Page 3 of All That Glitters
Tony ducked into the bedroom he’d entered through earlier, slamming and locking the door behind him. He leaned against it, breathing hard, as Preston’s footsteps thundered past.
“Honey, please. Be reasonable,” Preston’s voice faded down the hallway.
BOOM! A third blast from the shotgun was followed by more running. Then, new footsteps approached, stopping directly outside the bedroom door.
“Dammit! I saw you go in there, you little pecker,” Mrs. Jordan called. “Now open up!”
Tony darted across the room and out onto the balcony. Behind him, the bedroom door splintered as another shotgun blast tore through it. Apparently, Mrs. Jordan wasn’t above destroying her own home in pursuit of her targets.
On the balcony, Tony leaped up, grabbing hold of the same branch he’d used to enter. He scooted along it toward the trunk as quickly as possible, while the wood creaked ominously beneath him. Behind him, Mrs. Jordan stormed onto the balcony, shotgun raised.
“You think you can help my husband cheat!” she shouted, aiming at him.
BOOM! The branch splintered just ahead of Tony. For a moment, he thought he might make it... then with a sickening CRACK, the branch gave way completely.
Tony dropped like a rock, landing hard on the manicured lawn below. With a painful groan, he struggled to his feet, while Mrs. Jordan leaned over the balcony railing and took aim.
BOOM! A divot of grass and soil exploded inches from his foot.
Tony sprinted across the yard toward a cluster of trees, ducking behind the thickest trunk he could find. His mind raced, trying to process the absurdity of his situation.
From across the yard came the deep, menacing barks of dogs. Tony peered around the tree to see two muscular Dobermans racing his way. His eyes went wide. Dobermans definitely hadn’t been on the bingo card. And neither had a crazy woman in designer loungewear with a shotgun.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Tony bolted through the trees toward the concrete perimeter wall, while the dogs gained ground with every second. Reaching the wall, he scrambled up and over it, landing hard on the sidewalk outside.
In the distance came the sound of rapidly approaching sirens. Tony turned and tore off down the block in the opposite direction.
As with the rest of his harebrained schemes over the past year, everything that could go wrong just did. Spectacularly.
Chapter two
Graduation Riots and "The Beach"
One year earlier…
It was a picture postcard day in San Diego that afternoon, with the kind of sparkling blue sky and sunshine people moved there for. A crowd of families and friends packed San Diego University’s football stadium, all eyes watching the long wooden stage and line of graduates in black caps and gowns on the field.
The university’s dean stood behind a podium in the center of the stage, working his way through the list of graduates. “Veronica Hamlin,” he announced.
Applause filled the stadium as a poised young woman crossed the stage. She shook the dean’s hand as he gave her the diploma, then jumped up and down in sheer, spontaneous joy as she exited the stage.
The dean turned back to the microphone. “Tony Harding.”
Fresh applause rolled through the crowd as Tony crossed the stage.
High in the bleachers, a petite brunette leaped to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Yay, Tony!” she shouted. She tried to whistle, but it came out as mostly spit. At twenty-two, Debbie Campbell was the perfect spirited blend of impossible cuteness and the enthusiasm of a golden retriever puppy. What she lacked in coordination, she made up for in loyalty and heart.
As she jumped up and down, her sneaker slipped, sending her lurching forward into the back of an obese man seated in the row ahead. The impact caused him to jerk in surprise, his super-sized soda launching from his hand and splashing across the back of another spectator’s neck.
The victim, a muscular man with a flat-top haircut and newly soda-drenched shirt, whipped around, his face contorted with rage.
“Hey, fatso!” he snarled, shoving the other man with enough force to make him stumble backward.
The larger man shoved back harder, sending Flat-Top careening into a cluster of graduates’ families. They toppled like bowling pins, drinks flying, bodies colliding with other spectators in an ever-widening circle of chaos.
Like human dominoes, the chain reaction spread through the stands, a cascade of flailing limbs, airborne beverages, and increasingly creative profanity. Within seconds, what had begun as Debbie’s simple misstep transformed into a full-blown riot.
