Riptide
Page 69
Adam didn’t say a word.
“Yeah, it was you. You saved Senator Dashworth’s life. Pretty impressive.”
“You shouldn’t know about that,” Adam said finally, frowning at Rollo. “You really shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well, I’m an insider, I can’t help it if people tell me everything.”
“I never heard anything about that,” Becca said, her antennae up. “What are you talking about?”
Rollo just grinned at her and said, “Did you find out who tried to off him?”
“You don’t know about that, too?”
“Hey, I’m an insider, but the spigot was off when it came to the particulars.”
Adam shrugged. “Well, who cares now? The guy who wanted the senator dead was his son-in-law. Irving—that’s the guy’s name—had sent him threats, all the usual anonymous bullshit. The senator called me. It turned out that Irving had become a heroin addict, didn’t have any more money, and wanted the senator’s inheritance. The senator managed to keep it from the media, to protect his daughter, and so we got the guy into a sanatorium, where he belonged, where he’s still at. I guess there are only a few insiders who know anything at all about it.”
“You run some sort of a bodyguard business?” Becca said, frowning at Adam over a spoonful of baked beans. “I thought you did security consulting.”
“I like to keep my hand in a lot of different things,” Adam said.
“What I’d like to know,” Sherlock said, handing Rollo another hot dog with lots of down-home yellow mustard slathered on it, “is why you didn’t find out who it was right away. The guy was an addict? That kind of thing isn’t easy to hide.”
Adam actually flushed. He played with his fork, didn’t meet her eyes. He cleared his throat. “Well, the thing is that the son-in-law wasn’t around for those three days I was checking things out. His wife was protecting him, said he had the flu, that he was really contagious, et cetera. She swore to me and to her father that Irving wouldn’t even consider doing something like that, no, it had to be a crazy, or a left-wing conspiracy. She was so—well—damned believable.”
“Good thing you were there to deflect the guy’s knife,” Rollo said.
“That’s the truth,” Adam said.
Rollo sat down at the kitchen table, squeezing in between Savich and Becca. Adam said on a deep sigh, “I just heard that the wife is trying to get the husband out of there. It could start all over again.”
“Well, shit,” Rollo said. “Not much justice around, is there?”
Then Chuck came in and Rollo, still half a hot dog left, saluted and went back outside.
“It won’t be long now,” Savich said. “I feel it. Things will happen.” He took a last bite of a tofu hot dog, sighed with pleasure, and hugged his wife.
Things didn’t happen until later.
They were all in the living room drinking coffee, planning, arguing, brainstorming. There was no activity outside. Everything was buttoned down tight, until at exactly ten o’clock a bullet shattered one of the front windows, glass exploded inward, carrying shreds of curtain with it.
“Down!” Savich yelled.
But it wasn’t a simple bullet that came through the window to strike the floor molding on the far side of the living room, it was a tear gas bullet. Thick gray smoke gushed out even before it struck the molding.
“Oh, damn,” Adam said. “Back into the kitchen. Now!”
Another tear gas bullet exploded through the window. They were coughing, covering their faces, running toward the back of the house.
They heard men’s shouts, sporadic gunfire, sharp and loud in the night. The front door burst open and Tommy the Pipe ran in, his face covered with his jacket. “Out, guys, quick. Through the front door, the back’s not covered well enough.”
“He shot tear gas bullets,” Adam said between choking coughs.
“He’s probably using a CAR-15, behind our perimeter. Come on out.”
They coughed their heads off, tears streaming down their faces. Savich found himself with Becca’s nose pressed into his armpit.
“We’ve got to get him,” Adam shouted, coughing, choking, his eyes streaming tears. “Just another minute to get over this and we’ll start scouring.”
It took another seven minutes before they headed out in the general direction of where the tear gas bullets must have been shot toward the front windows.
They found tire tracks, nothing else, until Adam called out, “Look here.”
“Yeah, it was you. You saved Senator Dashworth’s life. Pretty impressive.”
“You shouldn’t know about that,” Adam said finally, frowning at Rollo. “You really shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well, I’m an insider, I can’t help it if people tell me everything.”
“I never heard anything about that,” Becca said, her antennae up. “What are you talking about?”
Rollo just grinned at her and said, “Did you find out who tried to off him?”
“You don’t know about that, too?”
“Hey, I’m an insider, but the spigot was off when it came to the particulars.”
Adam shrugged. “Well, who cares now? The guy who wanted the senator dead was his son-in-law. Irving—that’s the guy’s name—had sent him threats, all the usual anonymous bullshit. The senator called me. It turned out that Irving had become a heroin addict, didn’t have any more money, and wanted the senator’s inheritance. The senator managed to keep it from the media, to protect his daughter, and so we got the guy into a sanatorium, where he belonged, where he’s still at. I guess there are only a few insiders who know anything at all about it.”
“You run some sort of a bodyguard business?” Becca said, frowning at Adam over a spoonful of baked beans. “I thought you did security consulting.”
“I like to keep my hand in a lot of different things,” Adam said.
“What I’d like to know,” Sherlock said, handing Rollo another hot dog with lots of down-home yellow mustard slathered on it, “is why you didn’t find out who it was right away. The guy was an addict? That kind of thing isn’t easy to hide.”
Adam actually flushed. He played with his fork, didn’t meet her eyes. He cleared his throat. “Well, the thing is that the son-in-law wasn’t around for those three days I was checking things out. His wife was protecting him, said he had the flu, that he was really contagious, et cetera. She swore to me and to her father that Irving wouldn’t even consider doing something like that, no, it had to be a crazy, or a left-wing conspiracy. She was so—well—damned believable.”
“Good thing you were there to deflect the guy’s knife,” Rollo said.
“That’s the truth,” Adam said.
Rollo sat down at the kitchen table, squeezing in between Savich and Becca. Adam said on a deep sigh, “I just heard that the wife is trying to get the husband out of there. It could start all over again.”
“Well, shit,” Rollo said. “Not much justice around, is there?”
Then Chuck came in and Rollo, still half a hot dog left, saluted and went back outside.
“It won’t be long now,” Savich said. “I feel it. Things will happen.” He took a last bite of a tofu hot dog, sighed with pleasure, and hugged his wife.
Things didn’t happen until later.
They were all in the living room drinking coffee, planning, arguing, brainstorming. There was no activity outside. Everything was buttoned down tight, until at exactly ten o’clock a bullet shattered one of the front windows, glass exploded inward, carrying shreds of curtain with it.
“Down!” Savich yelled.
But it wasn’t a simple bullet that came through the window to strike the floor molding on the far side of the living room, it was a tear gas bullet. Thick gray smoke gushed out even before it struck the molding.
“Oh, damn,” Adam said. “Back into the kitchen. Now!”
Another tear gas bullet exploded through the window. They were coughing, covering their faces, running toward the back of the house.
They heard men’s shouts, sporadic gunfire, sharp and loud in the night. The front door burst open and Tommy the Pipe ran in, his face covered with his jacket. “Out, guys, quick. Through the front door, the back’s not covered well enough.”
“He shot tear gas bullets,” Adam said between choking coughs.
“He’s probably using a CAR-15, behind our perimeter. Come on out.”
They coughed their heads off, tears streaming down their faces. Savich found himself with Becca’s nose pressed into his armpit.
“We’ve got to get him,” Adam shouted, coughing, choking, his eyes streaming tears. “Just another minute to get over this and we’ll start scouring.”
It took another seven minutes before they headed out in the general direction of where the tear gas bullets must have been shot toward the front windows.
They found tire tracks, nothing else, until Adam called out, “Look here.”
