Full Black - Brad Thor [8]
Unbuckling his seat belt, Ralston struggled to get out of the car. It was a mess. Adrenaline and fear coursed through his body.
What sounded like a muffled gunshot from inside the house suddenly refocused his mind on the threat that still remained.
It was pointless to waste time searching for the driver’s shotgun. Without a flashlight the chances of rapidly locating it were slim to none. The odds were the same for finding a secondary weapon somewhere in the van. Ralston took off in a sprint. He had to get up to the house and save Salomon.
Whoever was inside had undoubtedly heard the noise of the melee out on the service road. Whether any neighbors in this remote part of the canyon had heard the shotgun blasts and had called the police didn’t matter. By the time they arrived, whatever was happening here would be over. If Salomon was still alive inside, his attackers were going to be doubly determined to complete their objective and to get the hell out. That meant Ralston had to move fast.
Often, high-end home invasions were “inside jobs,” where the perpetrators had firsthand knowledge of the layout of the home. They were able to move quickly, knowing where everything and everyone would be. The one thing these home invaders wouldn’t be prepared for was Ralston, and Ralston knew the layout of the Salomon home well.
Based on where the van had turned around, it was obvious that whoever was inside had been dropped off at or near the home’s service entrance. Add one more point to the inside job column. Approaching the door, he saw that it had been propped open. It seemed that not only was this the way in, but it was also going to be the way out.
The good thing about the door having been propped open was that the alarm, which Salomon never bothered to arm, would have already sounded its quick, three-bell chime. No one heard Ralston as he slipped inside the house.
Near the service entrance was a utility room the size of a small family apartment. Here, all of the home’s mechanics were housed, including eight panels of circuit breakers.
Ralston cut the power, plunging the house into darkness. Once his eyes adjusted, he went for a weapon.
He could have used a golf club, but he preferred something he was more proficient with. In the kitchen, he found exactly what he wanted. It was the perfect tool—not too long, not too short, and incredibly sharp. He pulled the seven-inch fillet knife from the knife block and moved on.
Coming around the corner of the large island in the kitchen, he found what he assumed to be the victim of the muted shot he had heard from outside. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t Salomon.
In his midtwenties, in jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of Chuck Taylors, he looked like a college kid. Ralston had never seen him before. Who the hell was he? he wondered. A friend? A visiting relative? An employee?
The boy had been shot through the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. He was lying in a puddle of milk commingling with his own blood. An upturned bowl of cereal lay nearby. Ralston reached down to double-check him. He had no pulse, but was still warm.
Moving quickly, he crossed the kitchen and moved into the darkened dining room. From what he could tell, nothing was out of place. Salomon’s expensive pieces of art still hung on the walls and his box of antique silverware was still proudly displayed on the sideboard. That fact, coupled with the professionalism with which the boy in the kitchen had been dispatched, was making this look less and less like a home invasion and more and more like some sort of hit.
The thought was just solidifying in his mind, when Ralston heard someone step on the warped floorboard that Salomon had never bothered to get fixed.
CHAPTER 5
Ralston’s breathing all but stopped. Making sure he didn’t bang into any of the dining-room furniture and give himself away, he slipped across the room as fast as he could to the open double doors on the other side. Pressing himself against the wall, he gripped the knife tighter and waited.