You’ve got to be kidding me…
It was bad enough that there was a guy outside who wanted to kill him. Now there was someone inside the house who wanted to kill him, too. Me. If I could only find him.
Where the hell are you, Mathias? Where did you go? And why?
I knew my way to the kitchen from my first trip out to the house. I highly doubted he was just getting a snack, but it was as good of a place to start as any.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I made my way across the foyer and down a wide hallway. Before I even reached the kitchen I heard it. A low rumbling beneath me. An engine starting up. Shit.
I scrambled to my feet, blindly turning every door handle I could see in my path. Bathroom. Damn. Coat closet. Damn. Finally, the winner—the stairs to the basement. I started down, phone out front, the light from the screen allowing me just enough vision to see the steps.
What the hell is this?
The “basement” was only another hallway. Narrower, like a tunnel. The sound of the engine was getting louder, revving. I started to run. A light hit me square in the eyes. Two beams. Headlights. Von Oehson was making his getaway.
Over my dead body.
I’d bolted out from the end of the tunnel directly in front of his path, the curled nose of a Ferrari screeching to a halt only inches from my knees. It was a standoff in the middle of a massive garage with a car collection that would make even Jay Leno jealous. They must have been worth a hundred million dollars, with each car more exotic than the next. At least the ones I could make out against the glare.
Von Oehson lowered his window. I lowered my Glock.
“We both know you’re not going to shoot me, Dylan.”
“Maybe I’ll just shoot out your tires instead.”
His smug face returned. “You’re going to run out of bullets before I run out of cars.”
I truly hated this guy.
But there was no time to dwell. The piercing sound of the home alarm system suddenly kicked in; it was the one thing the gunman couldn’t cut the power to. He was in the house. Great. Peachy keen.
“Get in or get out of the way,” barked von Oehson, hitting a button to open a double-wide garage door that was up a ramp after a quick right turn behind me.
I stood there, still blocking his way, trying to think of another move to make. If there was one, it wasn’t coming to me. Von Oehson revved the engine, forcing my hand. The gunman was surely on his way down now.
I got in.
We sped off before I could even close the door behind me, the tires screaming against the polished pavement as we turned up the ramp.
“Hold on,” he said, as we hit the lip of the driveway, the front wheels going airborne. They landed with a jolt, my head banging against the back of the seat before I could turn to look behind us.
“Where were the keys?” I asked, as we skidded out onto the street.
“What?”
“The keys!” I shouted. “Where do you keep the keys?”
Von Oehson could hear me, although he hadn’t arrived yet at why I was asking. Suddenly, he realized. “Fuck!”
Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.