pinpricks of light, as they approached or departed Hartsfield-Jackson International. Somewhere between Lang and the distant airport, beams of searchlights aimlessly crisscrossed the night sky. He resisted the impulse to check the luminous dial of his watch. Time passes more slowly when you keep track of it.
Maybe he was mistaken; maybe he was in no danger. Maybe, but unlikely. Whoever had obliterated the place in Paris and started a fire in Midtown wasn’t likely to spare him. The only question was when it would happen.
Well after what Lang estimated was midnight, past the time he usually turned out the lights and retired, he detected, or imagined, something from the floor beside him, not so much a sound as an undefined interruption of clinging silence. A growl from Grumps, increasing until Lang put a comforting hand on the furry head. The dog had taken Lang’s rebuke after the burglary to heart.
Lang stood, silently moving the chair aside and putting the Browning in his belt again. Caterpillars with icy feet were marching up and down the back of his neck wheremuscles were tightening in anticipation. Years had gone by since he’d last had that feeling. He had missed it.
A series of soft clicks came from the door. Lang was glad he hadn’t had time to install a new lock. The replacement would have alerted whoever was on the other side of that door that the occupant knew the intruder could gain entry, make him even more cautious than committing a burglary would.
Lang tensed and tried to breathe deeply to relax mind and muscles. Tension begot mistakes, his long-ago training had taught. And mistakes begot death. Tension and training were both forgotten as the door slowly opened inward, a square of darkness against the pale, buttery light of the lamp.
Lang resisted the impulse to lunge and throw his weight against the door, pinning the intruder against the jamb. Too easy for him to escape into the hall. Or shoot through the door. Instead, Lang waited until he could see the entire form of a man, a dark mass, arm extended as it entered and quietly shut the door. Something glittered in the man’s hand.
A weapon, Lang was certain. He felt the fury for Janet and Jeff boil up in his stomach like bile. But he made himself wait.
Wait until the intruder turned from closing the door. Then Lang moved, pivoting to face him. Before Lang’s brain even registered the shock on the invader’s face, Lang’s left hand came down like an ax against the other man’s right wrist in a move designed to shatter the small, fragile carpal bones. Or at least knock a weapon loose. Simultaneously, Lang smashed the heel of his open right hand into the throat. Done correctly, the blow would leave an opponent helpless, too busy trying to force air into a ruined larynx to resist.
Lang was only partially successful. Something clatteredto the floor and there was a gasp of breath as the man, still a solid dark form, staggered backwards. Lang’s weight had shifted with his attack and he followed through, pirouetting to put his full bulk behind a fist aimed at where he gauged the bottom of the intruder’s rib cage would be, the place where a blow to the solar plexus would double him over like a jackknife.
Lang hit ribs instead.
Lang’s opponent lurched sideways, stumbled over the mate to the chair in which Lang had been sitting, and sprawled onto the floor. Lang flipped the light switch.
The man on the floor, scrabbling to his feet, was dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, with leather gloves. He was about Lang’s size, his age difficult to guess. He backed away, reaching into a pocket as he measured the distance to the door.
Lang thumbed the safety off the Browning as it came out of his belt and he assumed a two-handed shooting stance. “Don’t even think about moving, asshole.”
There was a click as a switchblade flashed in the light. The stranger lunged forward clumsily, his legs still shaky from Lang’s punches.
Like a matador
Maybe he was mistaken; maybe he was in no danger. Maybe, but unlikely. Whoever had obliterated the place in Paris and started a fire in Midtown wasn’t likely to spare him. The only question was when it would happen.
Well after what Lang estimated was midnight, past the time he usually turned out the lights and retired, he detected, or imagined, something from the floor beside him, not so much a sound as an undefined interruption of clinging silence. A growl from Grumps, increasing until Lang put a comforting hand on the furry head. The dog had taken Lang’s rebuke after the burglary to heart.
Lang stood, silently moving the chair aside and putting the Browning in his belt again. Caterpillars with icy feet were marching up and down the back of his neck wheremuscles were tightening in anticipation. Years had gone by since he’d last had that feeling. He had missed it.
A series of soft clicks came from the door. Lang was glad he hadn’t had time to install a new lock. The replacement would have alerted whoever was on the other side of that door that the occupant knew the intruder could gain entry, make him even more cautious than committing a burglary would.
Lang tensed and tried to breathe deeply to relax mind and muscles. Tension begot mistakes, his long-ago training had taught. And mistakes begot death. Tension and training were both forgotten as the door slowly opened inward, a square of darkness against the pale, buttery light of the lamp.
Lang resisted the impulse to lunge and throw his weight against the door, pinning the intruder against the jamb. Too easy for him to escape into the hall. Or shoot through the door. Instead, Lang waited until he could see the entire form of a man, a dark mass, arm extended as it entered and quietly shut the door. Something glittered in the man’s hand.
A weapon, Lang was certain. He felt the fury for Janet and Jeff boil up in his stomach like bile. But he made himself wait.
Wait until the intruder turned from closing the door. Then Lang moved, pivoting to face him. Before Lang’s brain even registered the shock on the invader’s face, Lang’s left hand came down like an ax against the other man’s right wrist in a move designed to shatter the small, fragile carpal bones. Or at least knock a weapon loose. Simultaneously, Lang smashed the heel of his open right hand into the throat. Done correctly, the blow would leave an opponent helpless, too busy trying to force air into a ruined larynx to resist.
Lang was only partially successful. Something clatteredto the floor and there was a gasp of breath as the man, still a solid dark form, staggered backwards. Lang’s weight had shifted with his attack and he followed through, pirouetting to put his full bulk behind a fist aimed at where he gauged the bottom of the intruder’s rib cage would be, the place where a blow to the solar plexus would double him over like a jackknife.
Lang hit ribs instead.
Lang’s opponent lurched sideways, stumbled over the mate to the chair in which Lang had been sitting, and sprawled onto the floor. Lang flipped the light switch.
The man on the floor, scrabbling to his feet, was dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, with leather gloves. He was about Lang’s size, his age difficult to guess. He backed away, reaching into a pocket as he measured the distance to the door.
Lang thumbed the safety off the Browning as it came out of his belt and he assumed a two-handed shooting stance. “Don’t even think about moving, asshole.”
There was a click as a switchblade flashed in the light. The stranger lunged forward clumsily, his legs still shaky from Lang’s punches.
Like a matador
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