As he turned from the door, the motion detector triggered its lamp. His car, the white Crown Vic, was parked in the front yard, wholly visible in the pool of light. The remainder of the yard, the woods, and the gravel road that cut through them, was inked in black.
Louis Smalls stood on the porch and lit his cigarette. As he exhaled a stream of smoke, he heard something in the forest to his left. A rabbit or fox skittering through the brush.
To his right, Smalls heard the muted, heavy drum of feet on gravel and earth. He turned his head in that direction, took one step back, and froze.
A man was running toward him. Charging like an animal out of the night.
Twenty
Lucas had humped the half mile through the woods wearing his night vision goggles while carrying a bag heavy with gear and iron. He was in superior shape, but still, by the time he reached the tree line bordering the house, he needed to rest. He peeled off his goggles, allowed his breathing to slow, and opened the bag that he’d dropped beside him. He then removed the Beretta .9 and S&W .38 from the bag and fitted them in the holster belt looped into the pistol vest. The vest held shotgun shells, an extra mag for the.9, and hollow point rounds. He took the Mossberg from the bag and placed that on the ground beside the NVGs.
Lucas looked at the yard, where a single car, the white Crown Victoria that had rammed Marquis, was parked. One car, one driver: the young man with the beard, the one called Louis. But this didn’t mean there was only one person in the house. Maybe Bacalov didn’t own a car. Maybe he didn’t drive.
Lucas looked up at the house. One window had a light in it; the others were dark. Dark windows had been a primary danger area in Iraq. So were doorways and doors.
The front door of the house opened. Louis closed it behind him, locked it, and stepped onto the porch. As he did, the motion detector came on and sent light out into the yard. Lucas remained still. He watched Louis stand there and light a cigarette.
Carefully, quietly, Lucas got two pairs of double-cuff restraints from the bag. Keeping his eyes on Louis, he put them in a pouch of his vest. He then retrieved the roll of duct tape and slipped that into the pouch holding the loose hollow points. He picked up the shotgun with his left hand; he needed his throwing arm now.
Lucas felt along the earth until he found a stone. He rose from his crouch and stepped out of the woods, into the portion of the yard still in darkness. He planned to use a box tactic; he would avoid the area exposed by light, move in the blackness, and stay inside its line. He got as close to the house as he could without crossing that line, then threw the stone, arcing it high into the woods on the other side of the house. Louis turned his head in that direction as the rock skittered through the branches of trees. Lucas moved the Mossberg to his right hand and broke into a run.
He was on the porch quickly, taking its steps while barely touching them, reaching Louis, startled and frozen, within seconds. Lucas swung the shotgun, putting his hips into the motion. The stock connected under Louis’s jaw. He lost his legs, and Lucas hit him again in the temple as he was going down. Louis fell to the gallery floor. Lucas turned him over, flex-cuffed his hands and ankles, and wound duct tape around his head and mouth. He checked his breathing and searched his jeans pockets. Found a phone, a brown envelope holding money, a wallet, matches, and a ring holding keys. On the ring were the keys to the Ford. A house key, too.
Lucas moved to the door.
Serge Bacalov heard a dull thud coming from outside. He turned the sound down on his laptop, closed its lid, dropped it on the bed, and got up out of his chair. He walked quickly from his lit bedroom and went into Billy’s bedroom because the room was dark. He went to the window, pulled its curtain aside, and looked out into the front yard. The Crown Victoria was still there, and Louis was not. Okay, so he was smoking a cigarette out on the porch before he took off. But why the noise?
Bacalov returned to his room. He picked up his Glock, fully loaded with a seventeen-round magazine. He thumbed off its safety and holstered it under the belt line of his jeans at the small of his back. He then got down on the floor and pulled the Ithaca out from under the bed. In his dresser drawer he found a box of shells, and with fumbling excitement, he ripped open its thin cardboard top. He turned the shotgun over so that its bottom was facing up. He thumbed five shells into the ejection port, felt the stop, released the slide, and pushed it forward.
Bacalov heard the front door opening down in the living room. Perhaps Louis had forgotten something and was coming back inside. Perhaps.
Bacalov went down the hall but did not turn the corner at the stairs. He rested his back against the plaster wall.
“Louis,” said Bacalov. “You come back, eh?”
There was no answer. Bacalov gripped the shotgun and smiled.
Lucas entered the house and shut the door behind him. He held the Mossberg ready, his finger inside the trigger guard, and stood still. He mentally cleared the room: an open living room/dining room area, a kitchen in the back. Old, cushiony furniture, a cable-spool table holding a bong, a chandelier over the dining room table. A stairway with a banister leading up to the second floor. Computer equipment heaped in a corner of the room. And square objects wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the right wall. His blood ticked.
As his eyes and shoulders moved, he moved the barrel of the shotgun. The index finger of his right hand brushed the trigger. His left hand cupped the pump.
He heard a voice from upstairs.
“Louis. You come back, eh?”
He heard the unmistakable snick-snick of a racking pump.
Lucas stepped toward the stairs and sighted the shotgun. He saw an elbow at the top of the stairs, a small triangle of flesh peeking out.
“All right,” said Lucas softly.
Bacalov spun around the corner and fired as Lucas pumped off a shell. The banister exploded in splinters before him and Lucas stepped back, then moved forward and rapidly pumped out five more shots up the stairs, hammering the plaster at the top of the landing and tearing up the wall. The shotgun blasts shook the house.
“Fuck you,” said Bacalov, and Lucas heard nervous laughter. He knew what that meant: relief. Bacalov had not been hit.
Lucas tossed the shotgun aside and drew his .38. He stepped out of the field of fire and walked backward, aiming the revolver at the stairs. He stopped and stood beside the couch.
“Take what you want,” shouted Bacalov.
“I’m going to,” said Lucas, blinking his gun eye against the sweat that was trickling into it.
“Who are you?”
“Come find out.”
“I am going to lay down my gun.”
Bacalov appeared on the stairway, shooting in descent. Lucas dropped behind the couch. Bacalov kept his finger locked on the Ithaca’s trigger as he pumped, cycling rounds through the chamber, slam-firing into the buckling hardwood floor and cable-spool table. The room went sonic.
Lucas heard the thump of a shell hitting the back cushion, felt its impact, saw stuffing rise in the air above him.
Bacalov dropped his shotgun and ran across the room. At the sound of his footsteps Lucas came up firing. He squeezed off several rounds and saw red leap off Bacalov’s shoulder. Bacalov fell behind the dining room table.