The Mastiff and the Cobra on the Loose

Richard folded over himself on the floor, palms pressed against his face, a terrible sound leaking through his fingers. The fantasy he had paid for—a neat accusation, no real casualties, custody handed to him cleanly—had died. Whatever he had set loose was no longer outside the law. It was coming for all of us.

A muffled round punched into the wall nearby, shaking dust from the ceiling.

It had not come through the front of the house.

The sound had come from the kitchen.

The intruder had circled us. He was entering through the wrecked rear doorway.

“He’s in,” Miller whispered.

He dropped the empty magazine from his pistol and rammed in another. In that terrified silence, the hard mechanical snap seemed loud enough to announce us to the whole house.

Miller fixed his eyes on me. His expression had gone flat and severe. “Marcus, make him look somewhere else when he comes around that kitchen corner. I need one second. You understand?”

My tongue felt glued to my mouth, but I gave him a quick nod. I searched the floor through the scattered glass and debris, desperate for something I could use.

Then I saw the little black burner phone beside the couch. Miller had supposedly discovered it in the ceramic bowl, proof manufactured to make me look guilty. It lay where he had abandoned it when the gunfire began.

I grabbed it. The flimsy plastic felt absurdly light in my shaking hand.

“Count of three,” Miller breathed. He lifted his sidearm and steadied himself behind the leather sofa.

From the kitchen came the deliberate grind of boots over broken wood. The man was advancing slowly, professionally, checking every angle. He had no idea we were waiting.

“One,” Miller said.

A long shadow spread over the linoleum and reached into the hall.

“Two.”

I locked my fingers around the phone until its edges bit my skin.

“Three.”

I hurled the burner as hard as I could past the sofa toward the wall by the front entrance. It struck with a violent crack, then skittered and bounced across the hardwood.

The figure in dark tactical clothing immediately swung out from the kitchen. He turned toward the noise, bringing his compact rifle up to fire.

Miller surged from cover.

Three shots exploded from his pistol in rapid succession, each one deafening inside the house.

All three rounds tore into the gunman’s chest. He slammed backward, and his rifle spat a wild shot into the ceiling before slipping from his hands.

He hit the hallway wall hard, slid down the faded floral paper, and collapsed across the floor. The rifle rattled onto the linoleum beside him.

My ears shrieked with ringing. For what felt like forever, no one moved. Only the damaged lamp gave off a thin electrical hiss somewhere behind us.

“Clear,” Miller called at last.

He kept his weapon aimed at the fallen man while edging around the sofa. With one sharp kick, he sent the suppressed rifle spinning far away into the kitchen.

Air finally rushed into my lungs. I rose on unsteady legs and glanced at Richard. The wealthy surgeon remained curled up on the floor, silently sobbing amid the ruins of his expensive plan.

“Don’t move, Richard,” I said, unable to hide my disgust.

I stepped into the hallway, careful around shards of glass. Miller stood over the body, chest heaving, then holstered his gun and took his radio from his belt.

“Dispatch, Deputy Miller,” he said, suddenly composed again. “Shots fired at the Evans residence. One suspect is down. Lock down the perimeter and send EMS plus additional units immediately.”

The radio answered with confirmation that help was coming.

Miller wiped a hand across his face and exhaled. “Jesus, Marcus. It’s finished. We got him.”

I studied the body. Black clothing, tactical vest, balaclava: he fit Richard’s description perfectly. He looked like the anonymous fixer a rich, frightened man might hire to erase witnesses.

“Take off the mask,” I told Miller. “I want to know who Richard thought he hired.”

Miller hesitated, then crouched and peeled the balaclava away. The dead man was young, maybe twenty-five, with a close military haircut. What stopped me was not his face: a heavy reptile-capture bag hung from his shoulder, reinforced handling gauntlets were tucked into his vest, and a silver Fish and Wildlife badge showed beneath the webbing.

I pointed at the badge as cold certainty took hold. He was a county exotic animal control officer. The man Miller had killed was not the hired cleaner he appeared to be.