Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,47

ringing.

She heard feet on gravel—someone running away.

She cursed and charged out of the garage.

When she reached the driveway, a gray Volvo was peeling out in front of the house.

She could’ve let it go, but she was mad.

She dropped to one knee in the front lawn and opened fire—engine block, wheel, wheel, passenger’s side window. The .357 did its work. The Volvo spun sideways, plowed down a brick mailbox and shuddered to a halt in the front yard of the neighbor’s house. The windshield was shattered. Steam billowed from the hood.

The driver’s side window rolled down. A Colt pistol was thrown out. A tattooed arm appeared, feebly waving a bloody white rag.

Maia advanced, weapon trained on the driver. The neighbors were coming outside to see the excitement. One called, “Officer? You all right?”

It took Maia a moment to realize he meant her.

She looked at the man in the Volvo.

He was a middle-aged Anglo, an ex-con judging from his tattoos. His forehead was lacerated, his left hand a bloody bandaged mess. Maia had never seen a more miserable-looking assassin in her life.

“He didn’t tell me you carried a damn bazooka,” the man complained.

“Who didn’t tell you?”

He gave her hound dog eyes. “This is where it gets ugly, I guess.”

“You got that right, Tattoo,” she told him. “Get out of the car.”

I DIDN’T CARE IF THE COPS STAKED OUT MY HOUSE, but I wished they’d be consistent about it.

Apparently they hadn’t been watching when some madman invaded and attacked Sam. But now that Sam was stuck inside, wounded and waiting for my help, Detective Kelsey and a uniformed officer had decided to camp out on South Alamo. They sat on the hood of a patrol unit, sipping coffee and having a nice little chat.

Fortunately we’d planned for this contingency.

I watched from the end of the block as Guy White’s henchman Alex drove a delivery van in front of my house. He slowed down next to Kelsey. Ralph rolled down the shotgun window, whistled, and the van took off.

The effect was absolutely brilliant. Kelsey managed to spill his coffee, tangle his gun in his holster and trip over his own shoelaces. By the time both cops were in their car and in pursuit, Ralph, Alex and the van were long gone.

“Pull around back,” Madeleine ordered our chauffeur. “And keep the engine running.”

“Alex does know how to evade police?” I ventured to ask.

Madeleine raised an eyebrow. “Alex’s first job was driving for a drug cartel in Houston. Ten minutes from now, your friend and he will have changed cars three times and the cops will pull over some little old lady in that delivery van. You watch.”

Not having much choice, I took her word for it.

We walked up the back steps of my house and entered Chez Bloodbath.

• • •

RED WAS SPRINKLED ALL OVER THE linoleum. It made an arc across one wall and speckled the countertops.

In the midst of the carnage, Sam and Mrs. Loomis and my cat, Robert Johnson, were having chamomile tea at the kitchen table.

I said, “Holy Jesus.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Sam informed me. “Lot of blood, is all.”

“Your ear.”

“What?” Sam cupped his hand around the mass of bandages on the right side of his face.

“The bastard shot off your ear.”

“Only the lobe,” Mrs. Loomis corrected wearily. “I put iodine on it.”

“What?” Sam yelled.

Mrs. Loomis told me the story while Madeleine inspected the scene. Robert Johnson lapped spilt tea and milk from Sam’s saucer. Sam must’ve been more shaken up than he let on. He didn’t bother shooing away the cat.

When Mrs. Loomis was done, Madeleine held up a newly rinsed meat cleaver from the sink. “You stabbed the intruder with this?”

Mrs. Loomis shrugged. “I wanted him to leave.”

“Impressive,” Madeleine said.

“I don’t pay you enough,” I said.

Mrs. Loomis tried to give me a reproachful look, but she was blushing too hard.

She described the intruder as a wild-eyed Anglo, grizzled hair, leathery skin, grungy flannel shirt and heavily tattooed arms. Unfortunately, that sounded like half the people I knew and several of my relatives.

“He said something odd,” Mrs. Loomis added. “He said: ‘Where is she?’”

“Where’s who?” I looked at Madeleine for her opinion.

She shrugged. “Maybe wrong address. Maybe he was a random burglar.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Or maybe he was Frankie’s killer.”

Sam perked up. “Frankie White?”

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—that he’d heard me, or that he knew who we were talking about. “Sam, you remember Frankie White?”

“What?”

“Franklin White!” I yelled.

“Yeah. Kid who got clobbered to death, right?