A battle zone in Beverly Hills

‘That’s not good,” Bonner was saying, his gun inches from Falco’s head. They both stood at the end of the dining room table, staring at the monitor above the kitchen door. “Not good at all.”

“Drama queen.” Genie shot her husband a look. She had walked in moments ago, Ernesto on her heels, the Beretta at her back.

Bonner rolled his eyes. “That means a lot coming from you, baby.”

“I thought your gate’s supposed to lock automatically,” Ernesto grumbled.

“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to shut it first.” Falco gave Ernesto the world’s smallest smile, then looked back at the monitor.

The other three followed Falco’s gaze. Two large men wearing suits and holding guns were approaching one of the side doors. The first man reached out and checked the brass handle. He shook his head and kept walking.

“The cameras are motion-sensitive,” Falco explained. “We can follow those two all the way around the house.”

“Great,” Bonner commented. “I always wanted to watch hit men case a joint. Right before they broke in and killed me!”

“What’s your problem?” Genie snapped. “At least you’ve got a gun.” She shoved her hip angrily into Ernesto, who jabbed the gun deeper into her back.

“Without that flash drive, I’m dead anyway,” Bonner snapped back. “In case you haven’t noticed, I missed my flight to Cabo.”

Genie’s face showed an emotion Bonner had never seen before. A cross between amusement and that pout he hated. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“What?” Falco blurted, then immediately regretted it.

Ernesto returned the world’s smallest smile, and said, “That’s right, Antonio. And I think I’ll keep it for a while.”

“Think again,” Evelyn Falco said, cocking a sawed-off shotgun.

“Honey!” Falco croaked.

“Not anymore,” she corrected him, her tone flat, her eyes locked on Ernesto’s gun.

“But a shotgun?” Falco whined. “I thought you trimmed roses.”

“We all have our secrets.” She stood barefoot in the alcove, hidden by the large china hutch her husband had purchased on their honeymoon years ago. Back before he got elected. Before he started to wander.

Before she started to fall in love with Hermann Hauser.

In his study next door, Hauser dropped the phone and started to run. Carmen had been explaining Palmieri’s blackmail scheme when Evelyn appeared on one of the screens. She’d walked through the back alcove of the dining room, pointing a gun he recognized at Ernesto. It was the unregistered shotgun Hauser kept in his garage. Near that old convertible she liked so much. Now he knew why.

Hauser crossed Falco’s lawn, Baby Doll gripped tightly in his hand, and punched in the code Evelyn had given him weeks earlier. The gate swung open. Hauser made it to the front door and was about to shoot the lock when a bullet whizzed by his head. He rolled and came up firing. The first of Palmieri’s thugs fell face-down into a rosebush, his gun clattering across the cobblestone walkway. The other man dropped to a knee and pulled the trigger.

Hauser felt the bullet catch his shoulder as he flattened to his stomach and fired off two quick shots. He watched the man flinch, saw crimson petals blossom from his chest. The man’s mouth carped silently. He blinked, and toppled sideways like a fallen tree.

“What’s Harry doing with a gun?” Falco exclaimed, watching his neighbor on the monitor.

“His name’s Hermann,” Evelyn snapped, and disappeared through the alcove, her bare feet slapping toward the front door.

Shaun Morey says that “writing fiction is what gets me up in the morning. It’s also what gives me those recurring nightmares.”