Page 12 of Forbidden Heat

6

Incursion

An alarm goes off.I’m up in a flash, striding to the panel on the wall. My gut tightens at what I see there.

“I’m locking you in,” I snap at Haley. “This room is secure. Don’t try to leave it. Do you understand me?”

She nods, eyes wide. There’s no time to reassure her. I’m out the door, locking it, and running through the house, wiping my face with a handkerchief as I go.

The Jamesons, Nora and Robert, meet me in the front hall. Both of them are ex-military and cool under pressure. They’ve been civilians for decades, but some lessons you never forget.

Neither of them comments on my disheveled appearance. “Four of them,” Robert says succinctly. “Police and backup security are already on the way but they’ll be too late.”

We move as he speaks. Moments later, we’ve reached the weapons cache and all of us are armed. “Miss Morgan?” Nora asks.

“I locked her in the study. There’s an excellent chance that she’s the target. No matter what, they don’t get near her.”

“Yes, sir.”

An explosion sounds from the front of the house. All my beautiful windows are made from the latest high-tech materials. They’ll withstand hand grenades and bullets; I hope the intruders haven’t brought a rocket launcher.

It’s unlikely. They’re no doubt hoping for a quick raid and no bloodshed, but they’re in for a rude surprise.

We all move to take position. Mrs. J heads for the study, which is in the center of the house with a short hallway its only point of access. If the worst happens and the attackers get past Robert and me, she’ll keep them from reaching Haley.

But I’ve no intention of letting things go that far.

The would-be invaders have followed up their hand grenade to the front door with gunfire. The glass cracks, but holds, as it’s designed to do. The security system has triple redundancies built in; there’s no way to disable it from the outside. Cut the wires, and the backup system automatically comes online.

Which means the men outside are in the harsh glare of floodlights, every detail of their appearance and their gear easily visible. I’ve never seen any of them before, but by morning I’ll know everything there is to know about them.

There’s a narrow side panel built into one of the windows, specially equipped to let me fire outside without actually opening the window. I’m wearing a headset with a mic that I keep with the weapons. It’s tied into the security system, which includes speakers and highly sensitive microphones hidden outside in strategic locations.

I’ve never needed to use it before. Working the end of my weapon through the aperture designed for it, I aim a burst of semi-automatic gunfire near their feet. They leap back, but they’re smart enough not to return fire. They’ve figured out that these windows don’t care about bullets.

Now it’s Robert’s turn. I wait to see what he’ll do. A moment later, I have my answer.

The men are wearing military vests to stow weapons and gear in, their fronts lined with pockets that close with fold-down velcroed flaps. The top of the far left flap on one of the vests suddenly splits open.

Then the same thing happens on the same spot on the next vest, and the next, until all four have been hit in the exact same spot. It’s a brilliant bit of precision shooting, by a long-range rifle with a laser scope, and these men are experienced enough to know exactly what they’ve just experienced.

So when I say into the mic, “Turn around and throw your weapons away,” all four obey instantly. “Now your vests. Face down, hands on your heads. Don’t move.”

If any of the now-prone men has second thoughts, and tries to get up or crawl away, I’ll aim another burst well over their heads. The police will be here soon to handle things officially. No point injuring their future suspects; it’d just complicate matters.

But it’s the first time anyone’s ever come onto my property with malicious intent and I’m not the least bit calm about it. Just before the cops took the men away, I ask for, and am granted, thirty seconds of private conversation with the man I judge to be the team leader.

He’s in his forties, with the jaded demeanor of mercenaries everywhere. “Did your employer tell you I was a soft target?” I ask.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“If he did — or they did — they lied. If you have to choose between making an enemy of me or of them, pick them.”

His expression doesn’t change, but he doesn’t tell me to get lost either. I wait a beat to let him think about it. “This is your one and only shot at getting on my good side. Once they drive you out of here, there’ll be no do-overs.”

The man’s eyes narrow to slits. “They said you’re a money man.” Implication: a pushover.

“True enough.” And that’s all he needs to know. I also understand that I’m a civilian, so normally he’d just tell me to fuck off.

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