From his bag he produced a small foam-padded case, containing three rifle lasers with protruding wires and attached handheld radios. Since the entryway was covered by only two cameras, Gage left the third laser in the bag, ready in the event he located another camera. Using a weathered log for a boost, Gage positioned each laser on top of the wall, touching the power button and carefully sighting each laser directly into the lens of the corresponding security camera. He only held the red beams on the cameras for a moment, switching them off once they were firmly sighted. He turned on the power switch of each handheld, each set to the same digital frequency, then made sure they were both set to mute.
That done, Gage was also concerned that the wall’s concertina wire might have a charge—not so much that he would be shocked—but that an alarm system would recognize if the wire was cut or the circuit grounded in any way. In more advanced systems, some can even detect if the wire is stepped on or handled roughly. To defeat this, Gage affixed a thin strand of climbing rope to a tree twenty meters up the hill. Before he climbed the wall, he pulled the rope tight and held it in his teeth.
Just as he was about to climb the rope, Gage depressed the talk button of his handheld radio, utilizing the always-on feature. He climbed. Upon reaching the top of the wall, Gage grasped the rope and leaned backward, using his weight and the tension of the line to give him balance. A quick glance revealed the red beams in the lens of each camera, effectively blinding them. Anyone monitoring the camera would see only a white screen. Hopefully no one was watching. Delicately, he stepped over the concertina wire, getting both feet across before he tossed the rope to the ground on the outside. His plan had worked, but the fall to the inside of the fence was longer than he thought. He hit and rolled, stifling a pained grunt as his landing was off-center on a rough patch of lawn.
Rubbing his leg, he waited on any other dogs or an unknown alarm. Seeing and hearing none, Gage removed Bruno’s freshly cleaned .44 Auto Mag from his pack and limped across the lawn. He used a tactical pattern and was as quiet as a shadow, turning right and going to the back of the house where he had seen the servant leave by bicycle. A cloud had moved over the moon, enveloping the lawn in a blanket of blackness.
The back of the mansion was dominated by two enormous, freestanding columns. Between the columns was an ivy covered archway, leading to a heavy double door of rough-hewn wood. Gage glanced into the portico, aided by light coming from the windows above. There were no cameras that he could see.
As he knelt by the stairs, hidden by a bush, Gage felt a burning pain in his left leg and had to use all of his willpower not to jump. He strained his eyes to see that he had been crouching in a winter ant hill. European red ants. He pressed at his leg, doing his best to crush the infiltrators as the searing acid from their bites registered up and down his leg.
After stepping into the cover of the portico, he switched off his radio, making the outer cameras again active. Then he checked the door. Locked. From his pack he removed the small package Kenny had given him, going to work on the expensive, double-bolt lock. Gage remembered a training block under Colonel Hunter, learning to defeat all manner of locking mechanisms from techniques as coarse as hitting a door with a sledge hammer ascending to the art of silently picking a round Zeiss lock with a three-piece pick set. Hunter had brought in two of Beverly Hills’ finest cat-burglars, the articulate men relaying their knowledge of picking locks so well that they made it sound like a high art form. The lock on Nicky’s door was somewhere in the middle of the difficulty scale, and Gage was pleased that he and Kenny Mars had practiced several times in preparation.
Picking the dead-bolt would be a two-handed job, meaning Gage would have to place the .44 on the ground. Being temporarily unarmed made speed imperative. He inserted the torque tool, nothing more than a small, ninety-degree hex-tool, applying clockwise pressure. Next, Gage inserted the thin rod from the manual pick gun, tilting it upward and quietly shaking it until he felt it clear the last pin. Then, rapidly, Gage pumped the trigger on the pick gun, wiggling it as he kept the clockwise pressure on. After two restarts, and only fourteen seconds of total time, the lock turned.
Gage stowed the tools in his bag and pushed the door open, diving inside and immediately rolling behind a sectional sofa, stopping to listen. He smelled food, something heavy on garlic, and could hear what sounded like a television coming from the second floor. After a tense minute of waiting with the Auto Mag at the ready, the pistol outstretched, he crept through the den and padded up the stairs.
At the top of the sweeping ascent, crouched by the balustrade, Gage chanced a look down the long hallway, seeing a door open with light emanating from what appeared to be a bedroom. When he changed his angle he saw an enormous poster bed with an oil painting behind it and, just as Gage was about to cross the hallway, he saw the portly Nicky Arnaud flash by the door with a towel around his waist. Gage jerked backward, peering.
The sound of the television was coming from the room Nicky was in. Gage shot across the hallway, disappearing into a room that he immediately discovered was a mop closet.
It appeared that Nicky was readying to leave, but Gage was concerned about the other man, and where he might be at the moment.
***
Just as Nicky had pulled on his underwear and was about to apply gel to his wavy black hair, his eye was drawn to the bank of monitors in the small closet between the bedroom and dressing room. The cameras appeared to be functioning normally; there was nothing showing other than the standard darkened scenery around the mansion. But blue dots were flashing on the rearmost estate monitor, a sight not uncommon when he had guests or when Napoleon was running around.
The motion detector could be reset every minute, hour, day; or whatever slice of time the operator so chose. His was programmed to reset each hour, except after midnight, when it would display any movements—with an audible alarm—until 6 a.m. The blue dots were tethered together by a line, the zig-zag pattern of a man trying to prevent being seen as he ran in a dodge and cover pattern.
Other than Marcel, there were to be no guests on this night, and he would be beyond shocked if Napoleon were to ever get up and run around again. Nicky had no idea that Marcel had euthanized Napoleon, so he felt it was at least possible that it might be the dog wandering the yard in a daze. But no, that’s not possible, because the first dot is at the northern wall, the last one, occurring a minute later according to the monitor, terminates at the back door.
The damp hairs on Nicky’s back stood on end as he reached into the cubby and retrieved his cell phone. Now backed all the way into the darkness of the bathroom, he pressed the number one to speed dial Marcel. Marcel picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you?” Nicky whispered through clenched teeth.
“In your office, going over the October numbers from Paris. They’re off, by the way.”
“Shut up and listen,” Nicky hissed.
“What’s wrong?”
Nicky chewed on his lower lip, absently wondering whether the water dripping from his hair was from the shower or perspiration. “Have you been outside, moving from the north wall to the back door?”
“What?”
“Have you?” Nicky growled, using all his restraint to keep his voice down.
“No. Why?”
Nicky pressed himself farther into the back corner, feeling the hard, cold tile contrasting with his burning skin. He glanced back at the monitors, and the cabinet underneath. An idea came to him. His heart was thudding against his ribs, making it hard for him to speak. “Someone’s in my house, Marcel. Someone has come for me.”
***
Gage peered from the mop closet, waiting. He was hoping the other man, the one who put the dog out of its misery, would pass by at some point. If so, he could disable him and rush the bedroom. Or, if Nicky came by, Gage would grab him and pull him back to the bedroom, shutting the door. It wouldn’t be hard to control Nicky as long as they were in the bedroom or a bathroom: s
ome place with only one way in and one way out.
A metallic click followed by a jingling sound made Gage stand on his toes to gain a view of the main foyer. It was the portly man in the blue suit. He had opened the large front door that led to the patio, stopping in the threshold as he fumbled with his keys. After finding the key he appeared to have labored to locate, the man pulled the door shut, locking it.
Very good. The portly man was gone, and now Gage and Nicky Arnaud were all alone.
Gage gripped the pistol as he had done with so many others, hundreds of times, thousands—never too tight, like one would handle a baby bird. After a deep breath, sucking in diluted fumes of bleach and window cleaner, Gage’s mind focused on the objective, visualizing the killing in the way he wanted it to happen. Be tactical. Be thorough.
Be brutal.
He eased open the door, spinning into the hallway with the pistol leading the way. Gliding down the long Oriental runner, he waited outside, watching. When he saw nothing, not even a moving shadow, he entered the bedroom low, sweeping the pistol in an arc from left to right.
There was no sign of Nicky.
There was no sign of anyone.
Shit.
Heart hammering in his chest, Gage rushed across the room, taking cover behind the bed with only the wall to his back. He wasn’t able to hear anything; the built-in television displayed an English soccer match and the volume was up. The sound came from all over, no doubt played through a surround-sound system. Leaning against the silken coverlet, Gage could smell soap and shampoo, and he felt the sticky steam from the hot shower. He glanced at the windows; condensation trickled down their glass like it would on a warming beer.
Nicky must be in the bathroom.
To the left of the television was a cavernous walk-in closet with the light on. To the right of the TV was the door he had just entered through, then a painting that looked like a Picasso. After that, in the far corner, was what had to be the bathroom. But the light was off.
Does he know I’m here? Is he in there waiting?
Gage gnawed on his lip, thinking. He had watched the hallway from the utility closet and no one had passed to leave. Unless Nicky had an exit in the closet or the bathroom, he was still in here, somewhere. Gage held the pistol at an angle allowing coverage of the bathroom as well as the entrance from the hallway. He glanced inside the closet, clearing it before moving across the room. When he reached the entry from the hallway, he looked left and saw no one. Finally, he inched forward to the bathroom, his shoulders sliding across the six-foot Picasso as he moved.
In his bag, outside, were two flash-bangs, just like the one that had killed the kids in Crete. He’d made a conscious decision not to hang one off his belt before he came in, and now he regretted it. Again, that hot dry day—the day of a thousand nightmares—was back to haunt him again. If Nicky was in this bathroom, as Gage suspected, the concussion grenade was all that was needed.
Gage repositioned the Auto Mag, silently cursing himself. With several deep, silent breaths, he forced himself to focus. To be ready. He eyed the opening to the bathroom.
There appeared to be no windows inside, so the entrance was very dark. Gage used his hand to reach around the corner, gently feeling the wall until he found the light switch, half expecting to lose his hand in the process. He found it, flipping it on without incident. With a final steadying breath, he spun into the opening with the pistol in front of him, instantly seeing Nicky Arnaud flattened against the far wall.
While Gage had felt Nicky Arnaud could possibly be hiding in the bathroom, he hadn’t counted on the mobster’s readiness.
The high boss of the Glaives was aiming a gleaming pistol at Gage, holding it with both hands.
***
It was the American Jean had warned him about! The supposed fucking CIA man who wanted Leon and no one else. Nicky knew it the second he saw the camouflage shirt. The dark beard threw him a tad, but it was him. It had to be. He’d come to finish the job.
That lying sonofabitch Jean Jenois.
The Frenchman had chosen not to take a shot at the intruder’s hand as it moved over the wall, feeling for the light. With the glow bleeding in from the bedroom, the wall was but a shadow and he would have most likely missed. Aiming his nickel-plated Steyr .40 at the doorway, Nicky didn’t expect the American to wheel into the bathroom like a SWAT leader. Adjusting his aim, he jerked the curved trigger of the Austrian pistol. And just as Nicky unleashed a round from his pistol, his own eyes instinctively clinched shut when he saw the American’s pistol flash.
***
Gage attempted to aim at Nicky, yanking a shot off before he was able to wheel around to the left. His brain instinctively knew if he didn’t get out of the way—lightning fast—he would not live to shoot again. Even someone as highly trained as Gage Hartline misses sometimes, especially when an opponent has the benefit of superior positioning.
As he spun away, he was aware that Nicky had fired too.
Gage fell backward into the room, feeling a searing pain in his right side as he scrambled back into a firing position. He knew he had been hit, but he also knew that making noise was the surest path to death, so he forced himself to be silent as he inched backward to the far side of the room. Leaving a thin trail of blood, he finally reached the wall, chancing a quick glance down at his camouflage over-shirt; the blood appeared to be coming from an area below his ribcage. When Gage had pushed himself across the floor, he had felt the click-clack of a broken rib along with the accompanying pain. Broken ribs he could live with—Gage just hoped no organs had been irreparably damaged.
But, Gage reminded himself, self-preservation was not why he had come here. He inventoried his mind and body. It was impossible to tell if he was fatally wounded, but for now he was alive, and felt he would be for at least a few more minutes, especially judging by the slow trickle of blood emanating from his body.
Plenty of time to end it.
Gage concentrated on taking small breaths as he leveled the pistol at the doorway. He wanted Nicky to think he was dead and, in his confidence, show himself.
***
After his eyes adjusted, Nicky Arnaud congratulated himself for firing even with the blinding shock of the white light. He stood still, allowing his heart rate to stabilize. There was a massive hole in the tile to his left, a wisp of smoke floating out. The American’s pistol was an absolute hand-cannon. Had the massive bullet struck him, even grazed him, he would likely be dead from blood loss.
And what balls on this fucker, thought Nicky, coming to my home for revenge. An honorable opponent would have met him on the street somewhere. As Nicky cursed the cowardly American inwardly, he reminded himself that he would most likely have to bring some of his men in for full-time security. He’d resisted doing it for years. As much as he hated people, especially those he knew, it was inevitable that something like this would happen again.
In Nicky’s mind, this was already over.
Wiping sweat and condensation from his face, he stepped from the empty whirlpool tub, listening for any sound. There was none, and hadn’t been for several minutes. Then again, his ears were still ringing from the booming of the shots in the enclosed tile space. This Hartline, Nicky thought, calming himself, he’s surely dead, or has to be at least unconscious. He’d seen him spin and fall, had seen the spray of blood.
Other than his ringing ears, and the television, an eerie sense of isolation descended on Nicky. The adrenaline left his veins; his skin became cool and clammy. He felt as if he were ten years old again. Afraid of night spirits and the dreaded Boogeyman lurking under his bed. His mind began to race until another critical thought pushed everything else away.
Where the hell is Marcel?
Unsure of his plan, feeling his hands begin to tremble, Nicky did the first thing that came to mind. He used his cell phone. He held the pistol toward the doorway while using his left hand to press redial. Phone pressed to sweaty ear, waiting.
Nothing.
/>
Again.
No answer.
Has this man already killed Marcel? He couldn’t have…could he?
“Marcel!” Nicky yelled. There was no answer.
“Marcel!” he screamed, panicked.
Silence.
After what seemed a lifetime, Nicky eased through the bathroom, the pistol aimed forward from his waist. When he was still just inside the protection of the threshold, he could see the spatter of blood to the right. There was a small stain on the carpet, stark red, followed by a trail leading out of his vision, toward the far wall. Has the sonofabitch crawled away?
Nicky listened intently. He could only hear the blaring television: Gary Lineker, in his distinct Leicester dialect, discussing the tattered pitch inside Newcastle’s St. James Stadium.
He stepped from the bathroom, leading with his pistol like they always did in the movies. He pivoted right, around the Picasso to see the American propped against the wall, the huge handgun pointed right at him, steady and level like the main gun on a battle tank.
This time it was the American who was ready.
A flower of orange flame erupted from the barrel of the man’s enormous pistol. Nicky felt a violent pulsation as his own pistol was jerked from his hand, thrown against the far wall with a loud clatter. He looked down, in sheer horror, to see that the energy of the pistol being shot from his hand had claimed a casualty: his index finger. All that remained was a bloody stub, moving up and down with what looked like two short strands of spaghetti protruding from inside.
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