Forty Thieves by Thomas Perry Page A

we should make a run for the house?”
    “I think that’s what they’re hoping we’ll do,” he said.
    “Me too. So let’s not.”
    “I think that as soon as they hear sirens they’ll make their last, best attempt to kill us.”
    “I’m ready. Are you?”
    Sid reloaded. “Yes.”
    “Aren’t you grateful that I shamed you into taking more target practice yesterday? Admit it. I’m a good wife.”
    “You are. If you light up one of these bastards, you’ll be a great wife, and mother of the year.”
    “I think I hear sirens. Ready?”
    In the distance there was the whoop of a police siren, then another, and then the sirens blended into a single steady noise, getting louder as the cars moved closer.
    The firing had stopped. Sid crawled to the front of the car where he was protected by the engine block and peered across the yard. “I don’t see them.”
    They both became aware of a new sound that was overwhelming and drowning out the others—the deep throbbing of a helicopter’s engine. “That explains it,” she said. “They heard it coming and knew they were out of time.”
    Sid remained on his belly at the front of the car, his pistol in his hand aimed in the direction where he’d last seen muzzle flashes. The sirens stopped and the road outside the gate was suddenly bright, the canopy of tree limbs and leaves above the street lit by alternating flashes of red and blue.
    The helicopter arrived overhead, circling, as three police cars sped past the others and bumped up over the gate’s track into the driveway. An amplified voice said, “Place your weapons on the ground and move away from the car.”
    Sid and Ronnie obeyed. They kept their hands up with their fingers spread and their palms visible. The world brightened as the light from the helicopter shone down on them and the spotlights mounted on the police cars swept the yard.
    In the lights they could see the reflected golden glow of brass casings that had been ejected from the attackers’ guns on the far side of the yard. There were also casings from their own Glocks scattered at their feet on the driveway.
    Police officers rushed to Ronnie and Sid while others fanned out all over the property with guns drawn and flashlightsdissolving the pockets of darkness along the hedges and near the fountain. There were sounds of more police cars that arrived and never stopped. They continued up the street and then turned in various directions to search for the shooters.
    The four police officers who stood by the Abels kept close watch on them while a sergeant spoke to them.
    “What happened here?”
    Sid said, “They dug a trench across our driveway and covered it, so when we drove in tonight the car got caught in the trap. Then they started firing.”
    “Who are they and why did they want to kill you?”
    “We’re private investigators, and we’re on a case that seems to be worrying someone. Last night, two men shot out the windshield of our BMW up in the North Valley, and now this.”
    “Did you get a look?”
    “Not really,” said Ronnie. “There were definitely two of them both times. We opened the gate, thinking we’d see them when they ran off, but they didn’t go that way. They were firing at us, and then when we heard the sirens and the chopper, the shooting stopped.”
    The sergeant surveyed the driveway and gestured at the brass. “I see you returned fire. Is there any chance you hit one of them?”
    “I doubt it,” Sid said. “They would fire and then move in the dark. We were always firing at the place where they’d been. And they kept us pinned down pretty well. I think they were using compact semiauto rifles—Uzis, Tec-9s, or something like that.”
    The sergeant spoke into his radio. “We’re looking for a minimum of two shooters. Possibly on foot. Any pedestrian you meet could be one of them, so proceed with caution.”
    A cop hurried up to the sergeant, and handed him a brass casing.
    The sergeant looked at the end of it,