert. She came around the side of the garage and surveyed the area. Only her Toyota was visible. In any event she would have heard another car pull up, so she now assumed it was not the cops or the FBI. They tended to make lots of noise when no hostages were in play.
Whoever was here had left his vehicle somewhere else and come on foot. That was clandestine. That smacked of nefarious purpose. That indicated a direct threat to her safety.
She hit the ground as soon as she heard the slide on the pistol being racked back. The round struck to her right, plowing into the dirt and covering her with grass and particles of compressed earth. She rolled to her left, fired twice in the middle of the maneuver and in the direction of the shot aimed at her. She did a half crouch, glimpsed a figure from across the yard, fired again, and threw herself behind a tree next to the garage.
Had she heard a scream? Did her round strike home? She’d seen a figure, fired right at it. No more than twenty meters. Even under these conditions she should have—
Her back to the tree bark, Michelle gripped her pistol with both hands and listened. To have nearly hit her, the shooter couldn’t have been in front of the house. He had to be off to the right side. Perhaps across the gravel drive, in the woods on the other side. It had been a pistol; she knew that from the sound of the shot and the earlier rack of the slide. If the shooter was across the street, that was a good thing for her. At that range and at night, a direct hit from a pistol would be beyond lucky.
She did a pivot, keeping her body behind the tree trunk. She couldn’t rule out the possibility that the shooter had night-vision equipment. Or that there was only one shooter. If there were a pair of them the other one might be outflanking her right now, trying to capture her in a pincers maneuver.
Her gaze darted to the far end of the garage. She saw nothing but drilled 911 on her phone and spoke quietly into it, relaying her dilemma and location to the dispatcher. She had no idea how long it would take the police to get here, but she had to assume it would not be quick.
You’re going to have to get yourself out of this, Michelle.
She dropped to her belly and started to scoot backward. She alternated her gaze forward and aft, looking for an attack on both fronts. She reached the woods and stood, keeping behind a massive oak that fronted the edge of the grass. She looked for movement while trying to keep as still as possible. She kept her profile sideways to reduce her target signature.
She looked at her truck parked in the driveway. There was a lot of open ground to get there. With night-vision gear she’d be dead after two steps, pistol or not. This could be a waiting game, and maybe she should be content to do that with the police hopefully on the way.
Twenty minutes went by and nothing happened.
Sirens.
The cop car pulled up a minute later, its tires crunching into the gravel as it slid to a stop.
Two county cops emerged from their ride, guns drawn, in half crouches, peering around.
Michelle called out, “I’m Michelle Maxwell. I’m the one who called this in. There was a shooter in the front yard. I fired at someone. I think I might have hit the person.”
The cops peered in her direction. One of them yelled out, “I don’t see anyone. I want you to come out with your hands visible.” He added, “Are you armed?”
“I just said, I shot at the person shooting at me, so yeah, I’m armed.”
“Throw your weapon out and then come out, hands visible.”
“And if the shooter is still out there?”
“Like I said, I don’t see anyone. They must have already taken off.”
Michelle tossed her gun, moved out from behind the cover of the tree, and came forward. One of the cops hustled forward, marked her weapon with his foot while his partner covered Michelle.
“I’m a private investigator, here with permission.”
“Let me see some ID.”
Michelle showed him her ID and her gun permit.
“I was in the garage when I heard someone in the house. I slid out the window and took gunfire over there.” She pointed to the spot. “If you hit the grass with your light, you’ll see where the round—”
“Joe, you better get over here,” said the other cop. He was standing near Michelle’s truck.
“What is it?”
