kept watch on the front of the house?
Whatever. Keep it stealth.
Hardie finished his charge up the hill and came around to the front of the house. Nobody in sight. He crouch-walked to the front door and saw the device the crafty fuckers had stuck to the door frame.
Hardie was no mechanic, but even he could see how it worked. Your victim opens the door, a little leg thingy falls, and then a nozzle sprays the knockout shit. Well, the leg thingy was down; payload spent. Hardie grabbed the box by the edges and pulled. It came loose easily. He tossed it in the bushes. Maybe it would come in handy later—at their trial. Exhibit A, Your Honor. The little box of death that almost murdered me!
Hardie put his hand on the doorknob and took a mind-clearing breath. This was it. Remember: stealth.
He twisted the knob and pushed open the door and—
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
A.D. looked at O’Neal.
O’Neal signaled.
Check it out.
A.D. hit the stairs.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, Hardie thought, looking for a place to hide, some kind of weapon… anything.
Up on the first floor in record time, silent the whole way. The actress might be up here, waiting to ambush them. Then A.D. saw the front door, still cracked open. The empty body bag on the floor.
Goddamnit. The house sitter.
Charlie Hardie.
If Hardie had run for the literal hills, that meant someone (probably A.D.) would have to waste even more time chasing him down. A.D.’s first impulse was to go through the front door and see if he was still within view—after all, the alarm had only been triggered a few seconds ago. Then he wised up. The road ran down behind the house. He could just go to the back deck and see if Hardie was headed down toward Belden. If so, then he could back out and run down his stupid ass with the van.
A.D. darted through the media room and was two steps onto the deck before he realized he’d stepped in animal shit. Great. O’Neal would never let him live this down. He scraped his shoes on the wooden planks.
And somebody grabbed him from behind.
Number of accidental falls per year: 14,900.
There wasn’t time for Hardie to take a good look at his attacker, but at least this one was fully dressed. Looked young, too, with one of those shaggy haircuts all the teenagers seemed to have these days.
Hardie propelled him forward toward the edge of the deck, using all of his weight to body-check him into the railing. The force of the blow was so intense, the guy immediately vomited—whatever he’d eaten last came spraying out of his mouth and made a four-story drop to the grass below. His arms flailed uselessly at his sides, trying to find something to hold on to. It probably hurt like hell. Hardie didn’t care. He couldn’t waste any time with this one.
Hardie took a few steps back, then ran up and placekicked him in the balls, sending the guy up and over the railing. He saw the guy’s legs kicking out like he was riding an invisible bicycle, and then he disappeared.
There.
Two down.
Who the fuck knows how many to go.
Which is exactly the moment Hardie went stiff, tried to curse, then hit the patio floor.
12
Swell.
—Clint Eastwood, Sudden Impact
A ND THAT would be fifty thousand volts, motherfucker.
O’Neal gave him fifteen seconds in the back, enough to drop him. Then another ten seconds to discourage him from getting up again.
He hooked the Taser back onto his belt, then took the pen out of its zip case and popped the top. O’Neal didn’t know how this stubborn bastard had survived the wasp’s-nest blast—maybe they’d underestimated the payload for two people. But he wasn’t going to make it through this.
If O’Neal were ever to be stopped and searched by the LAPD, the pen could be easily explained as an EpiPen, used in case of an allergic reaction (and O’Neal had the requisite card in his wallet to back up this claim). But the pen actually contained a dose of something a
Whatever. Keep it stealth.
Hardie finished his charge up the hill and came around to the front of the house. Nobody in sight. He crouch-walked to the front door and saw the device the crafty fuckers had stuck to the door frame.
Hardie was no mechanic, but even he could see how it worked. Your victim opens the door, a little leg thingy falls, and then a nozzle sprays the knockout shit. Well, the leg thingy was down; payload spent. Hardie grabbed the box by the edges and pulled. It came loose easily. He tossed it in the bushes. Maybe it would come in handy later—at their trial. Exhibit A, Your Honor. The little box of death that almost murdered me!
Hardie put his hand on the doorknob and took a mind-clearing breath. This was it. Remember: stealth.
He twisted the knob and pushed open the door and—
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
A.D. looked at O’Neal.
O’Neal signaled.
Check it out.
A.D. hit the stairs.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, Hardie thought, looking for a place to hide, some kind of weapon… anything.
Up on the first floor in record time, silent the whole way. The actress might be up here, waiting to ambush them. Then A.D. saw the front door, still cracked open. The empty body bag on the floor.
Goddamnit. The house sitter.
Charlie Hardie.
If Hardie had run for the literal hills, that meant someone (probably A.D.) would have to waste even more time chasing him down. A.D.’s first impulse was to go through the front door and see if he was still within view—after all, the alarm had only been triggered a few seconds ago. Then he wised up. The road ran down behind the house. He could just go to the back deck and see if Hardie was headed down toward Belden. If so, then he could back out and run down his stupid ass with the van.
A.D. darted through the media room and was two steps onto the deck before he realized he’d stepped in animal shit. Great. O’Neal would never let him live this down. He scraped his shoes on the wooden planks.
And somebody grabbed him from behind.
Number of accidental falls per year: 14,900.
There wasn’t time for Hardie to take a good look at his attacker, but at least this one was fully dressed. Looked young, too, with one of those shaggy haircuts all the teenagers seemed to have these days.
Hardie propelled him forward toward the edge of the deck, using all of his weight to body-check him into the railing. The force of the blow was so intense, the guy immediately vomited—whatever he’d eaten last came spraying out of his mouth and made a four-story drop to the grass below. His arms flailed uselessly at his sides, trying to find something to hold on to. It probably hurt like hell. Hardie didn’t care. He couldn’t waste any time with this one.
Hardie took a few steps back, then ran up and placekicked him in the balls, sending the guy up and over the railing. He saw the guy’s legs kicking out like he was riding an invisible bicycle, and then he disappeared.
There.
Two down.
Who the fuck knows how many to go.
Which is exactly the moment Hardie went stiff, tried to curse, then hit the patio floor.
12
Swell.
—Clint Eastwood, Sudden Impact
A ND THAT would be fifty thousand volts, motherfucker.
O’Neal gave him fifteen seconds in the back, enough to drop him. Then another ten seconds to discourage him from getting up again.
He hooked the Taser back onto his belt, then took the pen out of its zip case and popped the top. O’Neal didn’t know how this stubborn bastard had survived the wasp’s-nest blast—maybe they’d underestimated the payload for two people. But he wasn’t going to make it through this.
If O’Neal were ever to be stopped and searched by the LAPD, the pen could be easily explained as an EpiPen, used in case of an allergic reaction (and O’Neal had the requisite card in his wallet to back up this claim). But the pen actually contained a dose of something a
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