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Robin knocks at the front door. No answer. He knocks louder. He’s not talking to himself when he utters, “Come on, Mack—Answer the door ….” If his pounding on the door doesn’t roust him up, ringing the doorbell won’t either. He goes around to the back daylight basement door and bangs as hard as he can. There is a thick bronze ship’s bell mounted to the right of the door, so he yanks on the golden woven tassel. It’s loud, but he continues to attack the door with his fists.
The combination of the two brings Mack, clearly straight out of bed, to the door. The door opens hard. It sticks because it’s hardly ever used. Robin gives it a shoulder push as Mack pulls with both arms.
“Robin, hey, what’s up?”
“I just wanted to let you know that there are two suspicious shiny black cars parked at the end of the lane.”
“Get a look at them?”
“No, man, I didn’t want to seem suspicious or cause any trouble.”
“You did the right thing, Robin. Thanks. I’ll check it out right now.”
“You sure?”
“A phone call should do it.”
Back in the bedroom, before he can say anything Brianna loudly whispers to him, “Last night was wonderful.”
Mack bends over her side and says, “Because of you.”
“Who was at the door?”
“Robin. I have to go check something out. Just have to make a phone call, for now. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
Mack grabs his phone, goes upstairs to his office, and shuts the door. He sits on the light gray microfiber loveseat and punches in the number.
“Shit, man. Pick-up.”
“United States Marshals.” Finally! An answer.
“This is Richard C. Baldwin with an urgent call for my agent, please.”
“Please hold.”
“Richard! Everything okay with Brianna?”
“Couldn’t be better, thanks.”
“So, what’s going on?”
“Listen … There are two shiny black cars with tinted windows parked at the end of my access lane. They’ve been there quite a while: I’m getting a little nervous. Especially with Brianna here. Can you handle it, please? Let me know what you find?”
“Course man! I’ll shoot right over and have a look.”
“You’re the best.”
“I’ll call ya.”
#
“Okay—Scully!”
“Yeah, boss.”
“You’re dressed down. I need you to case a situation for me. Put on your cap; where it backward.”
“Take the Wrangler and head down to Old Farm Lane. There are a couple of suspicious cars parked there. They are waiting for something. Act lost. Just get them talking and take a reading. I’ll be at the top of the hill leading to the lane. Come back to me there and debrief.”
“You got it.”
Scully swerves and rambles down the hill toward Old Farm. He stops, then goes. He does that twice, then drives slowly up to the two black cars.
“Who is this, now?!” One impatient driver says to the other.
Scully eyeballs the men in the driver’s seats. Long black hair, slicked back. trimmed beards, dark skin. One with a tight wight turban.
The cars are parked in a one-adam-69; Scully chugs up.
“Scuse me, Hoss. I might be a little bit lost here.” Scully does a great dumbass redneck.
The Arabian glares at him.
“So, where am I, here? Do you know the name of this road right here?”
The dark man swings his door open, knocking Scully back, jumps out, and grabs him by the neck. Scully, with the bad end of a handgun to his head, is on his knees, not praying, but planning.
U.S. Marshal Tierney walks down the hill and rounds the corner at the bottom, careful not to be seen. He gets close enough to see Scully under the gun. At that moment, the other suited man gets out of his car and reaches for his weapon.
Four booming, crackling explosions ring from the woods up Old Farm Lane.
The man behind Scully falls right on top of him. The crown of his head swivels away.
A voice comes from the woods just a couple hundred feet up. “Drop your weapon you sack-a-shit, or you’re next. Hear me? Dead man! Dead man! Okay, you are a dead man in 3, 2, and 1!”
“OK. OK. OK.” And the weapon drops to the ground.
“Now, kick it away asshole! I said do it NOW!” Robin has this cop thing down, first time or not.
Tierney runs up to the lane.
Gun drawn on the well-dressed captor, he bellows, “U.S. Marshal Tierney. Identify yourself!”
“Robin! Neighbor Robin!”
“Robin, come down here and assist me, please.”
Robin jogs up to the dark stranger and spits on his black Bostonian shoes.
“Robin, I want you to keep your weapon point blank at this ragtop’s head. If he moves, I mean one iota, shoot him. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay sandman, open that head of yours up and tell me what is going on here, or my friend Robin will open it for you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Robin? Count to 3 and then pull your trigger.”
“We were hired by a Saudi named Omar El Mofty. He said the man who lives on this road could do him grave harm. He hired us to kill the man, leave him, and get back to Arabia.”
“Well, it looks like the man on this road already did one of you in. Think I should turn him loose on you, too?”
“No. Please. There has been some mistake. Eh? Yes?”
“Let me borrow that .357 hole-maker, Robin.”
Two thundering shots decimate the Arabian’s head, instantly dying his headwrap red.
“Scully—You alright?”
Turning to Robin, he says, “Okay, we’ll get you back home.
“And, Robin. Not one word of this to Mack. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it. Not a word. Think of something clever.”
The Marshals stuff the two bad men into the trunks of their cars and head up Old Farm Lane to Jimmy Pond.
Number one back at the office: A contract on one Omar El Mofty. He’s walking dead.
Number two: A comfort call to Mack.
“Just a couple hunters looking for ‘No Hunting’ warning signs.”
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