The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery by Gay Hendricks, Tinker Lindsay Page B
Authors: Gay Hendricks, Tinker Lindsay
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alleged gang of gangs, a guy called Miguel Ortiz who may or may not have scoped out your home. Does that pretty much sum it up?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay, well, first of all—” Bill broke off. “You know what? I don’t think I can handle this tonight. I’m going to finish my exercise routine, watch some mindless television with my beautiful wife, and call you in the morning. Think you can stay out of trouble until then?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Gang of gangs,” Bill muttered. “Shoot me now.”
C HAPTER 8
Beep-beep-beep!
My eyes snapped open, the high-pitched warning tone piercing my sleep. It was 2:58 A.M. , and somebody had just breached my perimeter. Again.
I slid my hand under the pillow next to me and found the .38 right where I’d tucked it, an impulsive midnight decision but apparently a good one. I thanked the various gods that Heather hadn’t come over, we hadn’t had our talk, and she hadn’t spent the night. I swung out of bed. Sure enough, a shadowy figure was moving across the screen, captured in the eerie green glow of one of the infrared cameras. I couldn’t tell if it was my lawn-caring friend from yesterday, but whoever he was, he was heading straight for my garage. He tried the side door. Slipped inside.
I am a creature of habit, and up until yesterday, it had never been my habit to lock the side door into my garage. I was tired last night and in a hurry to get to bed. Now my lack of mindfulness had boomeranged back to harm me.
My cell phone buzzed. Mike. He was probably sitting at his computer, seeing just what I was seeing.
“I’m on it, Mike. Can you call Bill for me?” He grunted and hung up.
I pocketed the phone, pulled on my running shoes, and slipped out of the bedroom. Moving quietly, I crept across the slick hardwood floor, making my silent way through the living room and into the kitchen. I needed to get a better sense of what I was up against. I crouched low and looked out the kitchen window. About 100 yards away, past the trees that line my property, a sliver of moonlight glinted off the big, square windshield of a Hummer. Did that mean I had more than one visitor?
Homeowner outrage hummed in my bloodstream. This is private property. This is my safe space. You don’t belong here. I racked a round into the chamber of the .38.
I knew I should yell out—most intruders flee at the first indication of an inhabitant, armed or not. But I could feel the sizzle of adrenaline in my bloodstream urging me to deal with this the old-fashioned way. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew who was out there.
I cracked open the kitchen door and swept the barrel of the pistol across the grounds. Nothing. I dropped low and snuck around to the back of the garage, hugging the shadows. I peered into the small side window. It was Miguel all right, squatting beside my Shelby, a crowbar in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
He was about to jimmy a door I’d spent at least 20 hours restoring, on a car I’d just spent $1,500 tuning up.
Not my Mustang, Miguel. Not in this lifetime.
I took a deep breath and banged through the door, reaching over to hit the switch that illuminated the overhead light. I yelled at the top of my lungs and aimed the Wilson. Miguel jerked his head up. The flashlight clattered to the floor and rolled across the cement, coming to a stop at my feet as he groped in his pocket and pulled out a small pistol.
I pointed my gun at his chest. “Drop it!”
His arm jerked upward. Bad move. I lowered the sight and shot him in the meaty part of his left leg. He howled and fell hard, his head clunking against the Mustang’s back bumper as he went down. He stopped moving, out cold.
I started toward him when two car doors slammed. Shit. I crouched down behind the Shelby and aimed into the inky darkness. Now I regretted switching on the light. It put me at a disadvantage. I could just make out a man—no, two men—sprinting through the trees and running straight
“Pretty much.”
“Okay, well, first of all—” Bill broke off. “You know what? I don’t think I can handle this tonight. I’m going to finish my exercise routine, watch some mindless television with my beautiful wife, and call you in the morning. Think you can stay out of trouble until then?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Gang of gangs,” Bill muttered. “Shoot me now.”
C HAPTER 8
Beep-beep-beep!
My eyes snapped open, the high-pitched warning tone piercing my sleep. It was 2:58 A.M. , and somebody had just breached my perimeter. Again.
I slid my hand under the pillow next to me and found the .38 right where I’d tucked it, an impulsive midnight decision but apparently a good one. I thanked the various gods that Heather hadn’t come over, we hadn’t had our talk, and she hadn’t spent the night. I swung out of bed. Sure enough, a shadowy figure was moving across the screen, captured in the eerie green glow of one of the infrared cameras. I couldn’t tell if it was my lawn-caring friend from yesterday, but whoever he was, he was heading straight for my garage. He tried the side door. Slipped inside.
I am a creature of habit, and up until yesterday, it had never been my habit to lock the side door into my garage. I was tired last night and in a hurry to get to bed. Now my lack of mindfulness had boomeranged back to harm me.
My cell phone buzzed. Mike. He was probably sitting at his computer, seeing just what I was seeing.
“I’m on it, Mike. Can you call Bill for me?” He grunted and hung up.
I pocketed the phone, pulled on my running shoes, and slipped out of the bedroom. Moving quietly, I crept across the slick hardwood floor, making my silent way through the living room and into the kitchen. I needed to get a better sense of what I was up against. I crouched low and looked out the kitchen window. About 100 yards away, past the trees that line my property, a sliver of moonlight glinted off the big, square windshield of a Hummer. Did that mean I had more than one visitor?
Homeowner outrage hummed in my bloodstream. This is private property. This is my safe space. You don’t belong here. I racked a round into the chamber of the .38.
I knew I should yell out—most intruders flee at the first indication of an inhabitant, armed or not. But I could feel the sizzle of adrenaline in my bloodstream urging me to deal with this the old-fashioned way. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew who was out there.
I cracked open the kitchen door and swept the barrel of the pistol across the grounds. Nothing. I dropped low and snuck around to the back of the garage, hugging the shadows. I peered into the small side window. It was Miguel all right, squatting beside my Shelby, a crowbar in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
He was about to jimmy a door I’d spent at least 20 hours restoring, on a car I’d just spent $1,500 tuning up.
Not my Mustang, Miguel. Not in this lifetime.
I took a deep breath and banged through the door, reaching over to hit the switch that illuminated the overhead light. I yelled at the top of my lungs and aimed the Wilson. Miguel jerked his head up. The flashlight clattered to the floor and rolled across the cement, coming to a stop at my feet as he groped in his pocket and pulled out a small pistol.
I pointed my gun at his chest. “Drop it!”
His arm jerked upward. Bad move. I lowered the sight and shot him in the meaty part of his left leg. He howled and fell hard, his head clunking against the Mustang’s back bumper as he went down. He stopped moving, out cold.
I started toward him when two car doors slammed. Shit. I crouched down behind the Shelby and aimed into the inky darkness. Now I regretted switching on the light. It put me at a disadvantage. I could just make out a man—no, two men—sprinting through the trees and running straight
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