Day of Wrath

The solid slugs were just that — one lead round filling the entire shotgun shell. They were terribly inaccurate when fired from an unrifled barrel, but they made very good “doorbreakers.”

The Winchester sabot rounds were more exotic. Each shell carried a smaller, finned projectile. Using them allowed a shotgun to be fired accurately at a distant target — and with enough punch to go through a steel door.

They’d almost finished when Peter emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of noxious vapor.

Farrell coughed. “Any problems?”

“Aside from my stinging eyes?” Peter shook his head. “The stuff’s curing now in the tub.” He took in the arrayed weapons with a satisfied smile — a smile that grew even broader when he saw the aluminum suitcase Farrell had set beside the bed. A small, embossed plate above the handle read “Mossberg.”

“I’ll be damned, Sam, you actually found one,” he said.

“Had to, didn’t I?” Farrell countered. “This whole thing would have been off otherwise.”

Peter nodded. “True.”

“I called eight places before I found one in stock, and even then I had to drive all the way out to Annapolis to get it,” Farrell said with some satisfaction.

“A gun store in Annapolis?” Helen asked.

“A boating store.” Farrell released the catches on the front and opened the case. A Mossberg 590 shotgun nestled inside, securely seated against dark gray foam. The stainless steel barrel had a Day-Glo orange plastic cylinder attached. The case also contained two boxes of special ammunition, three bright orange packages marked “Spectra line, 360-pound test,” two large, line carrying plastic heads designed to float on water, and two arrowshaped heads intended to carry a line longer distances.

“Say hello to the Mossberg line launcher conversion kit,” he said. “I paid extra to have them throw in the shotgun.”

Peter stared down at the Day-Glo orange cylinder. “Black electrical tape,” he said. “We’ve got to wrap that thing in tape.”

Farrell nodded. He plucked a grappling hook out of another bag. “I also picked this up at a sporting goods store.”

“Perfect.”

“There’s just one problem, Pete. Somehow you’ve got to fit this,” Farrell said as he tapped the grappling hook, “onto this.”

He held up one of the narrow, arrowshaped distance heads.

Peter’s boyish grin crept back onto his face. “Not a problem, Sam.”

He rummaged around in the pile of equipment he’d bought. He turned around. “Welcome to Thorn Construction, Incorporated.”

Helen and Farrell both stared at the small welding torch and goggles in his hand.

“Jesus, Pete,” Farrell said finally. “Louisa’s going to be so glad I gave you all our savings. That’ll sure come in handy around the kitchen.”

Helen hid a smile.

“French toast in one point five seconds,” Peter said matter-of-factly.

He put the welding torch down. “Any luck on the nightvision gear?”

“Yeah,” Farrell said, still shaking his head. He pulled two large boxes out of another bag. “I found these in the first sporting goods store I went in. And every store after that. Apparently almost everyone has this model in stock.”

Helen flipped open one of the boxes and lifted out a clumsylooking assembly that seemed like something out of a Rube Goldberg nightmare.

Two eyepieces were connected to a rectangular case and then fed into a single long lens. There were two straps to hold the whole assembly in place. One strap went around the wearer’s head while the other ran across the wearer’s chin. A heavy battery case in the back offered some counterbalance. Wires connected every component. It would have been comical if she hadn’t known how useful something like this could be. She looked up. “Russianmade?”

Farrell nodded. “They’re second-generation light intensifiers, but they’re not surplus. They’re brandnew, with a one-year warranty.”

“How much?” she asked.

“Seven hundred each.” Farrell shrugged. “One of the places had some Western-made imagers. They were nicer, lighter, and clearer, but they were also twenty-five hundred bucks a pop. My Visa card has overdraft protection, but that kind of tag would have given it vapor lock.”

Helen nodded her understanding. Counting the credit card bills that would eventually come due, they’d already spent more than ten thousand dollars of Farrell’s money. Obtaining additional funds would require cashing in some of his investments — and that would take time they didn’t have.

“You want to check them out now?” Peter asked.

“Let’s do it.” She adjusted the straps, slipped the Russianmade nightvision gear over her head, and clicked the battery switch.

Farrell killed the lights.

Helen fumbled for the focus knob, adjusting the intensifiers for a wide field of view. The familiar pale green image was grainier than that produced by the more sophisticated gear she’d trained with, but it was serviceable.