Wayne doubted many pizza delivery drivers bounced the curb hard enough to lift all four wheels. But as far as he could tell, no one in the house took notice.
Wayne used the truck for cover until it was midway down the drive and passing a stand of pink oleander. He dove and rolled and crawled in a training ground sprint. By the time Julio pulled up at the front door, Wayne was on the house’s other side between the bougainvillea and the concrete side wall. The bougainvillea had thorns like a cactus that sliced through his shirt. But he couldn’t pull away. Because right then he spotted the first shooter.
The man was inside the house and moving fast. Wayne tracked him past three windows.
Wayne still wasn’t sure how the game was going to play out. But he knew he had to do something. Standing there with a thorn in his rib and the heat pounding his head and shoulders, the clearest sound was of the clock ticking.
Julio whistled his way up the walk. The chains he wore for a belt jangled with each step. His jeans flopped over his shoes. He rang the front door bell.
Wayne waited until he was certain the man was not going to answer the door. He searched the front lawn once more. Saw nothing.
He stepped out far enough to spot Jerry standing exactly where they had agreed, back where the road met the drive, hidden by the live oak where Wayne had crouched. Wayne waved his hand.
Jerry nodded back. He slipped behind the tree and disappeared. Across the street from his hideaway was the telephone pole connecting the house to the island grid.
Julio hammered on the front door. “Domino’s delivery!”
There was a moment’s silence, then a sharp pow down at the roadside, followed by a crack. The sparks flying off the transformer were less visible in the afternoon sunlight than at midnight, but impressive just the same.
Julio started to look back, but caught himself and pounded harder still. “I got the pizzas you ordered!”
The shadow inside the house moved to the doorway leading to the front hall and stopped.
Julio gave a shrug that could only be called theatrical, and started back down the stairs. He jangled and whistled his way down the walk and disappeared around the corner of the house.
The shadow followed.
Wayne ripped his shirt pulling free of the bushes. He sped across the front lawn, his back itching from the sniper’s scope he feared might be tracking him. But he made the distance and took the portico’s railing like a chest-high hurdle. He applied his forward momentum to the front door, punched the lock clear out of the doorframe. He stumbled slightly on the polished marble floor but kept his speed high enough to catch the shooter in the process of raising his gun.
The shooter had one finger pressed to his earpiece and his back to the front entrance. His arm was across his chest and blocked his shooting arm. He spun around and gaped at Wayne’s charge and did his best to aim. But Wayne was faster, covering the distance in three giant strides. He hammered the shooter with an elbow to the throat and a fist to his chest. He gripped the shooting arm and wrenched the pistol free. He kept spinning around and applied the pistol butt to the same point where his elbow had struck.
The shooter flew backwards and crashed into the stools lining the half wall separating the dining area from the kitchen. He went down hard.
Wayne stripped the mike control box off the shooter’s belt and fitted the unit into his own left ear. Still at a full sprint, he sped past the glass doors opening onto the pool area. He saw two men seated by the pool, or part of them, because the umbrella had been moved to where their faces were blocked from the house. Wayne moved to his right, the shooter’s pistol in one hand and the communicator in the other. He heard two voices, both hissing for Paulie to reconnect. Another voice, one that crackled slightly, complained that they had lost all the leads to the house.
The house was shaped in a stucco U surrounding the rear pool with the Gulf sparkling in the distance. The right-hand room behind the dining area held a massive flat screen TV, entertainment center, and leather cinema seats. Wayne checked the rear doors again, saw just the legs of two men seated at the pool. A second umbrella had been dragged over and positioned so they were effectively protected from all sides. The suited visitor had slung his jacket and tie over a side chair. Wayne had time for an instant’s wonder over the home’s soundproofing, that a man crashing over a trio of wooden stools wouldn’t even cause them to uncross their legs. Then he spotted the second shooter.
Julio came around the side of the house and raised his three pizza boxes in greeting. The shooter was half hidden in the shadows of the outdoor kitchen’s roof overhang. Wayne opened the French doors and used Julio’s loud approach as the only cover he was going to have.
This shooter was faster. He spun and got off his shot without trying to either crouch or aim. A half second more and Wayne would have been breathing through a new chest hole. But the bullet whacked as it passed him. The doors he had just passed through shattered. Wayne slapped the gun aside and chopped the guy in the throat. The shooter dropped his chin, but not fast enough. His eyes widened with the sudden effort it took to breathe and he gave a tight “Ack.” He made his mistake then, trying to bring his gun around rather than protecting himself from Wayne’s next blow, which was to hammer the shooter’s left ear with the fist holding the communicator. The shooter’s eyes fluttered. Wayne hit him again, this time with the hand holding the gun.
The shooter collapsed.
“Down, Julio! Get down! “ Wayne did not take aim so much as let his gut direct him, taking him back and to the side. The third shooter rounded the house at the same moment. Wayne was one giant stride away. He leapt and caught the gun that came into view and wrapped both hands around it, dropping his own gun in the process.
The shooter got off two random blasts, blowing out something made of glass. Wayne was too busy to inspect for damage. He wrestle-danced his way across the pool deck, the guy using his free hand to land a trio of close punches. Wayne protected his head best he could with his near shoulder, kept a two-fisted clench on the gun hand, and raced for the blue.
They took their deadly tango into the pool.
Wayne came up for a single breath. Then he rolled and let the guy’s struggling weight take him back under. Making sure to keep himself between the shooter and the surface. Focusing his strength upon the gun in his double grip. The shooter tried for Wayne’s eyes, then his throat, missing both times. Then his roaring bubbles and his struggle slackened somewhat. Wayne pushed harder until the guy scraped against the bottom.
The gun hand released. Wayne wrested the pistol free. He swung around behind the guy, gripped his throat from behind, and kicked off the bottom. Headed for light and air.
The shooter came up choking and floundering for the poolside. Wayne let him dog paddle for them both. When the shooter made the side, Wayne swung onto the ladder. He shifted his grip on the pistol and came out of the water aimed for the pair still seated under the umbrellas.
“Do us all a favor and point that thing somewhere else, won’t you.”
Wayne stripped the water from his face. Saw Julio rise slowly to his feet.
“Excellent. Now the gang’s all here. How convenient.”
Wayne squinted hard, working to bring the man into focus. Try as he might, the guy seated beside Trace Neally remained Eric Stroud. Tatyana’s ex.