Seventeen miles away, Two, who had excelled at climbing during training at Hess’ mountain camp, used handholds, grappling hooks, and rope silently and efficiently to scale the five-story building. On the cement balcony, he got out special tools to open the sliding glass door. It was a dark night and pitch black inside the apartment. He crouched, keeping a low profile, and reached for his mini-light to switch it on when a jungle-cat yowl sliced through the air and something attached itself to his face, smothering and stabbing at the same time.
As claws ripped his eyes, he grabbed the thing, pulled it from his face tearing flesh along with it, and flung it across the room. Just then, he heard a low growl like a sound from the bowels of hell, and sharp teeth clamped on to his groin and held fast. Two yanked out his gun. Shot the dog. Stepped over it and rushed to an inside door, barged through, and found himself in an empty den. He turned, went to the next door, and kicked it in. An office. The computer room. His face was bleeding. He could barely see. All he wanted was to double over and vomit from groin pain. But goddamnit, no! He could not fail. He would not fail.
Running back out to the main room, Two threw open the next door. Pitch black. Then, “Get out!” Next a blast. The flash blinded him. His body was thrown back from the force of the bullet as it ripped a hole through his chest. Fuck! He staggered back. His knees buckled. But instead of falling, he hunched over. He forced a turn and hobbled quickly to the balcony, expecting another shot any moment. But none came. He grabbed the rope, flipped over the balcony and slid the five stories to hit the ground hard. Hands raw, nearly blind from the scratches to his face, and bleeding like a stuck pig from the wound in his chest, he struggled to his feet and took off stumbling down the beach.
CHAPTER 18
Ridge’s phone rang at 1:30 a.m. Not good. He set his fork down and put the phone to his ear.
“There’s been a break-in. I heard the animals attacking, then a shot. I reached for the gun in your nightstand and ducked behind the bed. He smashed in two doors, then burst into our room. I fired. Hit his chest. He staggered back. Then out. Gone. I called 911. But Eric, he shot Pistol!”
“Jayne—holy shit—are you OK?”
“Yes, yes, but after losing Sean in Iraq—I thought I’d never touch a gun again. Then, with the blast and Pistol’s yelping, I was on automatic. I called 911. Oh, God. I think I shot someone.”
“You did good, baby, real good, but can you bring Jenny into this call?”
Ridge was up and moving, heading outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Terry on his feet, signaling for the check. The calls merged and Ridge quickly explained to his daughter what was happening and where he was. Luckily, Jenn’s condo was in Manhattan Beach, only a mile from Jayne. They all three stayed on the phone until Jenn arrived to find Jayne outside, holding Pistol wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket. Ridge, through her speaker, said, “Jenn—I called the vet’s emergency service. Hermosa Beach on PCH. They’re waiting. Go!”
Then he heard Jenny say, “Mom. What happened?”
Ridge said, “Jenn—she’ll explain on the way. Go. Please go.”
When he hung up, the cellphone started shaking slightly in Ridge’s hand. He dropped his arm, hiding it. Then, a sharp pain. Upper left chest. Momentary. Ridge ignored it.
Terry stepped up beside him. “I paid. I’m getting the car.”
Ridge just nodded. “I’m calling the police.”
Moments later, as the Vette tore out of the parking lot, Ridge reached into the glove compartment and pulled out Terry’s gun, thumb running over the barrel as if it would sooth him. “Whacking me,” he said with a growl. “That’s one thing. But breaking into my home, attacking my wife, shooting my dog? This is Holy War.”
“Copy that.” Terry took a corner on squealing tires and stomped on the gas again. “A goddamn fucking Holy War.”
At 2:15 in the morning, the doctor, looking tired and solemn, came through the white door into the waiting room. Ridge focused on the man’s eyes but couldn’t read them.
“One lucky dog,” the vet said.
Jenn squeezed her mom’s hand. “Thank God.”
“The bullet went right through. No organ damage. You can see her for a few minutes. But she’s sedated. Gotta stay that way for a few days while stitches set. We’ll know, by Tuesday noon, when she can go home.”
“Thanks Doc,” said Ridge putting an arm around Jayne. “Please show us back to her.”
After visiting Pistol, Terry and the three Ridges split up. Terry headed home, and Jenny drove Ridge and Jayne to the apartment where the police waited. Their home was a crime scene now and blood was on the carpet and on the walls. Mister was in hiding and officers were taking photos and trying to get prints. They had the rope and grappling hook in an evidence bag and a mini flashlight that the intruder had dropped in the bedroom after being shot. All in all, it was a mess. After the police were finally done and they’d given their formal statements, Jenn went home, and Ridge and Jayne went to bed in the guest room.
Eventually Jayne stopped shaking, but Ridge couldn’t let go of her. Holding her tight, he said, “You still planning to go back to San Francisco?”
“I think I need to. You know me. I need to work to get my mind off bad stuff.”
“Yeah. I know you,” Ridge whispered. “I’ll get you to the airport and you go do your thing and then you come right back here. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Two hours later, lying in bed and still staring up at nothing, Ridge decided to bail on the sleep thing. Instead, he pieced together his plan for a step-by-step aerial reconnaissance of 66 Sixteen Road in Goleta.
At 11 a.m. on Sunday, Ridge dropped Jayne at LAX and headed home to change into his flying stuff, make final arrangements, and pick up his satchel, a weathered black-leather bag with a ballistic-nylon fabric interior and long shoulder strap. He’d modified it years ago to carry his Sig Sauer pistol to and from the target range near LAX. The bag had a form-fit padded pocket for the Sig, and smaller internal compartments to hold four magazines and extra ammunition. The forward side closed with a Velcro strip that ran halfway down. By leaving it open, Ridge could grab the handle of the Sig, and slide it out without a problem. In California, it was legal to carry a pistol in such a case, with no magazine in the gun and no bullet in the chamber. And using the satchel was a convenient way of carrying all the pieces in one easy package. Ridge’s Sig was a P229 model that shot .357 hollow-point bullets from a 10-round magazine. Compared to his 9mm Beretta, the Sig was smaller. Lighter. And packed a bigger wallop. He was more accurate with the 9mm though. Probably because its barrel was 25% longer. But the Sig’s portability was hard to beat especially with the satchel. Might become critical—one never knew.
He checked his Sig first. Good to go. Then he donned beige cargo pants, white flannel shirt, and a chocolate-brown leather jacket. Putting his tan ball cap on his head, Ridge focused on the mission and phoned Torrance Airport. He usually rented airplanes at either Santa Monica or Torrance but preferred the latter. The skies over Santa Monica and the airport itself were often saturated with air traffic. Torrance was far less busy, closer to Redondo Beach, and getting in and out was much easier.
So, Ridge arranged to rent a blue and white Cessna 172SP at Torrance, a high-wing single-engine airplane with fixed-gear, but fast enough to get him up and down the coast in about 40 minutes each way. He also called Goleta airport and arranged a rental car. The trick was to get a vehicle with a navigation system. It was easy to get lost up there with the winding roads, especially in the mountains. And then there was the general lack of road signs, which Ridge always thought intentional to discourage tourists from motoring around. People in the Santa Barbara area, even Goleta, coveted their privacy. A big reason many moved there from Los Angeles.
On the map, Goleta was just above her sister cities of Santa Barbara and Montecito. Above—geographically, but not in other ways. Goleta was the stepsister of the group. Both Santa Barbara and Montecito were picture-perfect Mediterranean-type cities on sheer mountain coastlines, with residences that ran from expensive to obscenely expensive. Goleta had mountains too, deep forests to the east, and coastline to the west, but only flat lands in-between made up primarily of industrial parks and middle-class homes.
Ridge liked Goleta, it was a bit bohemian. But it certainly lacked the Mediterranean flare and smell of money in Santa Barbara, and more-so Montecito. On the other hand, Goleta had a nice little airport. Easy to find. Just north of the campus at University of California/Santa Barbara.
Ridge left Mister some Tasty Tuna, picked up his gear, rode the elevator to the underground garage, and jumped into Jayne’s black Infiniti sedan. He had a mission. Needed to get to Goleta, do his thing and return before nightfall.
Pulling the Infiniti from the garage, Ridge gazed at a strange, hazy glare, and thought, Shit. Overcast. The marine layer—moving in. He bent his neck further to look straight up and focused on low gray clouds. Only a few breaks. And heavy mist and blacker puffs, like cannon plumes, to the west. Not good.
After parking at the general aviation lot, Ridge hoofed to the Base Ops Building and then beelined to the Flight Planning Room, way in back. Opening the door, he stared at… empty. Stale smell. Dark, only dim glare from two windows at the rear. Ridge flipped the switches and heard, “No lights. They’re out.”
Peering to the back of the room, Ridge found a guy, hunched over, sitting on the well-used leather sofa near the Coke machine and restrooms. “What?” said Ridge.
“No lights. They’re out. Waiting for the electrician.”
