by Rita Sable
“I’ve got company,” he announced.
“Eh?” O’Rourke queried. “Now? Who?”
“Not certain. I don’t recognize the car.”
“Could it be the resort manager?”
“Not likely. Besides, from what I can see, this car wouldn’t suit the resort manager. He prefers old trucks. Whoever it is, the driver’s taking his time on his approach, checking things out carefully.”
Tiny hairs on Trevor’s neck rose up and his spine itched. On the phone line, O’Rourke jabbered ideas out loud, mixing names and descriptions and scenarios into one another with a rapid and heavy brogue that was difficult to decipher. One by one he negated them all. Trevor imagined the Scotsman frowning with speculation, pulling on fistfuls of his curly, silver-streaked red hair in frustration while he tried to figure out who would be making such an early approach, alone.
“Is it the fat man or the thin man?” O’Rourke finally asked.
The car stopped on the driveway, a hundred yards from the cabin’s front door. The engine idled, a trail of white exhaust floated into the air behind it like a ghostly apparition. Trevor kept to the shadows, his attention focused on identifying driver and passenger.
“Interesting,” he muttered under his breath when he could finally see enough. “Looks like both of them.”
The car inched forward. The driver parked behind a large pine tree, once again completely obscuring his view. Obviously, two men inside didn’t want to be seen by anyone in the cabin. That bore ill will.
“Got to go, O’Rourke. Get down here as soon as you can. It’s show time.”
* * * * *
Cynthia had just finished her fastest shower ever when the bathroom door burst open.
Trevor’s face was dark and grim. A dangerous, almost feral light glowed in his determined gaze. He shoved a towel at her. Then he grabbed her arm to steady her out of the tub.
“Hurry. We’ve got unexpected company.”
She hugged the towel to her chest, still blinking water from her eyes. He dragged her across the hall back into the bedroom. “They’re here? Now? I thought you said we had a little more time?”
Trevor scowled and tossed her clothes from the pile on the floor onto the bed. “Obviously, your sudden disappearance yesterday sped things up. Get dressed.”
Cynthia didn’t bother drying off. She struggled into her jeans, tugging and pulling them up her wet legs and hips. “So, what do we do now? Are we still making a run for the other cabin?”
“No, I don’t doubt they’d break in and eventually find the tracks we left in the snow. I want you to stay inside this bedroom. Don’t come out for any reason until I tell you it’s safe.” He removed the smaller gun from his ankle holster and checked it over. “Do you understand me?”
She twisted her arms and torso into a t-shirt and yanked a sweater over her head and dripping hair. “Yes, I got that part.” Ignoring her socks, she shoved her feet into her boots and jammed a toe in the process. She bit back a cry of pain. “Who are they?”
“Don’t worry about who they are, Cyn.”
Trevor reached for her hand. He placed the small pistol firmly in the middle of her palm and wrapped her fingers around the rubber handgrip. Her mouth dropped open.
“What are you doing? I don’t want it.” She tried pulling her hand away.
He tugged her hand back. His grip was hard and unyielding. “Cynthia! Listen to me. You keep this gun with you. It’s very easy to use.”
She shook her head. “I’ll stay in the bedroom. You keep the gun, Trevor.”
“I have one. My backup’s not here yet. I need you to stay in the bedroom and remain quiet. If anything goes wrong, I want you to be able to protect yourself.”
Horror flooded her mind. The prospect that Trevor could be injured, or killed, made her whole body go numb. “No. Don’t say that.”
“Anything can happen, Cyn. The best you can do is be prepared for any unfavorable possibilities. Look here.” He pointed to a little switch on the side by her thumb. “This is the safety. It’s on. The pistol won’t go off accidentally. Flip the switch over to fire. This is a very simple handgun. Use both hands, aim and squeeze the trigger. At close range, you’ll hit whatever you aim at. Just remember to aim for the middle of the chest. You can’t miss. And keep your eyes open. Any questions?”
“N-no.” She frowned at the gun, testing the full weight of the weapon in her grip. “Funny, when you said you’d show me how to use one I had the impression we’d spend the day at a firing range, aiming at paper targets. I didn’t bargain on this.”
“You’re doing fine.” Trevor let go. Then he backed away toward the bedroom window and yanked the curtains closed.
A dull darkness filled the room, adding to the heavy expectation of more violence. She stood with her knees locked together, both hands clasped tight around the little pistol.
He pointed at Moses sprawled on the bed. “Keep him in here with you. I’m going outside through the back door. I’ll work my way around the cabin and come up behind them.”
“Do you really think they’ll break in?”
“If I were them, I most certainly would. Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll take care of everything else.” He stopped at the doorway and gave her a wink. “I’ll call out to let you know it’s me coming in. Wouldn’t want you to shoot my head off by accident.”
She gaped at him and then snapped her mouth closed. “Not funny, Trevor. Go, before I lose my nerve.”
He closed the door with a jerk of his wrist, leaving her alone. She heard the latch click shut.
A thick silence enveloped her senses. The bedroom walls moved closer and the ceiling dropped lower, as if it had suddenly caved in. Cynthia gulped in air. Her lungs ached like she’d just run the six hundred-yard dash in school without a warm-up. Her hands trembled around the pistol. She stared at the deadly power in her grasp, paranoid of dropping it by accident.
Her gaze landed on the bed. Snuggled amidst the rumpled bedcovers, Moses appeared completely oblivious to impending trouble and the emotional geyser that threatened to explode from her. Calm and serene, the cat groomed his furry white belly with long strokes of his pink tongue. She focused on her beloved pet, on his soothing licking sounds, his peaceful face with eyes closed. Her heartbeat quieted, her hands lost their tremors.
“Safety’s on.” She took a deep breath and lifted the deadly little pistol to eye level. It was incredibly clean and shiny and smelled faintly of oil. Surprisingly, now that she’d relaxed she found the gun wasn’t as heavy as she’d thought at first. The grippy rubber handle felt warm, her fingers fit neatly into the molding. And seated snug inside the chamber rested a .22-caliber bullet.
Enough to kill someone.
“Oh, dear God. Please don’t let me have to use this thing.”
* * * * *
Trevor stepped out into frosty morning air, careful to close the cabin’s back door with as little sound as possible. Shade from the cabin cast the backyard into a winter wonderland of long, pale blue shadows, cast by the tall, snow-covered pines standing like giant sentinels on watch. Treading lightly, he inched along the cabin’s rough timber walls with the familiar weight of his 9mm secure in his right hand.
When he reached the corner, he waited and listened. The car’s engine had stopped. No sound of the two men inside the car breached the still morning air. Tiny birds flitted from branch to branch in a nearby tree, their happy chirps unmindful of any potential danger. He had to be careful not to startle them into flying away, alerting the intruders to his presence. Overhead, a commercial airliner streaked across the pristine soft blue sky, trailing a white line and a distant belated roar.
He chanced a quick look around the corner. The rear of the sedan peeked out from behind a bristly pine tree at the end of the driveway. Were the men waiting in their car? And if so, for what or whom, did they wait?
Three firm knocks sounded on the front door.
Wrong. They weren’t waiting.
Two men stood there. One tall and thin, huddled inside an expensive-looking camel-hair coat. His dark, silver-threaded hair gleamed from precise grooming.
Matthias Andrevsky, aka Matthew Andrews. The last known photos of him from the FBI and Interpol coalition team dated back at least fifteen years. Time had been kind to him. He hadn’t changed that much.
The other man did the knocking, his meaty knuckles rapping loudly on the wood. The bulge beneath his suede and wool shearling coat was unmistakable. Trevor arched a sardonic eyebrow. Interesting company Captain Hill kept here. He knew from his meeting with him that Hill carried a .45-caliber Smith & Wesson at his hip and a very determined attitude now, judging from the taut line of his big shoulders.
Trevor wasn’t surprised to see these two together. They’d been roommates for several years in a dormitory for delinquent teenaged boys, right before Matthias was sent to a foster home, then ran away and went missing. Apparently Andrevsky and Hill had maintained a friendship and well-informed contact through all these years.
It still didn’t explain why the Russian had involved the police precinct captain. Trevor knew why Andrevsky had used Cynthia to obtain those numbers from the diamond. He was nearly blind without his glasses. Obviously she gave him the wrong numbers. If they’d been correct, Matthias Andrevsky wouldn’t be here now, Cynthia wouldn’t have been attacked and the Swiss bank account would have been wrongfully, but legally, liquidated. But why was Hill here? How was the captain involved in this? What part did he play?
On the porch, Matthias turned around and scanned the immediate area. The thick lenses of his eyeglasses flashed in the morning sunlight. “You are certain this is her rental car?” He kept his voice low but it was easy enough to hear the very slight Russian accent that remained.
“It has the right plates.” Darren Hill knocked again, hard enough to make the cabin door rattle on its hinges. “Miss Lyons! Open the door. It’s Police Captain Darren Hill. I need to speak with you.”
After another moment of silence, Matthias grew restless. He stepped off the porch. “Perhaps she decided to go out for a walk?”
“She ain’t out walking, Matt.”
Matthias shrugged. “She could be in the shower, unable to hear us. Let us wait inside the car for a few moments, Hill. I don’t desire any more violence so early in the morning.”
“Bullshit,” Hill grumbled. “She’s avoiding us, hoping we’ll just go away. You wait here and stay out of sight. I’m going around back to check things out.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cynthia shuddered each time the man outside banged on the front door, demanding entrance. His voice roared through to the bedroom. He claimed he was the captain of police, Darren Hill.
What the hell was he doing here? How did he find her? It didn’t matter. Relief surged into her chilled bones, calmed her jumping heart. Shouldn’t she let him in? Where was Trevor? Why hadn’t he greeted the captain and let him inside to help deal with the murderers who were coming for her?
Then there was silence again, the kind that feels muffled. She flattened her ear against the bedroom door and strained to the slightest sound. A whisper. A cough. Footsteps. Anything!
Her fingers ached from her tight grip on the Beretta. She had to look at her hands to force them to relax. Certainly she’d be safe now, most likely the entire New York State police force stood outside talking with Trevor. They’d be setting up a plan to capture the bad guys.
Letting go of the gun with one hand, she reached for the door latch. Then snatched her hand back.
I promised him I’d stay here.
She chewed her bottom lip, torn between her promise and her need to know that he was safe and standing outside talking to the captain. She tiptoed to the bedroom window and inched the curtain aside for a peek.
Nothing. Just trees and snow. She wished this bedroom faced the front so she’d at least have a clue about what was happening outside.
Would it hurt to go to the living room and look? She wouldn’t leave the cabin, just look out the window. She’d still be out of harm’s way.
Slowly, Cynthia cracked the door open, afraid to make any noise, prepared to slam it shut again if need be. There was still no sound from outside. The lack of it had her nerves spiking. Was something wrong? She hugged the wall and crept along the hallway toward the living room, the pistol still clamped tight in one hand with the business end pointed at the floor.
Brilliant sunlight framed the window, slicing through the darkness around the edges of the curtain. She hurried past the couch, over to the far wall. Adrenaline pumped into her veins with icy heat and made her palms damp. She angled her head against the wall and peered out.
The man standing on the porch was instantly recognizable. Matthew Andrews! He was still alive? A strange mixture of surprise and relief welled up inside her. Her last impression of him as a nervous, gentle man returned. He was harmless, just another wealthy client who wanted his privacy, his property and then he’d leave. Everything was okay now—he could take possession of the diamond.
A single gunshot from outside cracked through her joy. Instinctively she jerked back, eyes wide, her lips clamped tight on a muffled, surprised squeak. And on the porch, Matthew Andrews pulled a long-nosed gun out from beneath his coat and crept out of her sight.
* * * * *
Trevor didn’t have much time to work through a plan when the hulking form of Darren Hill appeared around the corner. Hill stopped short, surprise clear in his hazel eyes.
“Hello, Captain.” Trevor lifted his gun, aiming for the man’s broad center.
The surprised expression on Hill’s face melted into a confident sneer. “Agent St. James. I should have known you’d be sniffing around here.”
“Let’s do this nice and quiet-like,” Trevor said. “Open your coat, drop your weapon and step back.”
Hill took a deep breath, blowing out a long stream of frosty air like a locomotive. “Now, don’t be in such a hurry. Why don’t we talk about this? I’m willing to cut you in–-”
“I said, drop it.”
“All right, all right,” Hill nodded agreeably. “Take it easy. You damn Brits are a touchy bunch, aren’t ya? Out of good faith, I’ll do as you ask. Maybe then you’ll be more willing to talk.”
Trevor nosed his weapon higher, aiming for the man’s heart now instead of his belly. “Keep your voice down. I know about your Russian friend out there. Seems a shame to waste two bullets this morning. Your gun, Captain. Slowly.”
Hill plucked open the buttons on his coat and gently drew one side away from his body to expose the black butt of his Smith & Wesson. Trevor focused on every twitch of the man’s eyelids, every curl of his thick fingers as he reached for it. There was no way to wrestle the weapon from him, not without his cuffs and not without alerting Matthias Andrevsky.
“You know,” Hill said amiably, “I’m not above letting you in on a cut. Split three ways, a hundred thirty million euros equals about a hundred fifty million dollars these days. Think about it. Fifty million dollars each. And all of it tax-free, too. Wouldn’t you like to retire, Agent? Take that money and enjoy the rest of your fuckin’ life, instead of sweating it out by other people’s rules?”
Trevor narrowed his gaze on the man. “I’m not interested in the money. Out and drop it.”
“You’re not?” Hill’s eyebrows rose up into his bald, lined forehead. “Well, that’s mighty high of you.” He unsnapped the gun, plucked it free with his thumb and forefinger. “The girl, then? Take her. I know you have an itch for that pretty thing. Couldn’t keep your eyes off her the other day. Keep the diamond, too. All I really want are the numbers.”
“The girl,” Trevor repeated, carefully keeping a tight rein on his anger. “Her name’s
Cynthia, in case you’ve already forgotten. She’s not your property to bargain with. Neither is the diamond, or the numbers engraved on it.” He motioned with his gun in an obvious reminder for Hill to drop his.
With more speed and agility than Trevor would have guessed, Hill dove for the low, snow-covered bushes clustered around the house. Trevor had expected him to try something. He fired before the man rolled away. A spike of red blood shot out into the air, along with Hill’s agonized howl. He rolled in the snow, landed facedown while clutching one hand inside the other.
“Fucking bastard!” Hill screamed. “You shot my finger off!”
Hill’s gun skittered under the snow several feet away. Trevor took a precious moment to scramble out to find it, not daring to leave Hill within reach even with his shooting hand disabled. The enraged man might still try to take a potshot at him with his off-hand.
He spotted the silver and black weapon and reached for it.
“Not so fast,” another man’s voice said. “Don’t move.”
Trevor froze, his own gun pointed down and away by instinct while he tried to find the other. He didn’t need to look up to know Matthias Andrevsky had arrived and had a gun aimed at him.
“Shoot him!” Hill bellowed. He jostled his snow-covered bulk around to a sitting position and clutched his bleeding hand tight to his chest. “The girl’s inside. Shoot already!”
To his credit Andrevsky cocked a disbelieving look at his boyhood friend, Darren Hill. “I don’t like violence,” he said in quiet, no-nonsense tones. “But I will shoot him if he moves. Drop your weapon, Mr. St. James. Do it!”
Reluctantly, Trevor let his gun topple into the snow at his feet.
Andrevsky jerked his chin at Hill. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” Hill grumbled. “He shot my finger off, not my foot.”