Forty-two
Since kneeling behind the shrubbery, I had avoided looking to the left, toward the Ainsworth house, or to the right, where flames from the gasoline fire unfurled like the flags of Hell. My eyes were somewhat dark-adapted once more.
Out there in the night, where the driveway turned from east to south and proceeded toward the residence, dark figures appeared. The brightly lighted residence no doubt compelled them to remove their night-vision goggles.
They were clustered together. Difficult to count. Closely grouped, they made one target. Tempting. But even if they remained in tight formation until they reached the front porch, I couldn’t be sure of dropping them all. My weapon might not be set on burst-fire. I wouldn’t know until I squeezed the trigger. I was too far away to stand up and pick them off one by one. They would scatter, and I would have lost the advantage of surprise. Besides, I didn’t have sniper skills. I was a close-up killer.
I held my position until I was able to count them. Four. They ordered themselves into pairs as they came toward the house, which suggested that my idea of how they would do the job must be on the money.
The line of shrubs, defining the end of the lawn, grew waist-high, with a two-foot gap between each bush. I rose into a crouch and hurried toward the back of the house, not fully concealed. My powder-blue sport coat was definitely not the new black. I was better dressed for a prom than for secret ops. I counted on darkness. And the likelihood that they would be focused on the house rather than on shrubbery sixty feet to the west of it. Anyway, in about three seconds, I had put the house between me and them.
Nobody shouted or shot at me.
The back of the residence was as I remembered it. The veranda didn’t wrap to this fourth side of the structure. A large flagstone patio instead. A round table with a big adjustable umbrella and six chairs. Two lounges for sunning, a small table between them. At the end of the patio farthest from the house stood an outdoor culinary center: large built-in barbecue, four gas burners under a steel cover, double sink, under-the-counter refrigerator, storage space.
I sprinted behind that open-air kitchen and crouched there, the combat rifle in both hands and ready.
From what Carl had said to Emory back at the fence between the orchard and Blue Sky Ranch, the cult had secretly photographed Lauren and the twins, perhaps at a distance, with a telephoto lens.
You seen the pictures—them two girls, their mother.
When they reconnoitered the area, considering possible targets for the C-4, they had found the Ainsworths, too, and had most likely decided at once to put Lauren and the girls on their itinerary for a little sex, savagery, and satanic ceremony between demolition jobs. They would have scoped out the property; they would know what to find on the back patio. They wouldn’t have to snoop around the outdoor kitchen in the dark, wondering what it might be.
In spite of their soft-soled shoes, I heard them arrive. One of them bumped against a piece of patio furniture, and the other hissed his disapproval.
With caution, I eased up from a crouch, just until I could see over the hood of the barbecue. The two cultists were facing away from me, intent on the back door, silhouetted against the light from the kitchen windows.
From the farther end of the house came a hard crash and the sound of shattering glass as the other two creeps kicked open the front door. No turning back now. Neither for them nor for me.