A patter of silenced automatic gunfire erupts from the rocks below me. The bullets slap my bodyguard against the gate and knock him down. Leap to my right and roll down slope into the brush as two shotguns roar one after the other behind me, the shot buzzing and snapping through the leaves.
On my feet, I run down the slope, angling through the trees toward the street and the man who killed my bodyguard. Know where the shooter is because I saw his muzzle flash in the gray half-light. Find him with his back to me, leaning forward against a boulder and watching the gate across the street. An automatic rifle lies on the rock before him. He holds a pistol in his right hand. Glancing up and down the street, I see no vehicle and no other people.
The teenage girl is running at my left, watching me move forward as I set my feet carefully in the soft soil scattered with rocks and small boulders. She is dressed in black running clothes and shoes, her hair in a ponytail like mine. She matches my pace, placing her feet carefully.
The shooter spins about as I run up behind him, both hands reaching behind my right ear. He raises his gun hand as I begin the iaido, slashing across with the katana and slicing him deep from left ear to right armpit. He croaks wetly as I spin about, returning the blade to its saya and completing the iaido. As I sprint up and across the slope, the girl runs at my left, keeping pace with me.
Back in the trees, I turn directly uphill, running hard to get above and behind the men with the shotguns. Once I cross the trail, I turn right again and begin moving carefully down the hill.
One big, barrel-chested guy carrying a shotgun is peering into the trees where I rolled away down the slope. He has an automatic rifle slung over one shoulder and a Colt like mine jammed into his belt. He forces his way through the brush, making a lot of noise. Probably thinks he wounded me. All he has to do is find me curled up and bleeding in the bushes, point the shotgun and finish the job.
Crouch between a tree and a boulder, still as the rocks around me except my eyes, scanning for the second shooter. The girl mimics my stance, watching me.
A few seconds later, a slim guy moves carefully from the trees at the left. He has discarded the shotgun in favor of the automatic rifle. He walks carefully downhill and scans down the barrel as he holds the rifle to his shoulder—an awkward way to walk through the woods.
The distance is forty feet through brush and trees in poor light. Stand still, breathing silently as I watch them move gradually into the trees. Follow them, angling to the left as I catch up. The girl keeps up easily, watching how and when I move.
The slim guy steps from tree to tree, moving much better than his partner who simply shoulders his way through the brush. Slim lifts his rifle to look down as he steps over a small boulder. When he hears movement behind him, he begins to turn, holding the rifle above his left shoulder.
In a single, practiced motion, I draw the blade and slash across from right to left, drawing the blade toward me. My strike opens his rib cage beneath his left arm from his spine to his sternum, splashing dark blood down his side. Continuing the same movement, I rush the big guy, who is holding the shotgun across his chest as he steps up on some boulders to look down the slope. Both my hands hold the blade low and to my left.
All of this happens in a single moment. The big guy turns to face me, startled, beginning to raise the shotgun. Swing the blade up, turning as I open him from crotch to chin. Between my raised arms, I see another guy behind him, his automatic rifle already at his shoulder.
Continuing my turn, the sword in my right hand, I drop and roll behind the big guy. Three distinct thuds punch his body into mine, forcing me backward over the rocks. Tumble to the pine needles on a flat rock below, landing on my feet and then my hands. Sliding backward on the needle-covered slope, I turn and scramble down the hill toward the street. Sheathing the sword once more, I run until I reach the edge of the trees. Sliding to a stop, I look right then left.
The girl stops beside me, her eyes wide. She looks at me and then glances about us.
A white van is idling at the curb, its sliding side door open. Standing beside the van and smoking a cigarette is a young man shivering in the cold as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks nervously into the trees.
Run up to him as he watches me, his mouth dropping open. A flying kick to his chest slams him into the van, where he slumps to the floor. Clutching his chin and his hair behind, I twist his head and hear the popping crunch. Pulling him inside the van, I pull shut the sliding door. Open the driver's door and step out. Pulling the Colt from the back of my pants, I jack a round into the chamber and watch the trail.
The girl walks around the van and stands near the rear wheel, watching me. Her mouth is slightly open as she breathes deeply, catching her breath after running down the hill.
Maybe a minute later, the third rifleman comes running down the trail, watching the ground at his feet, the rifle held high in his left hand. His momentum carries him to the passenger door. He clutches the door handle and looks at me wide-eyed.
Shoot him twice in the face. Stuffing the Colt back in my pants, I run over to crouch beside my Japanese bodyguard—dead. Lift him to my shoulder and carry him to the electric cart. At the guard shack, I pull to a stop and two guards rush up.
One guard says, "They hit one of the Pere entrances. RPG attack on a dark Buick with three people inside. One's on the way to the hospital and two are dead. Obviously, they thought it might be you."
"Who is dead?"
"The Aliversal CEO and COO were in the back seat."
"Damn."
"What happened, Jill?"
"Five men attacked us at the back gate, all dead," I tell them. "Two in a van, three in the woods. You," I say pointing to one, "Secure the back gate area until the police and ambulances arrive." He sprints for the back gate. The other helps me carry the dead guard inside the small guard building.
Pick up the phone and dial 911. Speaking slowly and distinctly, I give my name, location and the phone number of the guard post. Tell her that my bodyguard and I were attacked across the street from the rear gate of Baron Ranch. Send police and an ambulance to the front entrance. Repeat it all for her and then ask her to call Detective Don Locaccio and ask him to come as well. She is asking me to stay on the line until the officers arrive when I set the receiver on the counter.
Removing the dead guard's katana and my Colt M1911A1, I set them on the guard post's desk. His is a fine weapon but it is less than ten years old. Mine is centuries old and I don't want it gathering dust in police custody for the rest of my life. As I walk up to my house, I look around for the girl but, of course, she is gone. Clean the sword thoroughly and lock it away.
When the telephone finally rings, I'm toweling off after a shower.
"Jill, Don here. We're on our way up."
"Door's open." Start a pot of coffee, set out several mugs, leave the front door ajar and get dressed in one of my pantsuits. When Don and the other officers arrive, my hair is still wet and I'm sitting at the counter writing my version of events. My Nevada concealed carry permit is on the counter.
Don walks in with one of the security guards and two other detectives. One is young and other is short and grotesquely fat. He immediately looks around for something to sit on besides a barstool, like a chair, which of course, I do not have, so he waddles toward the pool table.
"Please don't lean on the pool table, gentlemen," I say to the room at large. "It's level and expensive." Turn to a clean sheet and continue writing my narrative.
"You're Jill Price?" wheezes the fat detective, looking around at the empty interior. It's a lot like my life'little in the way of personal touches but plenty of tools and equipment.
"Call me Jill," I say without looking up.
"Uh, Jill," he says with a pronounced wheeze, "Are you injured?"
"Nope."
He waggles fat fingers at the young detective, who sets the guard's sword and my Glock, wrapped in plastic bags, on the counter. "Are these your weapons, Jill?" he asks.
"Yep," I say and push the permit along the counter. "Here's the permit," I add as I continue writing. In fact, I'm almost finished.
The fat one waves an arm. The young detective picks up the permit and hands it to the fat one who inspects it carefully. He hands it back to the detective who returns it to the counter. "Do you carry at all times?" he asks.
"Most times."
"We need you to come down the station to make a statement, Jill," says Tubby.
Initial and write the date on all three sheets of paper. Sign my name and write my address, telephone numbers at work and home on the last page. Standing, I pick up the permit and put it in my pocket. Pushing the pages along the counter, I say, "Here's my statement. I'm going to work. You can reach me at Doc's Place or here." Walk toward the garage.
"Excuse me, Ms. Price," says the fat detective "we need you to walk the scene with us. Explain what happened. Go over your statement."
Pausing, I turn and face him from across the room. "This attack and the one at Pere were assassination attempts, Detective. In a few minutes, the feds are going to walk in here and take over both scenes and all the evidence as part of an on-going investigation. They will contact me. Coffee's ready. The guard will let you out when you're finished looking around." Turn to leave.
He blurts out in a high-pitched voice, "There's a van out there with one man shot and another with a broken neck. In the woods, crime scene investigation found three more men dead. Two are cut almost in half. Another is gutted from crotch to throat like a pig." He sputters out the last sentences. "Five men are dead, Ms. Price. We can detain you!"
Stopping once more, I turn to look at him.
"Joe?" says Don.
"What?" says the fat one.
"Those five out there were paid assassins, armed with automatic weapons, shotguns and .45 semi-autos. Jill doesn't even have a scratch."
"Yeah, so?"
"There are three of us," says Don. "Let Jill go. The feds'll handle it."
Glance at Don, turn and walk to the garage. Back the Buick out and drive to Carter's, where I order a big meal. The owner and his wife, Millie, hunt and fish often. This morning, they have free-range venison as well as lingcod fillets. I order both with juice, vegetables and fresh fruit and tear into it. Everything is delicious. Afterward, I clean up and drive to work.
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