Chapter 48

Eric’s biker friend took a step back, looking a mite disappointed.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” said Eric. Morgan raised his gun in a position that indicated he would rather shoot than hear any more of Eric’s lame remarks.

Eric’s hip seemed to be bleeding once more. He must have pulled open the wound in going to kick Morgan. Sooner or later, a torrent of blood was going to flow in this house again, no getting around it. But as the situation stood, he had lost enough of his own precious life’s fluid, and he began to be angry at the men who confronted him.

Eric looked at his friend, the motorcyclist. “You were in Afghanistan?” he asked.

The man snorted. “I was a Navy attorney during Iraq,” he said. “In D.C.”

“Oh, Navy.” Eric smiled.

“This is touching,” said Morgan. “Let’s try the sitting down part again.”

Eric was glad to sit, actually, because he had lost blood and he was dizzy and tired. He sank his good hip into the sofa pillow, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t drip on the upholstery, but knowing he would. He closed his eyes, trying to think of a solution. Nothing sprang to mind. “I have to take a leak,” he said.

“You can wait a while,” Morgan told him.

“Not really.” Sometimes his best strategy, he thought, was simply being annoying. It had often led to unexpected results. And it came so naturally to him.

The phone rang and he struggled to his feet. “I don’t think I should let you answer that,” mused Morgan. “But it might be your sister. If you try anything funny, I’ll shoot your friend. Of course, you might not care.”

Eric glanced at the biker, who returned the look with some intensity. He picked up the phone. He felt weird. Had he lost that much blood? It struck him then that he might really die, that such an occurrence was actually possible in the scheme of things. He saw no sense in shilly-shallying around then, waiting to bleed to death. If he had a twenty or thirty percent chance of succeeding in a counterassault against the two of them, he should take it.

It was Helen. He felt a sudden terrible longing to be with her.

“Steinberg says he lost you,” she told him the moment he said hello.

“I’m just here watching television,” he answered and yawned. “Watching the game.” The drawer in the telephone table was open partway. He peeked in.

“What are you? Crazy? What happened in the hotel? And why didn’t you answer your cell”

“Where are you? At Frannie’s?” He played with the drawer, pulling it out and sliding it back in, pulling it out. He reached in, stepping in front of the drawer, and pulled out an OC pepper spray his sister had placed there. “Are you coming home soon?”

“You mean I should come over?”

“Sure. Bring Frannie with you, if you like.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, but it seemed the wrong moment to do so. He just hung up without saying good-bye.

“She’s coming,” he told Morgan. He dragged himself back toward the sofa. “I feel like shit,” he said. The pepper spray cartridge was in his hand oriented so it would spray out—not at him. “You fucking shot me, you asshole.”

He stumbled on his way to the sofa, turned and sprayed Morgan full in the face. Shouting, “Get down,” to warn the biker, Eric dropped into a crouch as close to Andrews as possible, spraying him directly in the mouth and eyes. The capsicum in the container wasn’t the diluted commercial stuff, but the stronger law enforcement variety he had bought at the security show in D. C.

Eric rolled away at the same time Morgan fired his gun. Wood chips flew off the table next to the sofa. Eric stood and kicked his good leg at Morgan’s shin. Any higher and his hip would have thrown him overboard.

The kick was gratuitous. Both Morgan and Andrews were gasping for breath and their hands were clutching at their eyes. “There’s water in the kitchen, if you can find it,” Eric advised. Morgan lifted his gun to shoot where the voice was coming from. Eric rolled to the far-side of the sofa.

The Navy guy, in the meantime, had come up to where the action was and began kicking at Morgan until the gun pointed in his own direction. He crouched behind Morgan, then also chose the sofa as a place of refuge, scooting behind it.

For a moment, the room was absolutely silent.

The two spies were blind and in pain from the spray, but still armed. Eric, who had gotten a touch of the spray himself, realized what discomfort they must be in. “You fucking son of a bitch, you’re dead,” growled Andrews.

Eric noiselessly crawled around behind the sofa. He smiled at his biker friend and put his finger over his mouth. He kept crawling. He might as well go get one of his guns and try to negotiate with these guys—or shoot them. Then he figured, what the hell, that would take more oomph than he had left in him.

“I have a gun now,” he said. “Put your weapons down and I won’t shoot you.” He popped up from behind the sofa and sprayed Andrews again in the face and grabbed the gun. Andrews released it. You could hardly blame the guy. One shot of this stuff was mean. Two shots was really overkill.

“How do I know you have a gun?” asked Morgan.

Eric hobbled up behind Morgan and put Andrews’ gun to his head. “This is proof positive,” he said. Morgan put down the gun. “Let’s all go in the kitchen,” Eric suggested. “My friend is going to call the FBI. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Kevin,” said the Navy biker. “You want me to call the FBI? Not the police?”

Eric thought. “Okay, call the Larchmont police. Ask for Lieutenant Haliburt.” But where the hell was his sister, anyway?

He turned on instinct, rather than at a sound. Jubei Kitani—of all people—was walking in from the kitchen, no doubt having entered the house through the back door. “Ah, some of my favorite people,” said Kitani. “Having a party without me?”

“Kitani,” gasped Morgan, recognizing his voice. “You son of a bitch. I’ll repay you for this.”

“For what?” asked Kitani. He sounded surprised. “What’s going on?”

Eric was more than puzzled himself. “What the hell are you doing in my sister’s house?” he asked Kitani. A barking dog pulled his attention toward the front entrance. Hiroshi bounded in and grabbed the biker’s wrist in his teeth, forcing the man to drop the cellphone.

“No, Hiroshi. Stop,” shouted Eric. He wasn’t sure what the right words were. “Friend. No. Bad dog.” Hiroshi dropped the man’s limb and whined, then ran to Eric and jumped on him, nearly knocking Eric over.

All the dog really wanted was to be loved, like every other family pet.