High Country Nocturne - [66]

Strawberry Death was forty feet away, all in black, moving in my direction. She walked down the sidewalk toward our house as if she were taking a very early morning stroll. I could have taken her down right then but waited. I was in the bushes of the house to the east; she was coming from the west. Then I realized my mistake.

Our Spanish-Colonial Revival style house faced Cypress Street in a backward L shape, with the short leg of the L being the master bedroom sticking out beyond the living room. It was closest to me and would block my view of her at the front door.

I could have set up at the house to the west, but the shrubbery was not as full. I could have set up across the street, but they had a dog. I was stuck.

Sure enough, when she made a ninety-degree turn and walked up our front walk, I lost contact.

I made myself stay. The front door was solid wood from 1928. Even if she were successful in prying it open, the alarm would go off. So what would she do? What would I do? Knock to see if anyone was home. If they were there and answered, shoot them, and call it a night. But that wasn’t her style. Too much potential noise. Not enough fun.

She had promises to keep.

So she would look through the picture window, see the darkened house, and make her way to the backyard to disable the alarm and come through the back door. To intercept her, I would have to leave my shooting position and go through the carport on my side of the house. But that was only if she went on the far side of the house, which would require climbing a higher wall that was close to the neighboring windows.

Suddenly, she reappeared, coming across our lawn toward me. She crouched and moved under our bedroom window, careful not to step in the flowerbed and leave tread marks from her shoes. She briefly rose up and peered inside. I had left the lights off and the blinds drawn, so she would see nothing but darkness.

Another ten feet and she would reach the dark sanctuary of the empty carport and beyond it a rickety fence with a gate to the backyard.

I could have painted her with the laser, ordered her to freeze.

No.

My mouth silently formed the word, “police.” And then, noiselessly, “halt.” I aimed for her chest, took in a breath, let it out slowly, and smoothly squeezed the trigger.

Three rounds came out fast as a lightning strike.

Sure, I wanted to empty the magazine into her, but that would have risked stray rounds going through the houses of neighbors. This rifle was good to five hundred meters. So I did one pull, fired a short burst.

With the suppressor, the carbine made a sound like pebbles falling.

The impact threw her backward like a discarded doll. She landed on her back in the grass and didn’t move.

I picked up the spent cartridge cases and slipped them in my pocket. I would place them in the carport to support my story for the police: I fired protecting my home from an armed burglar.

Then I heard a sound that was half gasp and half muffled scream. I wondered if the neighbors were enjoying middle-of-the-night sex.

In that instant of absent-mindedness, flashes came from the woman on the ground. Was she using a flashlight?

No.

The arms and leaves of the bougainvillea shattered. Something heavy and fast sped past my cheek. Something pulled quickly on my sleeve.

It all happened in silence, except for a slight spitting sound, the snap of shrubbery, and the smashing of bullets on the wall behind me.

The heap on the lawn had rolled over and was firing at me, using a silencer.

I fell to the ground, tried to make myself part of it, remembered everything I had read about the infantryman and the dirt below him.

She was wearing ballistic armor. The sound I had heard was her recovering from my bullets hitting her vest but only knocking the air out of her.

They made fun of my Colt Python, my “wheel gun,” but if I had shot her with the.357 she wouldn’t have gotten up, ballistic vest or not. Now it was too late.

My heart was about to gallop out of my chest but I steadied the M-4 and squeezed off another short burst. It stitched up the lawn. But she was already up and moving. I aimed but she dodged. The risk of a stray shot was too great. That wasn’t even my biggest fear. That would be that she was coming to kill me. She was better than me. Way better.

By the time I could get a good aim, she was in the Chevy. The brake lights glowed red. I dropped to one knee and fired at the back window. It crumpled and the sound of more pebbles broke the silence of the street. My wits returned and I put another round in the left taillight. Then I was running for the Prelude as she sped off. The sidewalk was painted with a blood trail. I had hit her with effect at least once.

The first time George Washington saw combat, he commented, “I have heard the bullets whistle, and, believe me, there is something charming in the sound.” I hated to disagree with the Father of Our Country, but there was nothing charming in the whistling I had heard. It was somehow made more sinister by our firefight with suppressors. I checked my sleeve. It had been sliced as with a knife. Fortunately, I wasn’t bleeding.