Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

“Blocking an attempt on him is the best way for me to go on offense.”
    “I’ll trust your judgment,” Stone said.
    “Thank you. I want Vlad off the street as much as you do. My wife had a very close call this morning.”
    Peter finished his calls, and they went to lunch. After that, Stone excused himself, saying that he had to visit the Woodman & Weld offices on Wilshire.
    “Is someone driving you?” Peter asked. “I can get a studio car to take you.”
    “It’s all right,” Stone said. “One of Mike Freeman’s people is driving me.”
    •   •   •
    Later in the day Vlad parked across the street from the main gate at Centurion Studios and watched the employees leave work. One of them was driving an old Porsche Speedster, a car Vlad had admired in his youth.
    A few minutes later, a brown SUV drove through the studio gate with Peter Barrington in the front passenger seat. Vlad’s heart leaped; finally an opportunity. He waited for a couple more cars to follow the SUV, then he fell in behind it.
    •   •   •
    Half a block down the street, Stone Barrington sat in the front passenger seat of another brown SUV, with a Strategic Services agent at the wheel. “There,” Stone said, pointing. “I think that black car is following Peter’s.”
    The agent pulled into traffic. “How do you want to handle this?” he asked.
    “You’re armed, aren’t you?” Stone said.
    “Yes.”
    “So am I. Look for an opportunity to force that car over without attracting too much attention.”
    “I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,” the agent said. “We’re talking L.A. rush hour here.”
    “Do the best you can.”
    Five cars now separated Stone from Peter, and the black car following him was two cars ahead of Stone’s.
    “See if you can get alongside him,” Stone said, unholstering his pistol.
    “Wait a minute, now,” the driver said. “I can’t be involved in a shooting—that’s strictly against company policy, unless we’re shot at first.”
    “What kind of glass is in this car?” Stone asked.
    “This one has our stage one protection package,” the agent said. “The glass will stop a nine-millimeter bullet, and so will your door. It has a Kevlar lining.”
    “Then let’s crowd him—maybe he’ll take a shot at us, and I can fire back. I have the advantage of not driving, while he is.”
    “I don’t know about this,” the agent said. “Provoking a gunfight in rush hour traffic.”
    “I’ll take the responsibility with Mike Freeman. You have nothing to worry about.”
    “Except getting shot,” the driver said, but he pulled into the left lane and managed to get a car closer to the black vehicle.
    Stone racked his pistol and switched it to his left hand, leaving his right free to operate the window control.
    “How much noise are you going to make?” the agent asked.
    “It’s a .380—not as much as a nine-millimeter or a .45.”
    “There’s a small blanket folded on the seat behind you,” the agent said. “Hide your weapon in that. You’ll get a better jump on the guy if he can’t see your gun, and the blanket will suppress noise and muzzle flash.”
    “Good idea.” Stone turned around, found the blanket on the rear seat, and pulled it into his lap. He twisted it around his left hand; he would be firing through the soft wool. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, rolling his window halfway down.
    •   •   •
    Vlad caught sight of a movement in his side mirror that brought him to attention: a brown SUV, like the one Peter Barrington rode in, suddenly pulled out into coming traffic and passed the car behind him, pulling up close, riding his bumper. He looked for a way to get away from the car, but he was in the middle of a block, moving slowly, and was surrounded by other cars; there was no way out. Then the SUV swerved and pulled up in the lane beside him.
    Vlad yanked the silenced pistol from its holster; he recognized the front passenger as Stone Barrington, from photos he had seen. As the car pulled alongside him he did not hesitate; he fired two shots at Barrington.
    •   •   •
    Stone saw the two stars appear in the armored glass. He had his left hand, wrapped in the blanket, up to the window’s edge and got off two quick shots. The blanket burst into flames.
    •   •   •
    Vlad’s hat flew off, exposing his white hair, and he felt the passing of another bullet. He stomped on the accelerator and gained half a