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"I dropped the goddamn keys," Sandra said.
He ran back to the fence, drawing the pistol again as he ran, found the keys, and then ran back to his front door.
There were half a dozen neat little holes in the door, and one of the small panes of glass in the door had been shattered.
He got the door unlocked and propelled Sandra through the living room to the door of the cellar, which he had finished out with a big-screen TV, a sectional couch, and a wet bar.
"Honey," he said, his tone forceful, "stay down there until I tell you. If you want to be useful, make us a drink while I call the cavalry."
"I don't think this is funny, Jack, goddamn you!"
"I'll be right outside. And when the cops get here, I'm going to need a drink."
He closed the cellar door after she started down the stairs. Then he went quickly to the front door, took up a position where he could safely see out onto the street, and looked. He saw nothing alarming.
He took his cellular telephone from its belt clip and punched 9-1-1.
He didn't even hear the phone ring a single time before a voice said: "Nine-one-one Emergency. Operator four-seven-one. What's your emergency?"
"Assist officer! Shots fired! Thirty-six ninety Churchill Lane. Thirty-six ninety Churchill Lane." He'd repeated the address, making sure the police dispatcher got it correct. "Two or more shooters in a pale green Chrysler Town & Country minivan. They went westbound on Wessex from Churchill. They used automatic weapons, possibly Kalashnikov rifles."
He broke the connection, then looked out the window again, this time seeing something he hadn't noticed before.
The MX-5 had bullet holes in the passenger door. The metal was torn outward, meaning that the bullets had passed through the driver's door first.
If we had been in the car, they would've gotten us.
Goddamn! The car's not two months old.
When he heard the howl of sirens, he went outside. He looked up and down the street, and then, taking the revolver out of its holster again, walked down to the sidewalk to see what else had happened to the Miata.
The first unit to respond to the call was DJ 811, a rather rough-looking Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor patrol car assigned to the Eighth District. The howl of its siren died as it turned onto Churchill Lane, and when Britton saw it coming around the curve, he noticed that the overhead lights were not flashing.
Britton turned his attention back to the Miata. The driver's-side window was shattered and several bullets had penetrated the windshield. The windshield had not shattered, but Britton couldn't help but think how the holes in it looked amazingly like someone had stuck all over it those cheap bullet-hole decals that could be bought at most auto-supply shops.
He walked around the front of the car and saw that it had taken hits in the right fender, the right front tire, and the hood.
He smelled gasoline.
Oh, shit! They got the gas tank!
Then he heard a voice bark: "Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Put your hands on the top of your head! Put your hands on the top of your head!"
Britton saw that two cops in a patrol car had arrived.
They were both out of their car and had their service Glock semiautomatics aimed at him from behind the passenger door and across the hood.
Both looked as if they had graduated from the academy last week.
The order reminded Britton that he was still holding the Smith & Wesson. At his side, to be sure, pointing at the ground. But holding it.
Not smart, Jack. Not smart!
"Three-six-nine! Three-six-nine!" Britton shouted, using the old Philadelphia police radio code for police officer.
The two very young cops, their Glocks still leveled on him, suddenly looked much older and in charge.
The one behind the driver door repeated the order: "Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Put your hands on the top of your head! Put your hands on the top of your head!"
