Fire Point Read online

  ‘No. Mr Lock’s on his way over.’

  Marcus froze. He didn’t like Lock. Not one bit. He had a cop vibe about him, only worse.

  ‘Not sure I can stay that long,’ he told her. ‘I have stuff to do.’

  ‘Such as?’ she pressed.

  ‘Just stuff.’ He was hoping that she’d drop the questioning but she seemed determined.

  ‘Marcus, did you get a cab here?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Someone dropped me off.’

  ‘Your friend Krank?’

  ‘Just a friend,’ he said.

  She stared at him. The look she had on her face made him feel uncomfortable. It was like she was seeing him for the first time. ‘You asked about Mr Lock.’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll believe your story about the car. It is a story, correct? Something you made up so that you wouldn’t get into trouble.’

  First Teddy and now her, he thought. She had never been on his side, and he’d been crazy to think this time would be any different. ‘Why should I care what some private security goon you hired because you want to sleep with him thinks? Or have you slept with him already?’

  She slapped him hard. He didn’t see it coming. It was so fast. One minute they were stood facing each other, the next her hand had whipped out and struck him across the face. She seemed as shocked as he was.

  He wished he hadn’t missed her when he’d taken the shot back at his apartment. His eyes narrowed. He wished her dead. He could feel his hands ball into fists. And yet somewhere deeper he knew that the slap had come because she was scared. Scared of him and who he’d become.

  ‘Marcus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

  Teddy called through to her: ‘Honey? Are you okay?’

  The doorbell rang. He started at the noise. So did his mother. The doorbell didn’t ring out of the blue. The gates had to be opened to allow someone in before they got to the door.

  It had to be Lock. He would have all the codes. Marcus could feel his heart sink into his boots.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ shouted Teddy.

  Marcus heard the front door opening. Then he heard Teddy say: ‘Who the hell are you?’

  There was the sound of three gunshots, one after the other. Pop. Pop. Pop. His mother screamed and ran past him. He grabbed at her arm to stop her, but she was already gone.

  53

  Marcus took off after his mom. He heard her scream again. She shouted, ‘Teddy!’ Two more gunshots followed. These ones louder. There was more shouting. It sounded like his father, or maybe Stentz, yelling at someone to get out.

  Marcus found himself walking toward the sound of the gunfire. His heart was racing a hundred miles an hour, but his mind felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. Everything around him suddenly seemed alien. The walls seemed to buckle and the floor to slide from underneath him.

  Sounds were muffled and distant, as if he was swimming under water. He found himself in the front hallway. The front door was wide open. Teddy was lying on the floor, blood pooled around his head. His eyes and mouth were open. Blood poured from his nostrils into his mouth and down his chin, pooling on the floor by his neck. He wasn’t moving.

  Krank and Gretchen were standing over him. They both had black Glock handguns. Marcus recognized them as part of the armory Krank had assembled.

  Tarian stood in the hallway. Marcus watched as Gretchen turned toward her and leveled the gun at her chest. A minute ago he’d been ready to kill her himself because she had slapped him. That anger was gone, replaced by fear and a terrible, all-consuming guilt.

  Everything that had gone before seemed unreal to Marcus somehow, like a movie he’d watched but not really been part of. This was different, though. This was completely real.

  If he didn’t do something he was about to watch his mother being shot right in front of him. He couldn’t let it happen. He might have been a shitty son but he wouldn’t be responsible for this.

  He took three steps forward so that he was standing between his mom and Gretchen. Krank stepped over Teddy’s dead body and trained his gun on Stentz and Marcus’s father. Peter had his cell phone in his hand. He must have hit the speaker because Marcus could hear a call being connected to a police dispatcher.

  ‘Yes, my name’s Peter Blake. I’m at . . .’

  Before he could get the address out, Krank fired. The shot hit Peter’s right hand, shattering it, and blowing off two of his fingers. The phone fell to the floor with a clatter. The back flew off. The screen shattered. Peter looked down in disbelief at what was left of his hand. By the time he looked back up, Krank had fired again. This time the force of the shot took him off his feet and sent him spinning backwards.

  Marcus reached behind to his mother and shoved her back. ‘Get out of here. Now.’

  Krank fired once more. This shot sent Peter to his knees. His body twisted one way and then the other, like a fish caught on a line. Marcus half turned. His mom was staring in horror at the scene unfolding. Down the corridor was the bathroom. It had a lock on it. The internal doors in the house were fairly heavy. It would at least buy her some time.

  Marcus shoved her again. Harder this time. ‘The bathroom. Lock the door behind you.’

  She still wouldn’t move. ‘Go!’ Marcus yelled at her. It seemed to snap her out of it. Her eyes focused on his face. Something passed between them that was honest in a way that it hadn’t been before. She started to run.

  As Marcus turned back, Gretchen fired in his direction. At first he thought she was taking aim at the fleeing figure of Tarian as she sprinted toward the sanctuary of the bathroom. Then he realized that she was staring at him.

  Behind Gretchen, Krank had walked over toward Marcus’s father. He raised his good hand, the one that hadn’t been blown away. His breathing was coming in fits and starts as he gasped for air. His fingers opened and closed. ‘Please,’ he said, before Krank shot him full in the face.

  Stentz took this as his cue to run back into the living room. Krank glanced over his shoulder at Gretchen. ‘Take care of him,’ he said, waving his gun toward Marcus. ‘Then we’ll split.’

  Marcus had seen that look from Krank before. It was as if he went into machine mode. There was no sign of humanity, no flicker of compassion, he was robotic.

  Glancing behind, Marcus could see that his mom had almost reached the bathroom. He turned back to face Gretchen. ‘You’d better get out of here now. That security guy is on his way,’ he said.

  She looked over to where Krank had been, nervous. ‘Krank, hurry up!’

  Marcus’s relief was short-lived as Gretchen turned back toward him, raised the Glock and took aim. As she began to squeeze the trigger, he ducked down. The shot flew over his head. The next one wouldn’t. He knew that as surely as he knew anything. He had to do something. There was no sound of sirens, and he couldn’t assume that the cops, or anyone else, would get there in time to save them. Still in a crouch, he rushed toward Gretchen.

  In the distance, he could hear Stentz pleading for his life. Marcus straightened up and kept running toward Gretchen. He could see a flicker of uncertainty cross her face as she took fresh aim. He kept moving, presenting a bigger target with every step but hoping that his momentum would carry him forward even if he was hit.

  He saw Gretchen close one eye, and take a final breath as she centered the metal sights at his chest and pulled the trigger. Marcus dove for the floor.

  54

  As the vehicle in front inched forward, Lock finally lost patience. He spun the wheel hard and, spotting a gap, moved the Audi out into oncoming traffic. Next to him Ty was incredulous: ‘Dude, we’re almost there and now you want to head back to the freeway?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Lock. Rather than turn he kept moving forward at a steady clip. The needle of the speedometer edged toward thirty as cars blared their horns and swerved out of his way.

  Ty’s hand pushed out to the da
shboard as he braced himself for a possible collision. His other hand lowered his sunglasses so he could peer at Lock over the top of the frames. ‘You are aware that you’re on the wrong side of the road?’

  ‘I’m aware,’ said Lock, as he ducked into the middle lane to avoid a head-on collision with a station wagon. He veered back into the opposite outside lane as traffic ahead of him cleared. He could see people on their cell phones as he passed. A trucker flipped him off as he wrestled his rig out of the way, air horn wailing as it passed. Other drivers screamed at him, leaning out of their windows as they sped past.

  ‘What are you gonna say if we get pulled over?’ Ty asked, in a tone that leaned more toward curiosity than genuine anxiety.

  Lock’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror ‘They’re probably stuck back there in the same traffic we were.’

  Ty lifted a hand and pointed at a black and white police car heading straight for them, lights blazing and siren wailing. ‘That one ain’t,’ he said.

  Lock held his nerve as Ty went back to his brace position. He poked down harder on the gas, bringing the car’s speed up to forty. The patrol car kept coming. Lock accelerated, flashing his lights as he bore down on the patrol car, which was still moving.

  At the last second, it swerved out of his way. The Audi scraped through. Ty, eyes closed, was muttering to himself.

  ‘They moved,’ said Lock, slowing down and drifting across two lanes before taking the corner onto North Rockingham Avenue. Behind him, the LAPD vehicle was still struggling to turn around. They’d likely catch up with him at the Griffiths residence, which was fine with Lock. It would save a phone call.

  55

  Under ten minutes later, Lock pulled up at the gates of the Griffiths home. There was no sound from inside but that was hardly surprising. The house itself was set back several hundred yards from the street. The neighbors on either side were even more distant. That was why people paid a premium to live in this part of town. In Los Angeles, a city that faced outwards like no other, privacy was a valued commodity.

  Lock lowered his window, then leaned out and hit the call button on the keypad. It would buzz inside the house. While he waited for an answer, he checked on Ty. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Need some fresh underwear but, yeah, apart from that, I’m good,’ said Ty. ‘Next time, let me drive.’

  There were few things that Lock enjoyed more than freaking out his partner. ‘That patrol was always going to move. Now, if I’d gone at the same time they did? That would have been messy.’

  No one had answered. Lock buzzed again. He grabbed his cell and called the number he had for the house. It rang out before diverting to voice mail. Screw it, he thought. Tarian knew he and Ty were dropping by. This was no time for the proper observance of social niceties. He leaned out and keyed in the four-digit number that opened the gates.

  They swung open. He drove through.

  Lock’s Audi moved up the long, curved driveway past a stand of neatly trimmed trees that further shielded the house from view. He hit the brakes as he saw the open front door, and the body – at least one that he could see – lying inside. Ty was already tapping 911 into his cell. Lock positioned the Audi so that it was side on to the house.

  He got out of the car, his SIG Sauer 226, with a fully loaded magazine in the clip, drawn, as Ty calmly began giving details to the person at the other end of the line. They needed the LAPD, but they didn’t want a unit pulling up on the scene without knowing that they were the good guys, and the good guys were armed.

  As he exited his vehicle, Lock gave Ty his immediate plan. Go in through the front door and sweep downstairs first. If that was clear he’d move upstairs.

  He walked slowly toward the front door. There were four vehicles parked out front. He recognized one as belonging to Tarian and the other to Teddy. Two of the vehicles, one a Lexus, the other a Prius, he didn’t recognize. He didn’t see the Honda that belonged to Marcus.

  Even at a distance of twenty yards, and with a lot of blood pooled around his head, Lock recognized Teddy Griffiths. Skirting left to take himself out of a direct line of fire from the front door, he moved to the living-room window. He peeked inside waiting for a sign of movement. He edged back to the front door, staying close to the house, his back to the wall.

  He got to the hinge side of the door, and took another look inside. There was another body in the entrance foyer. It looked like Peter Blake’s but Lock couldn’t be sure because the man was lying face down. Both he and Teddy showed no signs of life. Teddy was certainly dead. Lock had seen more than enough dead bodies to make that assessment. Glancing behind him, he saw Ty exit the car and low-run toward the back of the house, gun drawn. He had already made a point of noting what Ty was wearing, not that he needed much additional help in being able to instantly ID the giant African American.

  Stepping carefully over Teddy’s body and the blood pooled around it, Lock moved inside the house. Backing up so that the wall was behind him and he had a clear one-eighty view of the entrance hall, he stopped to listen. He was met by relative silence. No house is ever completely silent. A refrigerator hums. A breeze moves through an open window. Lock tried to tune into the background noise of the house as best he could.

  He allowed a few more seconds to pass and moved across to the other body. He hunkered down next to it. As he’d thought it was Peter Blake’s. He’d been shot in the head and chest. The exit wounds were substantial. Whoever had shot both him and Teddy hadn’t been messing. They were either packing a powerful handgun or a rifle, some serious ammunition, and very likely both. Both bodies were an unholy mess. For a second, his mind flashed back to Krank’s apartment and the book collection on mass shootings.

  From outside came the wail of sirens drawing closer. Lock kept moving. Time allowing, he wanted to finish his search and be outside to meet the cops when they rolled up. That way there would be less chance of a nervy cop shooting either him or Ty. This division of the LAPD – officially known as West LA, and unofficially referred to as West Latte – was not noted for these types of incidents, which raised the response level to something approaching nuclear. A pile of freshly killed rich white people put cops significantly more on edge than a pile of their poorer brown counterparts from the eastern part of the city.

  Next, Lock moved to the other side of the entrance hall that led toward the kitchen. Next to the curved double staircase there was yet another body.

  He hunkered down next to Marcus Griffiths. Or, at least, that was his best guess of who it was. The face had been all but obliterated by a shot fired from close range but Lock was fairly sure he recognized the curly mop of brown hair. There was no sign of a weapon nearby so Lock guessed Marcus could be ruled out as a shooter. Not that it would be much consolation.

  That left only one family member unaccounted for. Tarian had told him that the kids were with Teddy’s cousin. Lock called out: ‘Tarian? It’s Ryan Lock!’ Are you there?’

  No one answered. The silence told its own story. Lock started toward the kitchen, bracing himself for yet more horror.

  A sound from behind him. A door being opened. He spun round, gun up, his finger on the trigger, testing the pressure and leveling his breathing so he could get off a clean shot. The bathroom door opened a crack. Lock took aim.

  56

  Lock took his finger from the trigger and lowered his SIG as Tarian stepped out from behind the door. Her eyes were black and blotchy from where her mascara had run. At first she didn’t seem to register Lock’s presence. She looked straight past him and began to scream. She fell to her knees and began to crawl toward the dead body behind him. ‘No! No! Marcus!’

  Lock went to her. He reached down with his free hand and pulled her back to her feet as he scanned the area around them for a shooter. ‘Tarian, listen to me. I need to get you out of here.’

  ‘My son!’ She was doing her best to break free.

  Ty emerged from the kitchen, stepping into the hallwa
y, his gun drawn. ‘What we got?’ he asked Lock.

  ‘Three dead that I’ve found. There could be more. I’m going to get her outside. What about the kitchen and the laundry room?’

  ‘Both clear,’ said Ty.

  There was a door at the back. He could take Tarian out that way without her seeing the rest of the slaughter. He tried to pull her gently toward the kitchen door as Ty fell in behind to provide cover. He could hear an LAPD patrol car rolling its way up to the front of the house. Lock grasped Tarian’s arm at the elbow as he escorted her out of the hallway. She was in shock. He looked back to see a hole the size of a fist that had been blown in the bathroom door.

  Tarian Griffiths had survived. They had a living, breathing witness. But the killer, or killers, was nowhere to be seen. If this was Krank’s bid for the history books, Lock figured that, no matter how devastating it would be for Tarian, it would still only figure as a footnote.

  57

  Lock took a sip of coffee and stared across the table at the two LAPD homicide detectives. His rush-hour traffic avoidance stunt had not exactly enamored him to the city’s finest. However, as was the way with the US justice system, he’d called an attorney, who had swiftly traded the offer of the information both Lock and Ty had about the killers in return for an agreement that any traffic infraction would be ignored. The way Lock saw it, it was a pretty sweet deal. He hadn’t exactly delivered Charles Kim and the other perps to them on a silver platter but as near as made no difference.

  The interview itself had been good-natured. Again, in Lock’s experience, cops were always affable when you were making their life easy. That was human nature.

  He had taken them through everything, from his initial contact with Tarian to their visit to the apartment in the Marina and his and Ty’s subsequent digging. The only time the two cops seemed to get hung up was when it came to his motive.