Obsidian Butterfly ab-9

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "I believe you'll hurt me, if you want to."

  "Then you're brave," he said. He was leaning against the wall, fingers playing lightly with the gun on its sling at his shoulder.

  It was my turn to shrug. "Yeah, but it's not really bravery that's keeping me calm."

  He looked interested for the first time. "What is?"

  "After what I saw being done to Becca and Peter, I just can't get too excited about myself."

  Blade banged on the door. "We don't have all night, and I want a shower."

  Deuce and I both jumped when he banged on the door. We shared one of those embarrassed smiles, then he opened the door and ushered me through.

  Blade had tried to scrub at his clothes in the sink, but it hadn't helped. He tried to go through the door, and Deuce stepped in his way. "Riker won't like you taking a shower."

  "He told me to get cleaned up."

  "Simon told us to keep two people on her. We can't do that if you're in the shower."

  Blade looked at me. "I think Simon overestimated her. Anyone that throws up after seeing mild torture like that, I'm not afraid of. Now get out of my way, Deuce."

  Deuce moved to one side, moving just ahead and to one side of him. Blade brushed past us without a word, his anger trailing behind him like a loose coat. He slammed the door behind him.

  I went to the sink and re-wet the wash cloth. He was watching me in the mirror now. His eyes were still pleasant, but something else had crept in. Something that promised pain, the way the wind can bring the smell of rain against your skin just before it starts to pour.

  I started fishing in the purse. "I've got some breath stuff in here somewhere."

  "I could lock you in the room with Blade. He strips real pretty, and he's not very happy with you right now."

  My hand closed on the pen with its hidden blade.

  "You really think he could control himself enough to just rape me and not do other damage? Like you said, he's not very happy with me.

  "You never asked about my nickname," he said.

  The conversation was moving too fast for me. "I assumed it was some kind of card-playing thing."

  He shook his head while I watched him in the mirror. Then he started unzipping his pants. He was too far away to touch me, or for me to fight back. All I could do was wait for him to come to me.

  He slipped inside his open fly and lifted himself out in a smooth practiced movement. He was huge, impressive even limp and soft. If I hadn't seen Bernardo earlier, I'd have been more impressed. Of course, you could never be a hundred percent sure how big a man got when he was erect. Some barely changed size. Some grew a lot. Maybe he'd been very impressive. Then I realized he had a tattoo on it.

  I had to turn and look, rather than trust to the mirror. "Am I supposed to run screaming or ask to touch it?" I wasn't even scared. It was too bizarre.

  "Which do you want to do?"

  I admit I was having a hard time looking at his face and not his penis because it was growing, and I could see the tattoo more clearly. "Can't rape the willing, hey?"

  He smiled, as if this approach had worked before with women. It was certainly something a girl didn't get offered everyday. "I won't tell, if you don't."

  "Is that the two of hearts on your ... penis?"

  His smile widened.

  "Didn't that hurt?"

  "Not as much as it's going to," Deuce said. He moved slowly towards me, so I could get a good look. He had a flair for theatrics, did Deuce. I didn't want him using his flair or anything else on me. I turned and stumbled on purpose. He caught me, as he'd caught me all the other times. I put the pen against his chest, just under the sternum, angled upward. I was a vampire hunter. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was to find the heart with the first blow.

  I pressed the button the second I touched him. There was no upward movement, no feel of shoving the blade, because the blade did its own work.

  His eyes went wide, mouth opened, but no sound came out. I twisted the blade left, then right, making sure he'd never draw breath to warn the man in the other room.

  Deuce started to slide down the cabinets. I caught him and lowered him gently to the floor, glad he was one of the smaller men. I'd have had trouble wrestling Mickey's body around. The water was still running in the shower. Blade probably wouldn't have heard the sound of the body hitting the ground over the shower, but better safe than sorry.

  Deuce lay there on the floor, the blade sticking out of his chest, his pants still unzipped, his namesake naked to the world. He looked very sad lying there dead. If I had time before I left, I'd zip him up, but first Blade. I got the gun off Deuce's shoulder and put the sling around my shoulder. I checked to make sure I knew where the safety was, and that it was off. The switch on the side had three settings, not just two like the Uzi. I put the setting on high. Logic said it would make the most bullets come out in the shortest space of time. I got Duece's extra clip for the sub-gun. A clip only holds twenty rounds. Normally, that sounded like a lot, but not tonight. There wasn't enough ammo in the world to make me feel safe tonight. I put the extra clips for both sub-guns and the hand guns in the purse and crossed the purse straps across my chest.

  Deuce's backup was a 9 mm Glock. Personally, I find Glocks awkward to shoot, though I know people that swear by them, once the learning curve was over at the firing range. But I was happy to see this one.

  The guns were great, but they would make a lot of noise. If I shot Blade, it would bring the rest of the bad guys down on me, and worse yet, they might kill Edward before coming after me. They had three hostages. They only needed one.

  I needed something quiet. Trouble was I didn't think I could take Blade with a blade. Hand to hand, forget it. That left me with the contents of the purse.

  I pulled the blade out of Deuce's chest. Blood welled up darker than most, like heart blood is supposed to be. I cleaned the blade automatically on a sleeve of his shirt and slipped it into my front pocket.

  One of his hands was lying against the cabinet doors far under the sink. Maybe I did have more than just what was in the purse. I moved his arm and looked. It's amazing how much lethal stuff people keep in their bathroom cabinets. Almost everything has hazardous warning labels, yelling poison, caustic agent, if accidental contact with eyes, flush with water immediately. But there was a pile of big, fluffy towels, and I had Deuce's handgun. Homemade silencer. But I was going to have to hold the gun at about waist level, close into my body, to keep the towels tight enough to act as a muffler. Holding the gun that way meant I'd want to get in close before I fired. If Blade were as good as the rest of them, he'd have his gun close. I'd only get one shot, and it had to count.

  How do you get that close to a well-armed man? Answer -- take off some clothes. I took off the T-shirt and the vest. It wouldn't stop a knife, and the idea was that he wouldn't get a shot off, right? Besides, I was trying for romance or at least lust. Kevlar just lacks that certain something.

  I kept the bra. My nerves weren't that good. Besides, if he demanded I take some clothes off, it left me something besides my pants. It was like playing strip poker. More clothes give you more to work with.

  The shower went off. Shit. My time had just run out. My heart was suddenly in my throat. But I had to get in there, before he came out here. If he saw the body, it wasn't rape I had to worry about.

  I tucked the gun down the front of my pants, towels clutched to mychest and stomach, and opened the door. I closed the door with me leaning against it. Blade looked up. His dark skin was beaded with water, and Deuce had been right. Blade stripped real pretty. Under other circumstances, it would have been a pleasure to see him. Now, I was so scared I was having trouble breathing.

  He reached for the gun that had been propped against the tub. His knife sheaths were draped across the back towel rack like you'd hang a wash rag, to keep them dry but handy. He stopped in mid-motion, fingers trailing on the gun.

  "What do you want?"

  "Deuce sai
d to bring you towels." I let the fear slide into my voice, making it breathy.

  "How'd he get you to strip down?"

  I looked down, an embarrassed head bob. "He gave me a choice of him or you."

  Blade laughed, and it was a purely masculine sound. "He show his deuce?"

  I nodded. I didn't have to pretend to be embarrassed. I just didn't try and hide it.

  "Take off the bra." He straightened up, hand going further away from the big gun, but still too close to the knives and his handgun on the towel rack.

  I slid out of the straps, and pressed the towels to my chest, reached back and undid the snaps. I lifted the towels away from my body just enough to pull the bra out and let it fall to the floor. I kept the towels tight against me, for modesty's sake, and to hide the gun in my waistband.

  He stepped out of the tub and started to take those three steps that would close the distance. I turned my body, sort of sideways, getting the gun out, still held behind the towels.

  He was right in front of me, three steps away from all his weapons. He curled his fingers over the top of the towel and pushed them lower, exposing my breasts an inch at a time. He was less than ten inches away from me. His hand stroked the upper mound of my breast, and I fired. His body jerked, and I think he said, "Fuck." I kept pulling the trigger until he collapsed to his knees, eyes rolled back. His stomach and lower chest were a red ruin. The towels were shredded, and covered in black powder stains. The shots had been muffled, but not silenced. I waited there in the small room, the shots seeming to echo in the walls. I waited for cries of alarm. Nothing.

  I picked up my bra, but didn't take time to put it on, before I opened the connecting door and listened. Silence. Great. I got dressed and took all the weapons. Blade's handgun was a Heckler and Koch. Nice gun. I tucked it in the front of my pants where the Firestar would have normally gone. I put both the big guns over the same shoulder, and the knife sheaths I draped over the other shoulder. I brought the sub-gun around, clicked the safety off, and I was as ready as I was going to be.

  The last time I'd seen Edward, he'd been on his knees. His two guards had been standing. If I was careful and the gun didn't kick too much, I could take them out over Edward's head. My plan was to spray the room. As plans went, it was crude, and secrecy would be very lost if we were within hearing of anyone, but once I knew the noise wasn't going to get Edward killed, I didn't care as much. They'd have killed Edward because he was a threat, and they'd want to take out the threat at their back before turning to face a new threat. The kids weren't a threat. If Riker was dead and couldn't give the order to hurt them, then they'd be okay until we reached them. That was the theory, and it was the best one I had.

  Bristling with weapons, I listened at the outer door. Nothing. I opened it just a little. The hallway was empty. Better. I locked the door behind me so that when I shut it, people might assume it was occupied by more than dead people. The knives moved too much slung over my shoulder, so I set them down in a pile against the wall, being as quiet as I could. The corridor that had seemed so long, now seemed short because this was one of those plans that was either going to work really well or be a total disaster. In less than two minutes, I'd be at the door, and we'd see.

  58

  THE GUN HAD a short stock, but I braced it against my shoulder, and my arms were short enough that it was probably easier for me than the men I took them off. I was only steps from the open study door. Voices came out into the hallway.

  "What do you mean that Antonio and Bandit are missing?" That was Riker. "I thought your men were good, Simon."

  Shit. Was Simon back in the room? It didn't matter. It didn't change the plan. But I'd have preferred that Simon be elsewhere, at least until Edward was safe and armed. But Simon's voice came tinny and staticy. It was the intercom system. Shit, I didn't want them to hear the shots. The best I could do was wait until I didn't hear him using it. The longer I lurked in the hallway, the less chance the plan had. Someone was going to come up the stairs or out of the room or out of the study. If I lost surprise, it was over.

  I was scared, really scared, not about killing or being killed, but about accidentally shooting Edward. I had an unfamiliar submachine gun in my hands. I'd never even seen one like this used. If you aim too high with a machine gun, more the full machine guns, but the subs, too, you can actually miss. If I fired into that room and missed everyone, I guess I deserved to get shot. I took the last deep breach and eased around the door frame. I know people always stand in the middle of the freaking door in the movies, but that's a good way to get killed. Use cover when you have it.

  I had a split second to see the room. Rooster and Shooter had Edward covered, still on his knees. Alario the Witch had moved beside Riker's desk. I started firing almost before I'd finished looking. The sound was enormous, but the gun had almost no recoil. I had to adjust my aim because I'd been expecting to have to fight the gun, but it was smooth, for a sub gun. Shooter actually got a burst off, but it was angled wrong and took out the ceiling above me. Rooster turned, but that was it. Seconds for both of them to go down, seconds to move the gun in a continuous spray that took out the control panels and monitors, and Riker, sitting behind his desk. Alario was the furthest away, and he had time to dive to the floor.

  I went for the floor, too, hitting on my stomach as I aimed for him. I was angled away from Edward. I didn't have to be careful. I kept the trigger down and hit Alario before he could get a shot off. His body danced with the slap of bullets. There was something fascinating about the way the bullets shredded him, or maybe I just couldn't let go of the trigger.

  I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and rolled on one shoulder, gun pointed. I let off the trigger just in time. Edward was kneeling with a gun in his hand by the bodies of his guards. He had a hand out as if to ward off the bullets, as if he hadn't been sure I'd remember in time.

  We stayed that way for a frozen second, me on my side, the sub-gun pointed at him, finger still on the trigger, but not pressing down. Him with his hand out, the automatic pistol in his hand but pointed down.

  His mouth moved, but I couldn't hear him. Part shock, adrenaline, and part firing a submachine gun without ear protection in a closed room. I eased to a kneeling position and stopped pointing the gun at him. He seemed to realize I was having trouble hearing because he held up two fingers and did thumbs down. Rooster and Shooter were dead. Hurrah.

  I knew Alario was dead. I'd gone way overboard on him. I looked across the room at Riker. He was sitting in his chair, mouth gaping open and closed like a landed fish. The front of his nice white shirt and suit jacket were stained red in a row across the entire front of his body, including his arms. He was sitting so that I could see his hands clearly. I don't know if the force of the shots had pushed the wheeled chair back or he'd started that way.

  Edward pointed at Riker, and I heard one word of the sentence, "Guard." He wanted me to guard Riker, not kill him. Of course, we needed to know where the children were being held. I hoped he didn't die before he told us.

  My hearing came back in stages. I could hear Riker saying, "Please, don't." It was what Peter had been saying on the monitor. It pleased me that Riker was begging. Edward came back from checking the hallway. He had one of the sub-guns in his hands. He'd closed the door so that if we had company, we'd get a little warning.

  By the time he started asking Riker questions, I could hear, but there was a ringing echo in my head that didn't seem to want to go away.

  "Tell me where to find Peter and Becca?" Edward said. He was leaning on the back of Riker's chair, face very close to his.

  Riker rolled his eyes to look at him. There was bloody foam at his lips. I'd pierced at least one lung. If it had been both, he was dying. If only one, then maybe he could survive if he got to the hospital soon enough.

  "Please," he managed to say again.

  "Tell me where the children are being kept, and I'll let Anita call an ambulance."

  "Promise?"
he said, in a voice thick with things that should never be in a throat.

  "I promise, just like you promised me," Edward said.

  Either Riker didn't get the double entendre, or he didn't want to. People will believe a lot of things when they're afraid they're dying. He believed we'd call an ambulance because he gave directions in that thick wet voice. He told us where they were being held.

  "Thank you," Edward said.

  "Call now," Riker said.

  Edward put his face almost next to Riker's. "You want to be safe from the monster?"

  Riker swallowed, coughed blood, and nodded.

  "I'll keep you safe from the monster. I'll keep you safe from everything." And he shot Riker in the head with the Beretta .9 mil he'd reclaimed from Rooster's body. My guns were still on Mickey somewhere out there.

  Edward felt for Riker's pulse and didn't find it. He looked at me across the man's body. I'd always thought Edward killed with coldness, but his baby blues held a fine, heated rage, like a forest fire barely under control. He was still in control of himself, but for the first time I wondered if there would come a point tonight where he'd lose it. You can only stay cool and collected when things don't matter. And Peter and Becca mattered to Edward. They mattered more than I'd have ever thought anyone would matter to him. Them and Donna, his family.

  He told me to reload the sub gun. I did what he asked. If Edward said I'd nearly emptied an entire clip in just a few seconds, I believed him. I added the extra clip from the dead man to the purse.

  Edward went for the door, and I followed him. I'd thought that nothing could be scarier than Edward at his most cold. I was wrong. Edward the family man was downright terrifying.

  59

  HOURS LATER, THOUGH my watch said thirty minutes, I was plastered to a wall, crouched as low as I could get, trying not to get shot. I knew that I originally started out to rescue the kids, and I still planned to do that, but my immediate plan was just to avoid catching a bullet. That had been the plan for about five minutes. I'd heard the expression a hail of bullets, but I'd really never understood what it meant. It was as if the very air had turned into a moving, spattering thing, where tiny fast-moving objects peppered the air around you, bit into the solid rock wall beyond and left holes. There were two submachine guns down the hall, pinning us in cross fire. I'd never been shot at by fully automatic machine guns before. I was so impressed, I hadn't done anything in the last five minutes except hug the wall, and keep my head down.