Cavanaugh pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt. "Jamie? Mrs. Patterson?"
The staticky voices quickly responded that they didn't see anyone.
"What about the security monitors?"
"They're not working now," Mrs. Patterson's voice reported.
" What? " Angelo flicked a light switch on the wall. Nothing happened. The electricity had been cut.
"The fire's spreading too quickly," Cavanaugh said. "We'll soon need to leave."
"But they'll pick us off," William objected. "The basement. Can we hide down there?"
"No. The fire would suck out the oxygen. We'd suffocate. Or the building would collapse and crush us."
"The helicopter."
"Too far," Cavanaugh said.
"Hey, I'm doing my best!" William complained. "If you don't like my ideas, come up with one of your own ."
At the back of the hall, Jamie heard parts of what they said. Her voice came from the walkie-talkie. "The car's closer. It's armored."
"There," William said. "What do you think of that idea?"
Smoke came down the staircase, the fire crackling on the upper level.
"If we stay here much longer," Cavanaugh decided, "we'll need to soak our hair and clothes and breathe through wet towels."
Mrs. Patterson heard in the kitchen. From the walkie-talkie, she said, "Without electricity, the pump for the well won't work. We can't get water from the taps."
William moaned.
Mrs. Patterson's sixty-year-old voice continued unsteadily from the walkie-talkie. "The toilet tanks. The only place there'll be water is in the toilets."
"Where are they?" William asked.
"One off the kitchen," Cavanaugh explained. "Another next to my office. Angelo, I'll watch the front. Go with him. Bring me a vest from the munitions closet when you come back."
Braced behind the log wall next to the front door, Cavanaugh saw the Taurus parked in front of the lodge. The passenger side was toward him. It was only twenty feet away. If he kept low . . .
Angelo returned with a soaked towel wrapped around his neck. Water dripped onto his clothes. "Here's the vest. I assumed you wanted body armor, not Kevlar."
Cavanaugh understood. Kevlar fibers were designed to block pistol bullets but were useless against high-powered rifles. Only the metal plates of true body armor could stop the latter.
He took the vest from Angelo and hefted it in despair. So much weight.
"While you're standing here thinking, you're cooking," Angelo said.
"What?"
Turning, Cavanaugh discovered that he'd been too preoccupied to realize that the fire was starting down the stairs. Flames licked the ceiling. The heat became overwhelming.
"No time. Jamie," he said into the walkie-talkie. "Mrs. Patterson. Get to the front. We're leaving. William, take my rifle."
"I don't want it." He had a wet towel around his neck, his once-beautifully tailored suit a drenched mess.
"For God's sake, do what I tell you. I need my hands free." Cavanaugh strapped on the bulky vest. "There's a round in the chamber. All you need to do is point and pull the trigger. Just don't shoot any of us ."
He yanked his car keys from his pocket and pressed a button on the remote control, unlocking the doors. When he pressed another button, the engine started. He took a deep breath so hot it warned him that he couldn't wait any longer. A flaming chunk of wood crashed onto the stairs.
Go! he told himself.
Chapter 24.
Burdened by the heavy vest, he banged the screen door open, leapt off the porch and kept running the moment he landed. He focused all his attention on the passenger door. Something snapped past him as he pulled the latch. The moment he yanked the door open, a bullet whacked it, the door's armor preventing the projectile from going through.
Another bullet struck his vest, pounding an area between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward. Gasping, he didn't allow himself to think of anything except lunging into the vehicle and sprawling across the seat as bullets struck the open door. Fragments spun toward his eyes. Averting his face, he rammed the gearshift into reverse and stomped the accelerator. The vest squeezed him. His back hurt.
Tires ripping up earth, he sped backward until he was away from the lodge. With sharp rapping sounds, bullets hit the front, rear, and driver's side of the car. They cracked against the reinforced windows on those three sides. Straining to ignore them, he shifted into forward, swung the steering wheel toward the lodge, and sped so close to the porch that he almost hit the front steps. He stopped on an angle so that the rear of the car was closer to the porch than the front was, providing cover just as the open front passenger door did.
Awkward in the vest, straining to catch his breath, he leaned into the back seat, fumbled for the latch, and thrust the porch-side rear passenger door open.
"Come on!" he yelled.
When he saw the flames looming inside, he realized that he didn't need to shout encouragement. The door burst open, Jamie and Mrs. Patterson rushing out while Angelo shoved William. The soaked towels draped over their heads were steaming. The group pounded across the porch, Jamie shoving Mrs. Patterson into the front passenger seat, Angelo thrusting William into the back, scrambling in after him, screaming, "My arm! Mierda ."
Next to Mrs. Patterson in the front, Jamie slammed the front door shut. Angelo did the same with the back.
"How bad are you hit?" Cavanaugh shouted to Angelo, speeding away from the lodge. He needed to raise his voice--the bullets striking the car sounded like hail.
"Grazed me! I can still use the arm! Hijo de puta , the bleeding!"
Jamie yanked open the glove compartment, grabbed a roll of duct tape, and threw it back to Angelo.
"The gunfighter's friend." Angelo gave William his rifle, then unclipped a folding knife from a pants pocket, thumbed it open, and cut off the sleeve on his left arm. Cavanaugh got a glimpse of him wrapping duct tape around the wound as the Taurus rushed across the meadow, bullets pelting the vehicle.
"Seat belts!" he warned, fumbling to secure his.
The bullet-resistant windows developed stars. While the reinforced glass could withstand widely spaced bullets, it could be shattered if several struck the same spot. Cavanaugh flinched as more stars developed in them.
Then he worried about something else. Tensing his hands on the steering wheel, he felt his right front tire shudder from a bullet's impact. A tire with a bullet hole could support a car for perhaps five miles before the tire completely deflated. But repeated bullet impacts were another matter.
These tires are reinforced, though , Cavanaugh fought to assure himself. It's fine, it's okay, it'll still do its work.
The gunmen in the trees didn't have sound-suppressed rifles. To Cavanaugh's left, the horses galloped insanely, the din of the shots overwhelming.
"Somebody'll hear and call the police," William said.
"The nearest neighbors are a couple of miles away. They hear us shooting all the time." Cavanaugh pressed the accelerator, throwing up dust. "It's a private canyon. The ridges muffle the shots. Nobody pays attention."