CHAPTER TWENTY
THE TIRES BENEATH ALF’S borrowed beater kicked up gravel as he took a too fast turn into Piers Randolph’s driveway. He slammed on the brakes when he saw the gate and sat there for a moment, thinking.
The sound of a boat motor roaring to life barely registered, until it was followed by a gunshot. Alf gunned the battered white police cruiser and slammed into the black gates protecting Randolph’s drive from unwanted visitors. The gate flew back, crashing against the brick pillars holding it in place, and Alf pressed the gas to the floor, spitting gravel as the elderly car fishtailed a moment before the bald tires caught and he surged forward.
Alf’s gaze slid around the property as he plummeted toward the big lake house. Another series of gunshots had him slamming on the brak
