The front gate was impenetrable without calling up to the house and getting someone to open it-that or crashing through it with a vehicle. Neither option appealed to him. He continued driving down the road, looking for an opening to the river. Most of the frontage along the river was taken by other large estates, but about a quarter mile to the east he found an open lot with access directly to the river. He parked the car and set off at a quick jog. The ground was mostly clear, with groves of trees punctuating the rolling grasslands. He kept to the edges of the trees as much as possible until he reached the river. As he doubled back to the west, the first two estates were not fenced flush to the water, and he simply ran along the gently sloping riverbank toward Andrews’s estate.
The acreage next to Andrews was fenced right to the river, and he had to cling onto the edge of the fencing while hanging over the water in order to broach it. He made it without falling in the water, then ran quickly across the grassy expanse to the next property boundary. Usually, fenced yards meant dogs, and the last thing he needed right now was to have to shoot a guard dog. He reached the perimeter of Andrews’s estate and repeated the procedure of skirting the fence by hanging over the water. He was in.
The house was set on a knoll to the south and, with the advent of the approaching night, lights were coming on in the house. He moved quickly along the fence, hugging the small groves of trees wherever possible. He was within a hundred feet of the house and could see the dogs in their enclosure. They were standing at the wire mesh fence, staring at him. Excellent guard dogs: trained not to bark, just to attack. Lucky for him, Andrews had chosen to kennel the dogs. He ran the last hundred feet to the house and tried the basement door. It was locked. He set the gun down and took off his shirt. He wrapped it around his fist and gave the glass a good punch. The glass shattered, but didn’t make much noise as the broken shards fell on carpet. He reached inside and unlocked the deadbolt, then quietly let himself in. He set the gun on the pool table and slipped his shirt on as he looked about.
The lower level was shrouded in darkness, but he could see it was mostly used as a games room. The pool table, a regulation six-by-twelve, was the centerpiece, with a shuffleboard against one wall, a dartboard on another, and a twenty-foot walk-up bar covering the far wall. He moved slowly through the open room, watching the corners of the room for security sensors. His eyes, adjusting now to the low light levels, picked up the sensors, but they were turned off. First the dogs in their pen and now the security system turned off. Bruce Andrews was a little lax on his security tonight.
Gordon started up the staircase to the main floor. It was curved, carpeted, and open to the main level. The light increased as he rounded the corner and the well-lit main floor came into view. His grip on the rosewood handle of the Colt 1911 tightened. He stopped two stairs from the top and fumbled with the gun, trying to find the safety. He switched off the upswept grip safety and continued on, now moving into the wide hall leading from the front entrance to the great room in the rear of the house. Soft music played over the sound system, and he could hear a television somewhere in the back of the house. He moved quietly along the hall into the great room. The ceilings were at least eighteen feet and the entire back of the room was a bank of windows, looking out over the grass that ran down to the river. The room was unoccupied. He skirted the great room, keeping close to one of the interior walls. The sound from the television was louder now, and when he reached a narrower hallway, he could see the flicker from the television reflected on the hall walls. He tiptoed across the hall, took a deep breath, and leapt into the television room, the Colt outstretched in front of him.
His brain processed the scene in a split second. A leather love seat flanked by two leather chairs, a coffee table, two glass-top end tables, and an entire wall taken up by a built-in entertainment center with a sixty-inch plasma television. But no sign of Bruce Andrews. As he turned to leave the room, there was a voice from directly behind him.
“Don’t move an inch or I’ll kill you.”
Gordon froze, the pistol still pointing into the media room. He heard a slight rustling behind him and then a whooshing sound, and everything went black. When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back in the center of the great room. His head was throbbing and his eyesight was blurred. He started to lift his head and got a boot in the stomach for his trouble. He doubled over into a fetal position and caught sight of his attacker for the first time.
Bruce Andrews was standing over him, a gun in his hand and a sneer on his face. “You dumb country hick,” he said, aiming another boot for the midsection. The kick connected with Gordon’s solar plexus and winded him. Gordon struggled for breath as Andrews hovered over him. Then the man backed off a bit and leaned against one of the couches. “Everything was going just fine until you and that dumb bitch had to stick your goddamn noses into something that was none of your business. You have no idea the damage you’ve done.”
“You killed my brother, you sick piece of shit,” Gordon managed to wheeze.
“Are you talking about Triaxcion?” Andrews said. “A doctor prescribed that medicine and your brother willingly took it. He died because he was vain and wanted nice thick hair. Don’t blame me for your brother’s death.” He leaned forward. “But you can blame me for Jennifer Pearce’s.”
Gordon managed to struggle up on one elbow and glower at Andrews as he tried to catch his breath. Unbridled hate burned in his eyes. “How do you know about Jennifer?”
“It’s all over the television, you dumbass. Do you really think you can have a shoot-out in the office of the Under Secretary of the DHS and not have it end up on prime-time television? How do you think I knew you were on your way? I penned the dogs and turned off the security system because I wanted to kill you myself. There would be no justice in letting the dogs rip you apart.” He moved a little closer, the gun pointed at Gordon’s head. “You ever been shot, forest boy?”
“Once,” Gordon said. “By one of Allenby’s thugs. Didn’t do much damage, did it?”
The sound of the gun firing was almost deafening in the confines of the room. The instant the sound hit his ears, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. He grabbed at the area where the bullet had hit and his hand came away covered with blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You bastard.”
“I’m the bastard?” Andrews yelled back at him. “I had a perfect life, you asshole. And you took it all away. You ruined the perfect plan. Zancor would have generated billions of dollars for Veritas, my shares and options would have gone through the roof, and life would have continued with no one the wiser. But you two stumbling idiots screwed everything up.”
“We aren’t responsible for your fall from grace,” Gordon snarled back. “You knowingly marketed a defective drug and killed innocent people who stood in your way. You threatened and terrified the entire country with a deadly disease just to get your latest drug on the market. Nobody brought this on you but you.”
Andrews leaned over and picked up an object from one of the end tables. It was the Colt 1911 pistol Gordon had brought with him from Washington. Andrews checked the clip, then snapped it back in place and set his pistol on the table where the Colt had been.
“Is this Jim Allenby’s gun?” he asked. “Jim always preferred a Colt 1911 with the rosewood grip. It looks like his.”
Gordon didn’t say a word, just stared at him.
“Well, I think it’s fitting that Jim’s gun is the one that kills you. I think he would like that.” He stretched his arm out straight and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He aimed and pulled the trigger again. “What the…”