His blurred gaze swept past Mandrake’s bedroom, then swung back.
The little boy was standing in the doorway, clutching the hanging blanket like a binky, holding it against his cheek, his thumb in his mouth.
Monks bit off a curse, got to his feet, and staggered to the kitchen.
The broken shards of a lamp chimney were in the sink. It had burst, all right-the attacker had broken it to lure him out.
He turned on the water tap and crouched, gripping the sink’s lip and positioning his head under the cold clear stream. He turned from side to side so the water would course into his eyes, flushing them clear. Ideally, you were supposed to do this for several minutes, but he didn’t have several minutes. He dried his face on his shirttail as he hurried to Mandrake’s room. His fingers touched the spot behind his left ear where a clump of his hair was gone.
Mandrake was back in bed, scrunched into the corner as he had been when Monks first saw him. He was clutching his stuffed snake in front of him like a shield. His eyes looked like Greek olives.
Monks sat down beside him, moving slowly, managing to smile.
“Wow,” he said. “You know what happened out there? I went to get a drink of water, and that mermaid was hiding! She tickled me so hard I thought I was going to explode.”
Mandrake’s face stayed blank. His eyes stared directly at Monks, but they were shielded, his mind withdrawn. Clearly, he knew that what he had seen was not a game, and he had gone back into that limbo of the only safety he could find.
Monks tucked him in and got ready to check his blood sugar. There was no telling how the shock might affect him.
Monks was trembling, his fear giving way to fury, not just for himself, but for Mandrake. But he was helpless, without even a guess at who the attacker was. The Mace had blasted his eyes before he had gotten a glimpse, and he had never laid a hand on him-or her-so as to be able to guess at size or weight. It could have been anybody.
Including Glenn.
13
The home of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Emlinger was built like an old-fashioned mansion, with a curving staircase that led up out of the huge, high-ceilinged living room to a balustraded walkway around the second story.
Taxman followed Hammerhead silently up the steps, watching him for signs of weakness. This was where it started to get real. Hammerhead was wired with meth and adrenaline, jumpy and scared, but that was all right. Next mission, he would be expected to function professionally.
Tonight, he only had to do one thing: get blooded.
This place was an easy target, the kind that Taxman always picked to break in a first-time maquis. There was no bodyguard or dog, and the microwave alarm system was vulnerable to a DTMF phone that read the tones of its entry code. Atherton was one of California ’s richest communities, an enclave of ivy-walled houses on city-block-sized lots, set far back from the streets and sheltered by high thick hedges and black iron gates across the driveways. The residents were used to feeling secure. Taxman and Hammerhead had gotten inside as quietly as fog. There was no need for night goggles, and they carried Glock.40-caliber semiautomatic pistols instead of the bulkier HK submachine guns.
It was 3:47 A.M.
Cold December moonlight filtered into the master bedroom through a pair of many-paned French doors, outlining the man and woman sleeping in bed. Taxman could smell the faint trace of the perfume that Mrs. Emlinger had worn that day.
Hammerhead stepped hesitantly up to the bed and jacked a round into the Glock’s chamber.
The sharp click-click brought Emlinger suddenly upright. He stared wild-eyed at the two men. Hammerhead aimed at him but did not shoot.
Emlinger threw off his covers and lunged out of bed. Hammerhead stood there, paralyzed.
From the doorway, Taxman fired three quick rounds past him. Emlinger staggered, throwing his hands above his head like a Hollywood gunfighter, before crashing against a bureau and falling heavily to the floor.
Taxman stepped into the room. He had been ready for the freeze-up. No amount of training could prepare someone for killing a human being the first time. He gave Hammerhead a hard shove with the heel of his hand and jerked his head toward Mrs. Emlinger. She was sitting up now, pressed back against the headboard, clutching the covers to shield herself.
“Stop,” she gasped, holding out a hand to fend them off. Her body and her voice both trembled. “Take whatever you want.”
Hammerhead raised his pistol again, with a two-handed combat grip.
“No, my God,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything.” Abruptly she dropped the covers. The moonlight illuminated her fair skin and shapely breasts.
Hammerhead still did not shoot. Taxman could see that his hands were shaking.
He aimed his own pistol at Mrs. Emlinger. She screamed, a desperate piercing wail. Hammerhead jerked with a violent shudder, as if the sound slashed into him like a knife. Finally, his finger closed on the Glock’s trigger.
The scream was cut short by the silenced whump. Her hands flew back against the headboard, her head twisting to the side.
Hammerhead stood frozen again, openmouthed, staring at what he had done. Taxman gave him another hard shove.
“You ever hang up like that again, I’ll kill you myself,” he said harshly. “Now make sure.”
Hammerhead got closer to Mrs. Emlinger, stumbling. Hands still shaking, he shot her again in the right temple, point blank. Her body jerked obscenely with the impact, then sagged, tipping to the side, as if into sleep.
“Him, too,” Taxman said.
Emlinger was lying face down on the thick carpet. Hammerhead knelt over him and fired a shot into the base of his skull, just above where it joined his neck. His face bounced off the carpet.
The collection of antique jade was downstairs in the living room, on display in a large glass case. Taxman shined a mini-flashlight over the dozens of items-delicately carved lions and Buddhas, bracelets, rings, and ornaments. He knew that it was valued at more than a quarter of a million dollars, and many of the pieces were listed in art history registries.
“Pick something out for your girl,” Taxman said.
Hammerhead’s eyes widened. Like a child who’d been offered a piece of candy, he moved his hand over the case, trying to decide. It stopped, pointing, above a dark-green, gold-chained pendant shaped like a roaring dragon.
Taxman smashed the glass with his pistol butt and handed the pendant to Hammerhead. “Take this, brother, may it serve you well,” he said. “You’re maquis now.”
He scooped the other items into his pack, then beeped on his belt radio to summon Shrinkwrap, who was waiting a few blocks away, her hair dyed gray and her face aged with makeup-a well-to-do, middle-aged lady driving a BMW 750 iL. The jade would be picked up by other maquis and taken to Los Angeles, where, within hours, it was going to start turning up in homeless camps, just like the Calamity Jane golf clubs.
14
Monks stepped out of the lodge in the gray light of dawn. His eyes still burned faintly from the Mace his attacker had sprayed him with, and his ribs ached where they had crashed against the floor.
He had done a lot of thinking during the long predawn hours.
The camp was deserted except for the inevitable guard skulking near the perimeter, a thin figure with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Monks recognized him as the unlucky Sidewinder, who had staggered away from the camp-fire last night wrapped in a bloody, gutted deer carcass. He looked sullen and avoided eye contact. He had been punished for asking Monks a question about the dangers of eating raw flesh, and probably he blamed Monks, the way that everyone else around here seemed to.