My rear wheels swing, gravel flying, as I pull through the gate, then up to the front of the house, skidding to a halt as gravel slides under the tires.
An alarm wails, a light flashing blue above the entrance, casting reflected light on a pair of unfamiliar vehicles. The door stands open, a dark and gaping hole to the interior.
My face is flushed and heated. Nonetheless, sweat, cold and sour, saturates my shoulders and spine.
Where are they all?
Mitch?
Oh, God…
Mitch…
For sure, I’d have expected de Palo to, at the least, have a couple of heavies manning the entrance.
A Glock sits in the holster under my jacket and, taking a few precious seconds, I consider my choice of firepower from what I have in the car.
Weight?
Manoeuvrability?
Stopping power?
No contest…
Stopping power.
