First Family (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 4)

“So about going over to their house this late?”

“It’s not my call.”

“I thought you were dropping off a birthday present?”

“I bought the present after she phoned. I suddenly remembered it was her birthday today.”

“Why then?”

“It might have to do with a job for us.”

“Your really nice family needs a private investigator?”

“And she didn’t want to wait.”

They turned off the winding country road and pulled into the long drive, passing trees on both sides.

“Boondocks,” muttered Michelle.

“Private,” Sean amended.

The next instant the large house came into view.

“Nice place,” she said. “Your friend obviously does well.”

“Government contracting. The Feds apparently throw money at people.”

“Wow, what a surprise. But the house is dark. You sure you got the time right?”

Sean eased the car to a stop in front.

Michelle put down her coffee and pulled out her pistol from its belt holster. “That was a woman’s scream.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t go off half-cocked,” he said, putting a restraining hand on her arm. The crashing sound from inside the house made him reach in the glove box for his own weapon. “Let’s confirm before calling the cops.”

“You hit the back, I got the front,” Michelle said.

He climbed out and hustled to the rear of the brick colonial skittering next to the side-load garage and stopping for a few moments to scan the terrain before heading on. After doing her own recon of the area, Michelle was next to the front door a minute later.

No more screams or crashes. No other vehicles in sight. She could call out, see if everything was okay. Only if it wasn’t she might be giving some bad guys a warning. She tried the front door. Locked. Something made her pull her hand back, she wasn’t quite sure what, only she was glad she had.

The bullet blast ripped through the door, sending shards of painted wood spinning into the air. She could actually feel the slugs race past before they riddled Sean’s car.

She leapt off the front porch and did a roll, coming up and hitting full sprint two steps later. Her hand dug into her pocket and her fingers drilled 911 on the keypad. The dispatcher’s voice came on. Michelle was about to speak when the garage door blew open and the pickup truck cut a tight turn and bore down on her. She turned, fired at the tires, then the windshield. Her phone flew out of her hand as she catapulted to the side and rolled down an embankment. She landed in a pile of leaves and mud at the bottom of a runoff ditch. She sat forward and looked up.

And fired.

Her aim, as usual, was unerring. The bullet hit the man dead in the chest. There was only one problem. Her jacketed 9mm round didn’t drop him. He staggered back, then brought his weapon up, took aim, and fired back.

The only thing that saved Michelle Maxwell that night was that she deduced her attacker was wearing body armor, and then was nimble enough to roll behind a monster oak before the MP5 rounds headed her way. Dozens of slugs slammed into the tree, shredding its bark and sending pieces of oak tailings whipsawing away. Yet wood that thick always won out, even over submachine gun bullets coming in waves.

She didn’t pause, because it only took a practiced hand seconds to eject and then slap in another clip on the MP. She jumped out, both hands on her pistol grip. This time she would aim for the head and drop him for good.

Only there was no one there for her to kill.

Mr. MP5 had pinned her down, then fled.

She cautiously made her way up the slope, her pistol pointed straight ahead. When she heard the truck start to race off she scrambled up, pulling at roots, branches, and vines. The pickup was out of sight by the time she reached the driveway. She hustled toward Sean’s car thinking she would take up pursuit, but stopped when she saw steam rising from under the hood. Her gaze drifted to the bullet holes in the sheet metal. They weren’t going anywhere.