The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (20 page)

The astonishment of the door suddenly swinging open from within was probably what made the intruder pause a nano-second before raising his rifle.

It was the last mistake he would ever make. The cannon-like boom of the shotgun sent lead slamming into his chest at a range that did not allow spread of the pattern. Nine lead balls struck him as a single, solid shot with a force that literally lifted him off his feet and hurled him backward as though struck by a fist. The damage done to flesh and bone was evidenced by the wet slap of a bloody body meeting the concrete walkway.

An automatic weapon chattered and the door’s frame shattered, spraying Lang with splinters.

Lang threw himself backward into the foyer, kicking the door closed only seconds before a burst of lead hammered against the steel that was at the center of the front door between two wood panels.

He had to do something to make sure Gurt was okay.

According to the brief plan he had laid out before Gurt slipped out of the back door, she would move west, toward Peachtree Street; he to the east.

Couldn’t use the front door. The shooter’s last fullisade told him that exit could be fatal. With the windows’ shield withdrawn, Lang could see lights popping on up and down the street like some planned light show as the commotion provoked his neighbors’ curiosity.

The window!

Crossing to the other side of the house he stood beside a pair of windows, the double pane type, which, in pre-air conditioning days, would have allowed the lower pane to slide upward, letting in such breeze as might be available in hot summer months. Such windows would be unlikely in a contemporary home.

Leaning the shotgun against the wall, Lang slipped his fingers into the old brass slots and heaved.

Nothing.

He started to repeat the effort, stopped. Reaching to the top of the lower pane, he moved the simple latch. The window slid open with a minimum of effort.

Since the window no longer served as a ventilation device, there was no screen.

Lang pulled the night vision harness over his head, lowered the twin scopes, stepped into the darkness and crouched beneath the window sill.

Lights from next door made puddles of illumination he needed to avoid. He was considering his next move when a flash of motion caught the corner of his eye.

There the man was, moving stealthily toward the front of the house, no doubt curious about his comrade after the boom of the shotgun.

Curiosity and cats
.

The intruder slunk past as Lang pressed himself against the house and immersed himself in its deepest shadow. He held his weapon at the ready, thankful he had not turned on the lights that would surely have revealed his position. Conversely, night-vision equipment was limited to fairly narrow beams. Also, he wanted to make sure the fourth man wasn’t nearby. Hopefully, Gurt had him covered.

Reasonably certain his target was alone, Lang stepped away from the house into the center of neighbors’ lights as though in the spotlight of a stage. If possible, he’d like to take one or more alive, perhaps learn the full motive of his antagonists. He guessed the rifle shot meant Gurt had eliminated one and the man sprawled in front of the door wasn’t going to be talking. Not in this world, anyway.

“Hold it! Right there!”

Even if the man didn’t understand English, the tone and circumstances should have frozen him.

But neither did.

He spun, his rifle at his hip.

He never had a chance to use it.

Although a distance of fifty feet or so prevented the spectacular result at the front door, Lang guessed multiple 00 shot struck the target. But he was taking no chances. The man was there, then he was gone.

It took a second or two for Lang’s night vision goggles to find the motionless body sprawled on the ground.

Lang jacked another shell into the Mossberg’s chamber, keeping the muzzle leveled at the prostate figure. The AK 47 lay beside its owner. A swift kick put it out of reach should the man somehow survived the shotgun’s blast.

That was when he heard the sirens.

At the same time he felt a chill.

Where was Gurt?

She should have finished her task of taking out the remaining intruder. But there had been no further gun fire, nothing.

48.

Moments Later

The neighborhood was drenched in flashing lights: red, white, and blue, giving an unworldly appearance to the increasing crowd. Women with their hair wrapped in curlers (
wired for inter galactic communications?)
, men in night shirts, pajama pants, or bathrobes open enough to show boxer shorts or whitey-tightie’s. All in states of undress that would have been unthinkable by daylight. Children of varying ages, some in parents’ arms, wide-eyed at the excitement.

There was an air of anticipation as well as curiosity as an ominous, military-type vehicle disgorged a squad of SWAT-uniformed police who wordlessly surrounded the house, automatic rifles at the ready.

Pulsating blue lights in its grill allowed an unmarked Ford Taurus to bypass the yellow tape uniformed officers were unspooling. It pulled into Lang’s driveway and stopped. A tall black man in a suit emerged, his shaven scalp reflecting a mélange of color from the surrounding lights. He stopped and looked around as though surveying the rapidly growing audience before speaking to a uniformed officer who pointed him in Lang’s direction.

To even the most casual observer, it was obvious the two men were acquainted.

The black man extended a hand. “Mr. Reilly.”

Lang shifted the shotgun to his left hand and shook. “Detective Franklin Morse, I presume.”

“Sure ain’t Dr. Livingston,” the detective said as he watched two figures, androgynous in the shadows, photograph what was left of the man Lang had blown away from the front door. The flash of their cameras turned a pool of blood an oily black. “Looks like the OK Coral right here in Ansley Park,” he drawled. “‘Course, when I got th’ call an’ address, I ‘spected somethin’ like this. I mean, ever time I sees you and the missus, there’s bodies lyin’ ‘round. What be the count this time?”

Lang shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Some of us just live exciting lives, Detective.” He became serious. “I’m not sure. I don’t see Gurt.”

The line could have been a stage cue. The battered front door swung open revealing what could have been a cover picture for magazines as diverse as
American Rifleman, All Animal, Parent’s Magazine
or, even,
Playboy.
All that was needed was an American flag as a backdrop for Gurt, right hand holding rifle, left arm draped over Manfred’s shoulder with Grumps in front, stretching as he extended what could have been a mile of pink tongue. The shortness of the shirt she still wore would have caught Hugh Heffner’s eye.

Manfred was rubbing his eyes with his fists and yawning almost as widely as the dog.

“All the light woke him,” Gurt explained almost apologetically.

A burst of automatic gunfire not twenty-five yards from his bedroom, two shotgun blasts and a rifle shot, not to mention more sirens than a four-alarm fire and the lights woke him?

But Lang asked. “There was one more intruder . . .?”

Gurt dismissed the question with a jerk of her head toward the rear of the house. “Oh, he’s not going anywhere. I used his belt to tie him to the picnic table.”

Specifics would come later. Right now there were the cops to deal with.

Morse took a step forward, squinting at Gurt’s rifle in clear contrast to the focus of attention of those male spectators Lang could see. “Don’t suppose that’s an automatic weapon. Illegal to possess an automatic weapon.”

Lang stepped in front of Gurt. “Detective, I submit you have more than enough on your plate without acting on behalf of the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms boys. For instance, were you to run the serial number on that rifle, you’d be amazed to find it doesn’t exist. I wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your career dealing with the paper work that would generate.”

Morse ran a hand across his glistening scalp. For years he had believed the violence that seemed to bloom around this couple like dandelions on a summer lawn was not simply bad luck. There was something here beyond both his understanding and pay grade, something best left alone as long as they broke no laws.

He was about to reply when a pair of black Chevy Tahoes pulled up to the curb. Two men got out of each, two men whose similarity of haircuts, demeanor, and blue jackets with the gold “FBI” letters across the back made the following introduction unnecessary.

It took place anyway as the first held up a pocket folder with golden shield to no one in particular.  “Special Agent, William Warren, F.B.I.”

The other three followed with the precision of a chorus line.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was in charge.

Warren displayed his creds to Morse. “Detective, this is a federal matter. The Bureau has jurisdiction here.”

Morse lifted his eyebrows, a smile teasing his lips. “That mean my people can pick up their toys, go home and catch up on the rest of their night’s sleep?”

Warren, more accustomed to disputes with local law enforcement than someone who obviously would be delighted to wash their hands of the matter, was taken aback.

Before he could respond, a woman with sculpted blonde hair and a great deal more make-up than the hour would suggest shouldered her way into the tight circle of Morse, Lang, and the four F.B.I. men. “Page Wood, Five Live News.”

She shoved a microphone into Lang’s face. “You’re Mr. Reilly, right? You live here, right? What exactly happened? Who did the shooting?”

In the general melee, Lang had not noticed the arrival of two trucks adorned with dish antennae and bearing the logo of local TV stations. A third was stopped at the yellow crime scene tape, its driver arguing with a uniformed cop.

He gently pushed the microphone away. “I’m sure Detective Morse here can give you better details than I.”

Morse shot him a poisonous glare. “No comment at this time.”

“Who are the intruders?” She asked. “Why is the F.B.I. involved?” 

“Special Agent Warren here has answers to those questions,” Morse said with a malicious grin. “He’s in charge.”

Before the F.B.I man could issue the Bureau’s standard “No Comment,” a uniformed officer interrupted. With him was a black clad man, absent Balaclava, hands handcuffed behind him and obviously worse for the wear.

The officer, nameplate “Higgens,” looked uncertainly from one face to another before addressing Morse. “Er, Detective, there’s another body behind the house right where the woman said he’d be, along with this guy who was tied to a picnic table.”

Warren slowly shook his head, looking at Lang. “I’m supposed to believe your wife took on an armed man, overcame him and left him in this shape? Looks like someone beat the hell out of him. I can’t believe a woman did this.”

“Believe it,” Morse said dryly.

“And there’s this,” Higgens offered, “Found it when I frisked the suspect.”

Lang took the object from the cop’s hand. It was the item from the London auction, the Dee object. “This explains a lot.”

“God, I hope so,” Morse sighed.

“Maybe we better go inside,” Warren suggested. “Somewhere we can speak in private.”

The group turned toward the house, including the blond reporter.

“I’ll have a statement later,” Warren said. “For the moment. We want to talk to Mr. Reilly alone.”

“But the people have a right . . .”

Both Warren and Morse had heard that about a thousand times. “Officer,” the latter said to Higgens, “have someone string crime tape around the house there. Anyone unauthorized crosses it, arrest them.”

“Bastard!” said Ms. Five Alive News.

49.

An Hour Later

The dullness of pre-dawn was leaking through the windows of the den. Empty coffee cups adorned nearly every flat surface. Morse and Warren occupied the leather couch while Gurt and Lang sat in facing chairs. The other three F.B.I. agents had left the room moments ago to review the scene in the first available light of day. A protesting Manfred had been relegated to his room in a vain hope of going back to sleep. He was, of course, accompanied by his canine shadow, Grumps, who, once convinced neither extra attention nor food was involved, went a great deal more willingly than his young master.

“So,” Lang recapped, “you got news from the TSA that at least one North Korean national was entering the country illegally?”

Warren nodded. “An alert member of the flight crew notified Transport Safety they had reason to believe at least one of their passengers was a North Korean traveling under a false passport. He got careless, left a piece of paper with your address. We rushed here.”

Only after the horse itself locked the door to an empty barn,
Lang thought. But he asked, “They were well armed. Surely those AK 47’s didn’t come on the plane.”

Warren shook his head. “Can’t go into that. National security.”

In other words, he has no clue.

Morse stood. “Looks like my people have secured the scene. Since Agent Warren here claims jurisdiction, I may as well leave. I have enough facts for my report. Sole survivor could be charged with attempted murder, committing a crime while in possession of a firearm, etcetera, etcetera. My boss can decide whether or not to prosecute.”

“He’ll be in detention plenty long enough for you guys to decide,” Warren assured him.

Lang cleared his throat. “Not so fast.”

The two lawmen shared a “now what?” look.

“I want to send him back to North Korea.”

“But why?” Morse asked

“For what reason,” Warren echoed.

“That object he had with him. The fact he had it makes me think his mission was to somehow force me to explain what it was, why the Russians might want it. I now know the answer: it gave the position of the sun somewhat like a compass gives the direct of magnetic north.

“That was valuable information in an age when figuring longitude was difficult if not impossible. Now, satellites can do it within a few feet except maybe at the poles where the angles of most satellites are too extreme to be quite that accurate.

“I want the North Koreans to know that. I want them to give up, quit. Don’t want to be looking over my shoulder or forward to more bodies in my yard.

“If we send this guy home with that explanation, maybe they can verify what I say and see it’s not worth trying to harm me or my family.”

“Makes sense to me,” Morse said, shaking his head, ‘no’ as Gurt pointed to the kitchen and a full coffee pot. “But then, not my call.”

“Mine, either,” Warren said. “I take your point, though. But this guy has violated a number of federal laws.”

Gurt spoke for the first time in this conversation. “So, send him home as a peace offering to the North Koreans.”

“As Detective Morse said, ‘not my call.’ I’ll make the suggestion though.”

“If not,” Lang said, “I’ll give the whole story to Goldilocks from Channel Five out there. That will get back to North Korea.”

“It’ll also get to Washington, make the intelligence people, particularly Office of Naval Intelligence, look pretty silly, something those spooks really don’t like,” Warren observed.

“That had occurred to me,” Lang said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut for the next ten days. After that . . . Well, let’s say  being a guest on all those news programs sounds like fun.”

“You’d embarrass your country?” Warren bridled.

“To protect my family when my government has it in its power to make it unnecessary? In a New York minute.”

Morse, headed for the door, paused. “And the Russians, what about them?”

“Once North Korea’s dogs are called off, I’m guessing they will call theirs off, too.”

This was to prove to be one of those rare occasions when Lang let optimism overrule experience.