Read The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) for Free Online Page A

tripping over the odd box of new acquisitions or one of the waist-high rolling racks. It also kept the building from looking abandoned, and might in theory allow a passing patrol car to spot a burglar throwing a shadow. There was no alarm system installed, since the valuable volumes were locked in the safes, and since bookstores are not generally high-priority targets for junkies and other thieves in the first place, being famously short on guns, drugs, and jewelry.
    Now they were sure they heard the sounds of someone moving around in the store, interrupted by the dull thumps and pattering paws of additional cats sensing an unfamiliar presence and deciding a quick exit to some other part of the building or out the cat-door to the side yard constituted the better part of valor.
    The cat door was cut into the bottom of the regular door that led out to a stoop and thus to the side yard from the kitchen. Always kept locked, that side door was still the most likely entry point; anyone with some duct tape could have taped one of the small glass panes, broken the glass without much noise, and reached through to unbolt the door from the inside.
    Chantal and Matthew skirted the kitchen to avoid exposing themselves in the light. By hand sign they agreed to work their way around till they could position themselves behind the substantial shelter of the twin desks and front counter. If someone had broken in through the kitchen door they’d most likely try to escape by the same route, and the goal at present was to run them off, not to block their exit and consequently re-enact the shootout at the O.K. Corral.
    Seated in Marian’s chair, Chantal rested the butt of her revolver on the counter and leaned forward to acquire a good sight picture, pressing her chest down and making herself a relatively small target. She then gestured to Matthew, who threw on all the lights controlled by the front door switches.
    “Identify yourselves, you motherfuckers!” Matthew shouted. “We’re armed!”
    He winced as he heard books dropped on the floor, followed by running feet — moccasins or crepe-soled shoes, though, not heavy boots. It sounded like there were two of them, though all they caught was a glimpse of a black-clad figure sprinting for the kitchen door.
    And that would have been the end of it, except that this was the moment two more uninvited guests chose to come barreling in the now-unlocked kitchen door.
    There was much shouting from the kitchen. The two newest arrivals, who were not speaking English, appeared to be armed and were ordering the first set of burglars to get their hands up, or whatever.
    “Rashid, is that you?” Matthew shouted.
    “Mattieu, are you alright?” Came a voice from the kitchen. “We spotted these bastards breaking in here. Is my brother with you?”
    “Hakim?”
    “Yes, it is Hakim.”
    Matthew and Chantal moved tentatively away from the shelter of the front counter, advancing slowly toward the kitchen. Matthew gestured for Chantal to lower her revolver. She firmly shook her head no and kept it directly in front of her in a two-hand grip, though she did lower her point of aim, so if the weapon went off unexpectedly it would just harmlessly blow off someone’s kneecap.
    “I haven’t seen Rashid,” Matthew shouted as they approached, in part so the Egyptian would know they were coming. “He’s not here, Hakim.”
    They entered the kitchen. The original set of black-clad burglars were indeed being held by the two late-arriving Arabs in billowy white or beige shirts — hard to tell in the dim light — both of whom had produced knives which they held low, indicating they knew how to use them. The broad, curved, bright steel Bowie-looking thing in the hand of the larger Arab had a blade that must have been a foot long all by itself, almost a cross between a knife and a Gurkha Kukri. The black-clad burglars were white guys who looked pale and not particularly tough, one tall and thin, one short and