I was still about to gasp from Mike Peralta using the word closure. I managed, “You go. I’ll hold down the fort. Who knows, we might get another client.”
“You’re coming with me. You know San Diego.”
“It’s changed a lot since I lived there.”
“Well, you used to live there.”
I tried not saying anything.
“You won’t see Patty.”
I could feel my cheeks warming. “This has nothing to do with Patty.”
“I know you,” he said.
Yes, he did. He had known me as a young deputy he trained. And then all the years I was away teaching, finally ending up in San Diego. And he had known me when I was married to Patty in San Diego. One marriage dead. Another on life support.
“It’s been a long time, Mapstone. She probably doesn’t even live there any more.”
I stared at the wall. Patty would never part with that house in La Jolla.
The room was still. Only the sound of intermittent traffic on Grand Avenue penetrated the walls. Then a short train rumbled past and the sun started coming through the blinds. Peralta pretended to ignore me.
“Fine. I’ll go. Fuck you.”
The gunfire put me on the floor.
It was a loud and mechanical sound. One long burst, chucka-chucka-chucka-chucka-chucka. Then two short bursts. I pulled out my heavy Colt Python.357 magnum with a four-inch barrel, rolled away from the door, assumed a firing position, and waited for the shooter to break in. He would be looking at his eye level. I would be below him and put three rounds into his torso before he could take his next breath.
An engine revved and tires screamed against pavement. Then all I heard was silence. The eighty-year-old glass of the windows was untouched. The front door was secure. I wasn’t sweating anymore. The ancient linoleum floor was cool. It smelled of old wax and fresh dust.
When I glanced back, Peralta was emerging from the Danger Room. In his hands was the intimidating black form of a Remington 870 Wingmaster shotgun, extended tube magazine, ghost sights.
He racked in a round of double-ought buckshot, producing the international sound of Kiss Your Ass Goodbye.
“That was an AK-47,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I was shot at enough by AKs in Vietnam that I’d never forget the sound.”
I stood and moved along the wall toward the door.
“Mapstone.”
I turned.
“Let’s go out the back door.”