evading the charge of a bull, Lang sidestepped, spun and brought the heavy automatic down across the back of the man’s skull with all the fury accumulated since the night Janet and Jeff had died. On one level, Lang wanted to split his head open even more than he wanted answers.
The impact reverberated through the Browning and set Lang’s hands trembling. The stranger went down like a marionette when the strings are cut.
Lang stamped a heel into the hand holding the knife, forcing the fingers open. A kick sent the weapon skidding across the room. Lang straddled his unwanted visitor’s back, his right hand pressing the muzzle of the Browningagainst the man’s cranium while his left explored pockets.
Nothing. No wallet, no money, no keys, no form of identification, the absence of which was a form of ID itself. Professional assassins carry nothing that yields information as to their own persona or those who hire them.
There wasn’t even a label on the inside neck of the T- shirt. But there was a silver chain around the man’s throat, the sort of plain strand that might carry a woman’s locket or lavaliere. Lang bunched it in his hand to snatch it free.
The guy bucked and rolled violently, tossing Lang aside like an unwary bronco rider.
Lang rolled up on his knees, the Browning in both hands again. “Give me an excuse, asshole.”
The intruder shakily got to his feet, his eyes darting to the door at Lang’s back. Lang thought he was going to rush him, make a try for the hall outside. Instead, he spun, staggering for the glass door that separated the living room from a narrow balcony outside.
Lang got to his own feet in a hurry. “Hey, wait, hold it! You can’t . . .”
But he could. With a crash, he went through the glass and over the edge. The room’s light played off knifelike shards to make patterns on the ceiling as Lang struggled with the latch to the sliding glass door. There was no need, he realized. Lang simply stepped through the jagged hole the man had made. He heard traffic twenty-four floors below and the tinkle of the remaining broken glass falling from the door frame.
People were already gathering in a tight bunch below, six or seven of them obscuring all but a leg twisted at an impossible angle. Lang recognized the uniform of the night doorman as he looked up, pointing an accusing finger. In the landscape lights, his mouth was an open, black “O.”
Lang went back inside to dial 911, only to learn a policecar had been dispatched along with an ambulance. He returned the Browning to its drawer before conducting a hurried inspection of the living room. Two chairs were overturned, the rug in front of the entrance bunched as though from a scuffle. The switchblade glistened evilly from under an end table. In front of the couch, the light caught another knife, this one a broad dagger with a curved blade and a narrow, decorative hilt. A
jimbia
, the knife carried bare-bladed in the belts of nomadic Arabs, a weapon worn as commonly as a westerner wore neckties.
It wasn’t until he was on the way to answer the insistent buzzing of the doorbell that he noticed something shining from the folds of the wrinkled rug.
“Coming!” Lang shouted as he stooped to pick it up.
The silver chain. It must have spun free when the intruder threw Lang off his back. He held it up. A pendant swung from the thin strand. An open circle about the size of a twenty-five-cent piece was quartered by four triangles meeting in the center. Lang had never seen anything exactly like it, yet it seemed vaguely familiar, perhaps very similar to something else.
But what?
He shoved it into his shirt pocket to consider later and opened the door.
Three men were in the hall, two of them were in uniform. The third was a wiry black man in a sport coat who was holding out an ID wallet.
“Franklin Morse, Atlanta police. You Langford Reilly?”
Lang opened the door wide. “Yep. Come in.”
Morse took in the disheveled room at a
The impact reverberated through the Browning and set Lang’s hands trembling. The stranger went down like a marionette when the strings are cut.
Lang stamped a heel into the hand holding the knife, forcing the fingers open. A kick sent the weapon skidding across the room. Lang straddled his unwanted visitor’s back, his right hand pressing the muzzle of the Browningagainst the man’s cranium while his left explored pockets.
Nothing. No wallet, no money, no keys, no form of identification, the absence of which was a form of ID itself. Professional assassins carry nothing that yields information as to their own persona or those who hire them.
There wasn’t even a label on the inside neck of the T- shirt. But there was a silver chain around the man’s throat, the sort of plain strand that might carry a woman’s locket or lavaliere. Lang bunched it in his hand to snatch it free.
The guy bucked and rolled violently, tossing Lang aside like an unwary bronco rider.
Lang rolled up on his knees, the Browning in both hands again. “Give me an excuse, asshole.”
The intruder shakily got to his feet, his eyes darting to the door at Lang’s back. Lang thought he was going to rush him, make a try for the hall outside. Instead, he spun, staggering for the glass door that separated the living room from a narrow balcony outside.
Lang got to his own feet in a hurry. “Hey, wait, hold it! You can’t . . .”
But he could. With a crash, he went through the glass and over the edge. The room’s light played off knifelike shards to make patterns on the ceiling as Lang struggled with the latch to the sliding glass door. There was no need, he realized. Lang simply stepped through the jagged hole the man had made. He heard traffic twenty-four floors below and the tinkle of the remaining broken glass falling from the door frame.
People were already gathering in a tight bunch below, six or seven of them obscuring all but a leg twisted at an impossible angle. Lang recognized the uniform of the night doorman as he looked up, pointing an accusing finger. In the landscape lights, his mouth was an open, black “O.”
Lang went back inside to dial 911, only to learn a policecar had been dispatched along with an ambulance. He returned the Browning to its drawer before conducting a hurried inspection of the living room. Two chairs were overturned, the rug in front of the entrance bunched as though from a scuffle. The switchblade glistened evilly from under an end table. In front of the couch, the light caught another knife, this one a broad dagger with a curved blade and a narrow, decorative hilt. A
jimbia
, the knife carried bare-bladed in the belts of nomadic Arabs, a weapon worn as commonly as a westerner wore neckties.
It wasn’t until he was on the way to answer the insistent buzzing of the doorbell that he noticed something shining from the folds of the wrinkled rug.
“Coming!” Lang shouted as he stooped to pick it up.
The silver chain. It must have spun free when the intruder threw Lang off his back. He held it up. A pendant swung from the thin strand. An open circle about the size of a twenty-five-cent piece was quartered by four triangles meeting in the center. Lang had never seen anything exactly like it, yet it seemed vaguely familiar, perhaps very similar to something else.
But what?
He shoved it into his shirt pocket to consider later and opened the door.
Three men were in the hall, two of them were in uniform. The third was a wiry black man in a sport coat who was holding out an ID wallet.
“Franklin Morse, Atlanta police. You Langford Reilly?”
Lang opened the door wide. “Yep. Come in.”
Morse took in the disheveled room at a
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