Four
They were uncommon burglars. Bridget’s formal dining room was on the third floor of her five-story brownstone, and so they had scaled the wall or jumped across from a neighboring building, either proposition requiring some athletic skill. Despite building codes, there was no external fire escape for them to climb; Bridget had that removed when she bought the place.
“If you don’t cooperate,” the tallest said. “Well—” He let the sentence hang.
Bridget realized their dark clothes had let them blend with the shadows, escaping notice by the block’s elderly lookiloos who were usually perched by their windows and who would have called the police. The clothes were tight, at the same time not restricting their movements and revealing them to be muscular. What little skin that showed had been blackened.
Professionals.
“Money and jewelry first,” the lead repeated, waggling the Glock for effect. He was the shortest of the three. “Be quick about it, eh? Then we’ll get to the good stuff you have stashed. The stuff too good to keep in your shop. We’re in a hurry. Places to go and all of that, you know. Chop. Chop.”
He had a gentle southern accent; Bridget placed him from Georgia. The other two clearly looked to him for direction. He stayed to the right of the window, out of sight to anyone who might chance to look in, and gestured with his head to the others. They split up, the one in gray going to Bridget, the tallest to Otter. Each produced a black bag and opened it.
“Shit,” Otter said, as he took off his watch. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Lacy gave me this.” The tall thief took it, held it up, and promptly tossed it on the floor and stomped on it.
“Timex,” the thief said. “Not interested. How about the ring?”
“Shit,” Otter repeated. “I just got this.” He worked the bulky class ring off and dropped it in the bag.
“Wallet,” the tall thief said. “And that earring, too.”
Otter wore a one and a half-carat diamond stud in his right ear; he grudgingly took it out and passed it over.
Bridget hadn’t surrendered anything yet. “Leave the boy alone.” She looked around the gray-garbed thief and got the attention of the leader. “The boy’s just visiting. Understand?” She carefully removed her watch, a stainless steel Cartier Pasha she’d paid three thousand for but was worth double that. “The boy is just—”
The lead thief brought the gun up and around and aimed it at Bridget’s face. “Shut up, you damn Mick. And where’s the safe? A woman like you … a place like this … there’s a safe. We want the good stuff.”
Otter said glumly: “If only we’d gone out for pizza—”
The tall one in front of the boy cuffed him. “Close your mouth.”
“Ow!” Otter hollered. “That hurt you son of—” Another cuff, this one harder.
“I said close it!”
The other thieves turned to look at the boy, and Bridget took advantage of the distraction. She brought her leg up in a roundhouse kick that caught the gray-garbed man in the hip. He was solidly built and Bridget only managed to unbalance him, but it was enough. While the man tried to recover, Bridget followed through with a lightning-fast uppercut that connected and sent a busted front tooth flying.
The man grabbed his jaw and doubled over, moaning.
“Marsh! You all right?” This came from the leader. “Marsh? Marsh!”
Marsh wasn’t all right. Bridget struck him again with the heel of her hand and stunned him. One more blow and he crumpled in a heap.
“That’s it! You move again and I will shoot. Ain’t nobody gonna hear a gun go off, all their windows closed this winter.” Once more the gun was pointed squarely at Bridget.
“All right.” Bridget held still, hands to her sides. “All right. Easy. Just don’t hurt the boy, hear me?”
“Tell me where the safe is,” he retorted. “Tell me now!”
Bridget indicated an oil landscape hanging above a mahogany server. “It’s behind that.”
“I don’t think so,” the leader said. “Rob, no more nice and friendly. Grab the boy—”
“No! I said leave the boy alone. Please. The safe is in my office,” Bridget said. “The safe with the ‘good stuff’ you’re looking for.”
“And where would that be? Your office?” This came from the tall man still menacing Otter. He had worked the boy around to the other side of the room, a good dozen feet away from Bridget. “Where is this office?”
“Upstairs and—”
“Don’t tell them, Mom!” Otter moved. He barreled into the tall thief, sending him into the dining table and bending him backward over it.
“That’s it!” the leader shouted. “You’re both dead. You’re both—”
Bridget crouched and sprang at the leader, fists forward and catching him in the stomach. The air “whooshed” out as he fell back with considerable force, upsetting a low table that was against the wall. The silver tea service on it went dancing across the hardwood floor and sugar cubes spun in all directions.
Another punch from Bridget and the gun flew out of the thief’s hand and landed in a corner. A quick kick followed, and the man fell on his knees hard. Bridget swung again, but the thief dropped and rolled, then jumped to his feet. He whirled when Bridget came at him once more, bringing up his heel to deliver a solid blow.
It was Bridget’s turn to fall back.
“Nobody had to get hurt,” the leader hissed. “Not you, not the boy. Now you’re—”
Bridget rushed at him, shoulder forward and driving into the thief’s chest. Behind them, she heard Otter kicking the tall one.
“You’re the ones in danger,” Bridget said. She flailed to the right, fingers closing on the back of a chair. She brought it around and struck the thief with it.
“You think?” the leader retorted. He was panting, and he wiped at a line of blood on his mouth. When Bridget raised the chair again, the thief caught it with both hands and wrenched it away, slamming it against the wall. Then he flew at Bridget, ramming her back into the dining table, tipping glasses and toppling a crystal handle holder. The flames played against the linen tablecloth as Bridget got to her feet, winded.
At the same time Otter pressed his own attack, trying to draw the tall thief near the window. Otter was a head shorter than his opponent, but anger clearly fueled him. He grabbed a chair and pressed the legs at the thief.
“Don’t call me ‘boy,’ you son of a bitch!” Otter managed to drive two of the legs into the man’s stomach, forcing him against the wall. Their feet crunched over spilled sugar cubes and something crystal that had shattered. The thief’s heel caught against the silver teapot and set him off-balance. Otter jabbed him again, but the thief was strong and knocked the chair aside and stayed upright.
“I’ll call you whatever the hell I please, boy,” the tall thief shot back. “I’ll call you fancy boy. Pitiful little fancy dancy boy.”
Otter dropped the chair and came at him, fists pumping. He swept his leg out and around, turning and smacking the tall man’s kneecap.
“Fancy boy, huh?” Otter kicked at him again in the same spot, clamping his hands together to form one fist and swinging hard at the man’s chest. “Fancy boy who took two years of taekwondo and six months of boxing.”
The thief reeled from Otter’s onslaught, but stayed on his feet and managed to dart deeper into the room, while narrowly avoiding Bridget, who was wrestling on the floor with the leader.
Grabbing the tablecloth, the tall thief yanked hard, sending plates and silverware clattering to the floor and keeping Otter at bay for a moment. The linen had caught fire, just enough smoke rising from it now to set off a ceiling sprinkler.
Water showered the combatants and made the floor slick.
“Fancy wet boy,” the tall thief sneered. “Soon to be a dead one.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a sap. “I’ll beat you to death.”
“And enjoy it.” This came from the leader, who’d gotten the upper hand on Bridget. The thief had Bridget on her stomach and straddled her back. He pulled Bridget’s head and shoulders up with a firm chinlock. “I know I’m certainly going to enjoy finishing this Mick.”
“No!” Otter shouted. He ignored his own opponent, whirled, and dove at the lead thief, landing a kick, but not one strong enough to dislodge the man. Otter came at him again, his heel catching the side of the man’s face this time; blood sprayed in an arc. “Get off my Mom. Get—”
“That’s enough!” This came from Dustin. “Stop it, all of you, before someone really gets hurt.” The chef stood just beyond the doublewide doorway to the dining room, pistol in his hand, but pointed at the floor. There were three men with him, all in dark pants and sport coats, one wore a plaid vest. “Everyone up. Game over. I declare Bridget and Otter the clear winners.”
The leader got off Bridget. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too much, boss.” He continued to wipe at the blood on his face. “Your kid’s pretty tough, looks like. Gave Rob a run. Holds his own.”
Boss? Otter mouthed. A pause. “Cool. Coolest birthday ever! This beats the hell out of my fourteenth.” He beamed. “Thanks, Mom.”
Bridget was slow to get up, nearly slipping in the water. She ground her teeth together; a couple of ribs were bruised or cracked. Straightening, she brushed at her blouse. Then she looked to the man in the vest. “See to having this cleaned up. And reset the sprinkler system.” To the thieves and Otter: “We will convene downstairs in the study after I change.” She grinned as she walked past her son and gave him a pat on the back. “Happy Birthday, Otter.”
Dustin and the three men backed up to let Bridget through the doorway.
“Dessert for Otter and I,” she told Dustin. “That cake you made. But none for our friends here. They won’t be staying long.”
***