“No! I’m not going to leave her—”
“She’s called help herself. Get inside, now.”
Ky could hear another vehicle coming into the driveway, doors slamming, angry men’s voices. “But—”
“Now!” He tugged; she resisted.
Then she heard the voices more clearly, from over the wall. “What are you doing to Sera Vatta? Who are you?”
“Her security detail,” Rafe said to Ky. “They were only a block away. She’ll be fine now; come inside.”
Reluctantly, Ky went back in with him, securing the door after them.
“She’s still talking to me on her skullphone,” Rafe said. “Your phone was busy—you were calling the police, right?”
“No, MacRobert, in case there’s an attack on Aunt Grace. Sera Lane was calling the police.”
“Her security team is holding the first guys at gunpoint, and one of them hasn’t put down his weapon yet—the one still pointing it at the kitchen door. She wants us to stay inside, and quiet, until she’s sorted this out.”
Sera Lane was standing in the dining room doorway, looking worried. “Is everything all right? Is Sera Stella—”
“She’s fine,” Rafe said. “I’m sorry—I should introduce myself. Rafe Dunbarger, Ky’s fiancé. You’re the lawyer?”
“Yes; my name’s Lane. You’re sure?”
“I’m speaking to her by skullphone, Sera Lane.” Rafe now sounded, to Ky, the very essence of an unctuous CEO: fakey. “Her security team and whoever the other is are now at a standoff, with law enforcement on the way. Stella’s in her car, not hurt but trapped by the other car; it pushed her into the wall, and she can’t open the door far enough to get out. Nor can they get in, because they don’t have the right equipment.”
“Let’s watch on the vid,” Ky said. She went to the security station and switched on the screen, tilting it toward the doorway so Rafe and Sera Lane could also watch. She chose a driveway view from the others tiled across the screen, and enlarged it. “And sound,” Ky said, touching that control. The voices came in clearly.
“You have no right!” A burly man in black with a smudged SECURITY label on his back waved his arms at a man in a navy jumpsuit with a Vatta logo on the front. “We’re on official business; there are criminals at this address!”
“You still haven’t told me your organization or your name,” the Vatta man said. Two of his team pointed their weapons at three men now standing next to the wall in front of Stella’s car, their arms up. The Vatta vehicle, larger than either of the others, blocked the entrance. One of the six Vatta team members stood by the open gate, weapon in evidence but pointed down. Two more stood behind the angry man. Stella, just visible through the window of her vehicle, looked bored.
Sirens approached. Ky switched to the front-gate camera as a car marked PORT MAJOR POLICE DEPARTMENT nosed into the drive and stopped. Beyond it, across the street, a slender nattily dressed man stood behind the black palings of that yard, watching.
“What’s going on here?” asked the first officer out of the car.
One of the Vatta security detail turned to face him. “Ser, I am Harmon Gothry with Vatta Enterprises Security, part of Stella Vatta’s detail. That is her car, damaged and shoved into the wall. This car”—he pointed—“got between us, then ran into her purposely when she had gone through the gate, pushing her car into the wall. She is still inside. We are holding the perpetrators for you—”
“Is Sera Vatta injured?”
“She says she believes not, Officer. But she is unable to get out of her vehicle safely—the wall is too close on one side and on the other side she thinks the car that hit her is too close. Also she is afraid of these men.”
The officer who got out first nodded and signaled his partners. “I will need to see your identifications and take a field statement.”
“Of course, Officer.”
Ky switched the view to the kitchen door camera as the police officer walked up the drive. The house system had already captured his identification as well as the license number and insignia on the car.
“Have these identified themselves?”
“No, Officer. They have said they believe Sera Vatta, or her relatives in the house, are criminals. They offered no explanation.”
“You have to listen to us,” shouted one of the black-clad men. “We’re special agents—”
“Wait your turn,” the officer said. “You can have your say at the station.”
“But you can’t arrest us. We’re agents—”
“For the record,” the officer said, ignoring the man who yelled and speaking to the nearest Vatta employee, “name, identification, position?”
“Harmon Gothry, D-43725904, Vatta Enterprises Security Section, assigned to Stella Vatta for her safety.” He pointed to a pocket and when the officer nodded fished out an ID card and proffered it. The officer scanned it and turned to the next Vatta employee. In the meantime the other police officer moved in on the men being held against the wall.
“Did they show weapons?” he asked the Vatta men.
“Yes, Officer,” Gothry said. “One—that one over there—had his pointed at the house door. Both of these had weapons pointed at Sera Vatta’s car. We startled them and they did not shoot. Their weapons are behind us, near where they were standing.”
“I see them.” He took restraints from his belt.
“But we’re agents!” one of the men said. “Call our commander!”
“I’m sure your commander—if you have one—will hear all about this,” the officer said. “Best if you do what you’re told and don’t interrupt.”
“But—”
“Like that. Not helpful.” He grabbed one wrist of the leftmost man and twisted it expertly up behind him, then the other wrist and locked the hard-grabs on him. “You could’ve been comfortable in tangle-ties, but you just had to open your trap.”
“You’ll be sorry—when my commander finds out—”
“Some people never learn,” Rafe said, watching this. He turned to Teague, “Anyone you recognize from Malines’s warehouse?”
“No—but Mac and I killed the ones we saw.”
“Point. And maybe they’re not Malines but Quindlan.”
“I wonder how the Vatta detail let itself be cut off,” Teague said. “Isn’t that what happened when Grace was attacked, too?”
“Um. Need to check with Mac if he ever found out the details of that. But it’s not the same org. Grace’s security was military; this is corporate.”
“Still…”
“Right. Same tactic may mean same training, even same organization. Rodney, do you recognize any of those men, either side?”
“I haven’t seen all the faces yet. Wait—that one—” He pointed at the screen, a man in Vatta Security. “—that’s Manny Osuna. Before the big attack I was training under him for this kind of work. Six years ago, about.”
“Where was he when the headquarters blew?” Ky asked.
“We were both out on a training run. I was driving; Manny and Ivos Stamarkos-Kellen were observing and riding shotgun. Grace Vatta was the passenger. It was going to be my promotion test. We were a little less than a kilometer from headquarters, on the way back… the street bucked and I hit the curb. Everything shook; glass came out of the windows of a bar across the street; and pretty soon the debris started coming down.”
“What did Grace say?” Ky asked.
“ ‘Take me home.’ I turned around; Manny said, ‘Rodney! Go!’ and I hit the accelerator, yanked the car around the first corner, and headed for her house. Not the one she’s in now; the one on the outskirts.”
“Must have been a rough test,” Rafe said.