72 Hours (A Thriller) (4 page)

“Hey, Johnny, I’m just say’n, I could do the job.
 
Then I’d buy an island, like Mel Gibson or Richard Branson!”

“Ok, I’m looking at Lindsay Hammond’s house courtesy of Google and I think even I could kill her.
 
Doesn’t look like a fortress or anything.
 
No giant wall to keep me out.
 
Hell yeah, I might be up to this!”

(Booming background laughter)

“All I got is the boot pistol I stole off my ex-wife and – ”

Wanda West: “Which ex-wife was it?”

“Whoa, long story…”

(More laughter)

Lindsay shut off the radio.
 
Her stomach was twisting and her palms were sweaty, sticking to the steering wheel.

Wyatt was silent, staring out at the passing neighborhoods.
 

Lindsay glanced over at her son.

“Wyatt, don’t pay any attention to that stuff, okay?
 
It’s just a stupid radio show.
 
They think they’re being funny.”

Wyatt spoke in a soft voice, “Why were they talking about you like that, Mom?”

“Because they are not nice people.”

“Would someone really try to hurt you?”

“I sure hope not, sweetie.”

“I don’t like them saying those things.
 
It’s kinda scary.”

Lindsay swallowed hard.
 
She reached out a hand and gave his upper thigh a gentle squeeze.
 
“Everything is going to be okay.”

They were only a few blocks away.
 
Lindsay took a deep breath.
 
It was disconcerting to know that people were sitting at their computers staring at satellite images of her home.
 

She slowed at the top of their street.
 
There didn’t appear to be any unusual activity.
 
Nothing overtly suspicious.
 
A few cars parked along the street but nothing out of the ordinary.
 
The Jetta was parked along the right-hand-side at the curb a few houses away.
 
Lindsay stopped the Escalade directly behind them.
 
She took out her cell and called Ramey’s number.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Ramey, just slip out of her car and hop in with us.”

“We’ve been watching.
 
Haven’t noticed anybody.”

“Good.
 
Tell Crystal you’ll see her tomorrow.”

A few moments later, the passenger door of the Jetta opened and Ramey hurried to the SUV.

“This is so insane,” Ramey said.

Wyatt twisted around to face her over the headrest of his seat.

“Did you hear Johnny Smackdown talking about Mom?”

Ramey nodded.
 
“So freaky!”

Wyatt was wide-eyed, nodding agreement.

The Jetta pulled away and was quickly out of view.
 
Lindsay watched everything intently.

“What’re we gonna do, Mom?”
 
Ramey leaned her head up between the bucket seats.

“We’re going home.”
 
Lindsay put the SUV in gear and allowed it to creep forward.
 
The Escalade edged up to the corner of their property, late afternoon sunlight filtering through the bars of the iron security fence, casting long, slender shadows down the sidewalk at precise intervals.
 
She leaned over the wheel, peering through the trees in the front lawn to inspect the perimeter of the house.
 
From her vantage point, there was nothing within view that set off alarms in her head.
 

A bright yellow Toyota Prius sped past them.
 
Lindsay glanced at its taillights, blinked, then returned her attention to the stillness of her home.

“What do you think, Mom?” Ramey asked.

Lindsay exhaled.
 
“I think I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” said Wyatt.

Lindsay touched her middle finger to a button on a panel in the ceiling above the rearview mirror to open the gate at the end of driveway.
 
She turned the Escalade into the driveway and suddenly the same yellow Prius pulled into the drive right behind them.

A short, Asian-looking guy popped out and raced up beside the SUV on foot.
 
He had an expensive camera and started snapping photos.
 
He was slightly doughy, with purple hair spiked up on top.
 
There was a hint of mustache on his upper lip and a carefully tended patch of growth beneath his chin.
 
He wore a Lakers jersey over a T-shirt, with baggy cargo shorts that sagged to the tops of his calves, and a pair of Puma sneakers.
   

His sudden presence startled Lindsay, and she jumped, jerking her arms back inside the Escalade and dumping the armload of mail to the ground.

Ramey screamed.

Wyatt spun around in his seat, pressing himself away from his mother’s open window.

“He’s a paparazzi!” Ramey shrieked.
 

Lindsay punched the gas.
 
The Escalade surged forward as the photographer jogged alongside them.
 

Lindsay shouted, “Get away!
 
Stay off our property!”

The photographer ignored her and kept shooting.

“Close the gate, Mom!” Wyatt said.

Lindsay shook her head.
 
“I can’t!
 
I don’t want to close him in with us.”
 
She parked the Escalade at the front of the house and rifled through her handbag until she found her can of pepper spray.

“Get inside the house!” she told the kids.
 
“Lock the doors and watch for me.”

Wyatt and Ramey threw open the doors on the passenger side and raced to the safety of house.
 
Lindsay left the motor running and stepped out of the vehicle, turning to confront the punk in the Lakers jersey.

He saw her coming and smiled.
 
He loved it when they fought back.
 
That’s how he got some of his best shots.

Lindsay came at him aggressively, her right hand concealed behind her back.

“Smile for the camera, Lindsay,” he said.

“You’re trespassing,” she said firmly, shoving the pepper spray at his face.

“Oops,” he cackled and ducked around it.
 
She wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
 
He twisted away and bolted for the top of the driveway, the back of his neck burning from the pepper spray.
 

“Go away!” she hissed.

He laughed.
 
“You’ve got bigger problems than me, lady.
 
They gonna kill you, man!”

The door to the Prius was standing open.
 
He dropped the camera onto the front seat and was twisting the cap off a bottle of water when a Chevy van came to a screeching stop about thirty feet beyond the turn-in to the driveway.
 
He glanced over, mouth full of water.
 
Before he could swallow, the van accelerated in reverse, smoking the tires.
 
It halted at the top of the driveway, blocking the Prius.
 
Two men got out, both of them wearing jeans without shirts.
 
He opened his mouth to give them an earful about blocking him in, but then he saw the guns.
 

The photographer froze, performing a split-second appraisal of the danger factor, then he ducked around the rear of the Prius and dropped to the ground.

The two men from the van stood at the top of the drive, momentarily uncertain and nervous.

“This it?” one said to the other.

The taller of them spotted Lindsay and locked onto her.
 
“Yo,” he said, gesturing with his head.

“Gotta be her, dude,” the shorter man confirmed.

There was a brief instant where Lindsay grossly miscalculated that maybe the two men from the van were with the photographer, like they were a team.
 
That notion lasted about three seconds.
 
In the next breath she realized things were about to go from bad to worse.
 
She glanced around toward the house, then up toward the top of the drive.
 
There was no way to shut the gate in time.
 
No way to seal them out.
 
And she was standing alone and exposed in the middle of the drive.

The two men sort of stutter-stepped in her direction, throwing nervous, furtive glances over their shoulders to the street.
 
Then the taller one made his decision to fully commit.
 
“YO, LET’S DO IT!”

And then both men charged.

Lindsay turned and ran.

Both men had handguns.
 
The shorter one took aim in full stride and squeezed off a round.
 
It was a wild shot, punching out the rear window of the Escalade.
 
The glass crumbled as a single sheet, raining to the ground like diamonds.

Lindsay made it to the front of the house and Ramey pulled her inside.
 
They locked the door and then crawled on their bellies from the entryway into the large open space of the family room.
 
They huddled together, out of breath, behind a large leather sofa.

An instant later the thugs were pounding at the door, gunfire ringing out as they shot at the deadbolt.

Ramey was trembling.
 
“Wyatt’s calling 911!”

“Where is he?”

Ramey shook her head.
 
“He was using the kitchen phone.”

“Wyatt!” Lindsay called.

“Over here, I’m okay.”

They glanced around one end of the sofa and spotted him lying flat on his stomach on the floor of a hallway leading to the kitchen.

There was a tremor rising in his throat.
 
“The police are coming.”

Suddenly one of the picture windows at the front of the house exploded, a large terra cotta planter crashing through onto the carpet.
 
The planter hit the floor with a heavy thump and split into pieces, dirt and roots and blooms sloshing out as the plates of reddish clay dislodged and fell away.

The women screamed.

Glass rained down in a cascade of razor-like shards.
 
The planter had billowed out the drapes, letting in sunlight.
 
And then most of the sunlight was blotted out again by the sudden appearance of a bare-chested man.
 
He hastily began clearing away the most prominent of the remaining jagged shards from along the lower edge of the window frame with his handgun.
 
He would be inside the house in a matter of seconds.
 

Lindsay gestured the kids toward the staircase.
 
Wyatt nodded.
 
He sprang up and ran, vaulting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, Ramey following on his heels.
 
Lindsay rushed them to the second level.

“Go to my bedroom.”

The kids sprinted down the upstairs hall to the master bedroom, diving through the open doorway.
 
Lindsay crouched to peer through the ornate spindles along the banister.
 

She heard sirens in the distance and held her breath, praying that they were responding to Wyatt’s 911 call.
 
The intruder heard it too, pausing with one leg inside, one leg out, straddling the window frame, sweat glistening on his naked torso.
 
He glanced out at his partner.

“Cops?”

The other man answered hesitantly, “Yeah, bro.
 
And they’re close.”

Within seconds the siren was right up the street, and the outside man watched as the flashing bar of lights skidded to a stop next to the van.

“Hold’em off!”

The outside man nodded, firing a wild shot toward the open gate.

The officers took cover.

Lindsay made a run for the bedroom.
 
The intruder caught sight of her and fired at the banister.
 
The bullet struck a wood spindle, splintering it.

Lindsay slammed the bedroom door.
 
The kids were huddled against a wall around the corner.

“We’ve got to block the door!”
 
She quickly scoped the room.
 
“Help me move the dresser!”

It was an antique piece that weighed a ton.
 
The kid’s teamed up on one end, pushing with their backs flat against it, legs churning, while Lindsay pulled. It bumped against the bedroom door.

Gunfire popped outside the house.
 
They heard heavy footfalls charging up the stairs.

“The bathroom,” Lindsay whispered, pointing.
 
“Go!”

The master bathroom was a dead-end, providing no outlets and no shelter, and the bedroom window was a two-story drop to the patio.
 
But Lindsay raised the Venetian blinds and the window sash and punched out the screen to hopefully give the intruder the illusion that they had escaped.
 
She then hustled to the bathroom, pulled open the shower door and wrangled them inside.
 
The shower stall had three walls of seeded opaque glass.