by Mary Buckham
Yeah, like that was going to happen without help. Like from her team, wherever they were.
As if she had summoned them, sounds erupted above them. At first she thought it was champagne bottles popping. Vassily looked down the empty hallway even as he reached for a radio receiver on his belt.
He shouted into the speaker in Russian.
Vaughn froze, hearing more noises now, even from deep within the bowels of the house. Shouts outside the house, murmurs from somewhere above, a rat-a-tat-tat rippling close by. Russian voices roared in increasing crescendos.
Someone was attacking the villa. Her team? Or her father’s people? Did it matter? The point was, now was her chance to make a break for it.
Taking tiny, incremental steps, partly because her legs felt like quaking aspens, she eased her way backward toward the wall. She pressed against it to give her the momentum she needed to execute phase one.
Taking Vassily down.
Chapter 23
With a move that would have made Stone proud, she launched herself from the wall straight into Vassily’s sizeable girth, ramming him like a punching bag.
A quick pivot, turn and twist and she angled away from his grip.
He was faster than his size indicated.
But she’d had ballet and gymnastics training. Backflip, turn on point, foot up, heel to the jaw.
Vassily quivered and staggered back. But he wasn’t down by any means.
What was that other lesson Stone had taught her? Street fighting. Down and dirty.
“Well, big boy,” she panted, jockeying to a new stance. “I’m a quick study.”
Not quick enough, she thought several moments later. Vassily was down on the floor, groaning and clutching his family jewels, but she’d wasted precious minutes as the sounds above and ahead grew stronger.
What next?
There were too many unknowns. Who was attacking the house and how would they be approaching it? Who made up the assault team—local polizia? Interpol? Her father’s people? The list was endless, and daunting. Would they be on the lookout for her and Stone, or was it every man and woman for themselves? And what about Stone? If she managed to get to him, past the guard or guards, and liberate him, what then? Could they navigate the labyrinth of passageways to reach the main level?
Then there was the Stone versus Blade dilemma.
Should she save Stone and leave the satellite control to chance? She had come a long way since her first training days at The Farm in Maryland, but even she couldn’t be in two places at the same time.
First things first. If she freed Stone, both of them could go after Blade and the codes; there was strength in numbers. Also, if she didn’t save Stone and didn’t make it out of this place alive, who would even know he was held hostage down here? No one, most likely.
Stone first. Blade second.
She dashed straight ahead, only too aware that flat soles on stone floors did not take corners well. No wonder the pros preferred crepe; it kept one from falling on her pride. For a second, the sound of a second pair of shoes running behind her reached her. Then stopped.
She didn’t have time to investigate.
“You’re losing it,” she hummed to herself, rocketing down a set of stairs. “Let’s hope this is the right direction.”
Up ahead she spied what had to be her goal—Stone’s cell. One of Blade’s men, holding a semiautomatic weapon, guarded a closed door.
Now what?
She continued to move toward him, a little slower now, catching her breath and aware of each move he made—the near silent turn toward her as he noticed her, the shifting of gun from barrel to ceiling to barrel straight at her, the tensing of his muscles.
This guy was primed to fight.
“Blade,” she gasped, stumbling as she drew within twenty feet of the man. “Blade has been shot.” She pointed in the direction of where she’d just come. “Up there. In the study. Hurry. He needs help. He’s alone.”
She thanked the gods he understood at least a little English as his frown turned darker.
“Hurry,” she shouted, waving her hands in the agitated manner she’d learned from a fifth-grade English teacher who later had been taken away for a long rest. “He needs help.”
“I hear nothing.” The man tapped his headset.
Damn, she’d forgotten about that.
“No one knows. We were alone.” She spread her own hands before her. “I have no radio. No weapon. They came from the front hallway. Blade killed one and was shot. Oh, God, you’ve got to help him!”
Her words—or, more likely, her desperation—got through to him as he glanced at the door.
“You stay here.” He motioned with his weapon to the hallway. “No go anywhere.”
“Don’t worry.” She sagged against the nearest wall. “I’m not going anywhere.”
So, it was only a little lie. In the grand scheme of what was happening it barely counted.
The man gave a grunt and shot down the hallway, lumbering past her with a determination that would make a rhino proud.
She waited till she heard his footfalls turn the corner before she rushed through the door.
Her picklock-cum-necklace trembled in her hand as she searched for the best pick to use, aware of every precious passing second.
At last she found the right size and inserted it into the lock, listening as much as she could for the click and tumble.
“Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.” It became a mantra. Had the guard realized yet he’d been duped? Was there another guard on the other side of the door? What was happening upstairs? “Focus, Vaughn. Focus.”
With a last mighty twist, she felt the give of the lock. Rising in a quick motion she wished, not for the first time, that she had some type of weapon.
Too late now.
She pushed open the door, taking a deep breath, and stepped into the room. Before she had moved more than a foot forward, an arm snagged her throat from behind.
She staggered backward, her air supply cut off. Fingers clawing an arm made of steel did nothing. Pinpricks of light danced before her.
“You’re late,” a male voice growled in her ear.
The pressure decreased.
She turned and slugged Stone. Not that it had much oomph, not nearly enough.
“You could have killed me.” Massaging her bruised windpipe gave her a second to breathe.
“I didn’t. What’s the plan?”
That quick, Mister Take-Charge Stone was back.
“The plan is to get you out of here before Bruiser Boris comes back and brings friends.”
“Who’s coming through the front gates?”
“I don’t know.”
He gave her his patented you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.
“What do you—”
“Look, in spite of what you think, I haven’t been upstairs eating bonbons.” She stepped away, getting a good look at him and shaking her head. He looked more than a little worse for wear. “Did they rough you up?”
“You wish,” he snapped. Obviously captivity had not mellowed him one bit. He also hadn’t answered her question.
“I mean, are you up to—”
“Lead the way, I’ll be right behind.”
Yeah, right. Even now he was holding one arm across his ribs.
She stepped closer, a little like moving toward an enraged lion in a cage when all your instincts shouted at you to flee. Not waiting for permission she positioned herself on his left side, preparing to slip beneath his arm to offer support.
“What the hell are—”
“We can argue or we can move it. I have no idea how much time we have, so I’d suggest shutting up and dealing with it.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sure you don’t.” She maneuvered herself beneath his arm and, as gingerly as possible given the time crunch and situation, wrapped her right hand around his waist. His sharp intake of breath told her how bad it was. “Let’s move, Stone. I have a nail appointmen
t I’m late for.”
She thought he grinned. Or maybe it was a grimace, as they hobbled toward the door. She leaned him forward to glance down the hallway.
“Empty.”
Good. That meant Boris was lost or delayed. Either option was good.
“Which way?” Stone inhaled deeply.
To the left meant back the way she came. She had no clue what lay to the right. She glanced in that direction and spied, down the long length, a form silhouetted in a partially open doorway. Blade?
“The controls should still be upstairs.” Stone breathed heavily. “We’ll need to—”
“No.” She straightened slightly and heard Stone’s moan. “I just saw Blade. To the right, through a doorway.”
Stone shifted to look in the direction she indicated. Down the empty hallway, shielded in shadows now that the door had been closed.
“You sure?” he asked. Not that she blamed him. A brief glance, fueled by adrenaline, and no clear image, only an impression. They risked a lot if they started chasing a phantom.
“Blade would escape with the codes. The control is useless without it.” Hadn’t Stone told her that himself? Or maybe she was making it up. “I’m sure it was Blade leaving by that door.”
“Where’s it go to?”
“I don’t know.”
Tension radiated from his body. Tension and energy draining as he weighed the options.
“It was Blade, I know—”
“I believe you.”
Slap her with a two-by-four. “You do?”
“Of course I do. The question is, can we stop him?”
So maybe Stone had changed over the last days, just as she had. A week ago, she didn’t think he had the word we in his vocabulary. Or that he’d let her take the lead. But she was and it was decision time.
“Let’s—” But she couldn’t finish, not when a growl alerted the two of them that they were no longer alone in the hallway. Bruiser Boris was back, with a buddy right behind him. One glance at his face revealed he was none too happy.
Chapter 24
Stone shifted until they both pivoted to face the guards, still a good fifteen feet away. Both had guns, and she and Stone were locked together like a bad circus act.
Until Stone dropped his arm and separated the two of them.
He was the one hurting, ribs most likely, the one most vulnerable. So why did she now feel cast adrift?
Her old buddy, the front guard of the two, raised his semiautomatic, using it like a teacher’s pointer. “You there.” He gestured for Stone to move away, then glanced at Vaughn. “You, no move.”
As if she could. Her knees were locked together, her stomach was a solid lump of congealed fear and her hands were fisted into useless rams of indecision.
If she attacked, it left Stone defenseless, not a word she’d normally associate with the guy. But if she did nothing, were they in any better a position?
Not likely.
With a prayer to whatever god watched out for fools and women who should know better, she raised her chin to the forward goon.
“Hey, Boris. Want to go a little one-on-one?”
Either her rapid-fire English was beyond his comprehension or he was stunned by the question. Stone was; she read it in the sudden stillness of his stance, the glance he shot her way. The one she ignored.
She straightened, rolling her neck like some prize-fighter in the ring. Monica Chetworth had used the same move right before she stomped the stuffing out of Lori Mannington in sixth grade on the school grounds of St. Margaret’s Academy. Vaughn had been removed from the school shortly thereafter.
“Come on, big guy. You afraid a deb can take you?”
“Vaughn,” Stone growled. “Not a good idea.”
She glanced at him. “That’s your problem, Stone. Too controlling to let someone else take the lead.”
“Yeah, when the lead can get them killed.”
She shrugged and faced the front Russian, who hadn’t moved much, except for his gaze darting back and forth between her and Stone. She hadn’t pegged him as a quick thinker, which meant, if they were going to follow Blade while the trail was still fresh, she’d have to be the one to move things along.
A smart man would ignore her, shoot them both, or contain them in the now empty room. She was hoping Boris was more pissed than smart. A pissed man one could manipulate into doing something stupid.
Stepping forward with a swagger that was mostly bluff, she curled her fingers in a forward come-and-get-it motion. “That’s it, sweet cheeks. Show me what you’ve got. Betcha a hundred rubles I can take you down in less than five.” She glanced at the second guard. “You be the timer.”
“Vaughn….”
The hulk moved, either intrigued or so sure of himself with backup that pride forced him into action.
She didn’t care why he moved; she was simply relieved he had.
With a spate of guttural Russian, he handed his weapon off to his buddy, then stepped forward. She heard Stone suck in a breath.
“Don’t you dare interfere, Stone.”
“Of all the—”
“I’m about to teach Boris here some ballet.”
With that she charged, on point and faster than expected, judging by her opponent’s expression. A quick pivot, right leg extended, and she nailed him in the middle of his rock-hard gut.
Little damage done, but her body vibrated from the impact.
He grunted and lowered his head. She sidestepped his first lunge.
He was quick. But she had determination on her side. He turned, swinging at her, high then low, a scissor action bound to connect with flesh given enough time.
“So,” she breathed through her mouth, dancing just out of his reach. “If you don’t like ballet, how about gymnastics?”
A quick tuck and roll followed. She used her legs as a battering ram. Coming up quick and hard, heels fore-front, dead center into the guy’s jewels. Vassily would have recognized the move.
Boris dropped.
The second guy paused, torn by his comrade’s agonized groans and the suddenness of the move.
Vaughn took advantage of his indecision. Twisting into a side curl, then flip, she was on her feet and in his face before he knew what hit him. A sharp thrust of the flat of her palm into his nose doubled him over. Two double-fisted blows to his exposed neck took him down.
She didn’t wait for a status report, grabbing the weapons he let clatter to the floor.
Both men lay moaning in fetal positions on the concrete floor.
“Come on, guys, into the room. Crawl if you have to.”
They didn’t require much prompting, though whether it was the guns she held or the look on her face, she didn’t know.
Once the goons were inside the cell, she grabbed the cell door and slammed it shut. Only then did she turn to look at Stone, leaning against the far wall by one shoulder, his legs crossed at the ankle.
“Well done, Monroe.” He clapped his hands, though there was nothing condescending in his tone. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
“Too late.” She handed him one of the rifles and took a second look at him, at the brackets of pain around his eyes, the shallowness of his breathing, the sheen of sweat, his pallor. She kept her concern from her voice, though, as she asked, “What now?”
“You tell me.” He pressed both shoulders against the wall. “Your Russian is getting away.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“You will if it’s a direct order.”
“As if I’m going to start taking orders now.” They stood toe to toe. The battle she’d just fought was nothing compared to the one she faced now. Alone, Stone was too vulnerable. But if he came along, he could slow them down.
“Don’t fight me on this one, Vaughn,” he whispered, raising one trembling hand to brush hair from her face.
Damn him.
She closed her eyes. “Not without you. Team members don’t leave team members.” Another p
illow project.
She expected grief from him. What she got instead was a quick tug forward and a kiss to end all kisses. It tasted of anger and fear and regret.
She pulled back, wordless. Leave it to Stone to confound her even now.
“That’s a yes, then,” she whispered as her breath was in short supply.
“Lead. But be careful.”
There was nothing more to say.
She took point, cradling the confiscated weapon in her arm. And he thought she couldn’t take orders.
With no way to contact her team and direct them to him, they were on their own. She reached the door first and shoved it open, realizing too late that was not the best way to approach the unknown.
Fortunately, no one was on the other side. For once, luck smiled on her.
She stood in what looked like a gravel driveway, one leading away from the main house. The warm evening light blinded her momentarily. Here, the sounds of gunfire were louder but muffled, as if happening inside the compound instead of outside.
A quick glance around clued her in to the fact she wasn’t alone. Nearby she heard Italians shouting orders. Ahead, a number of patrol cars were parked, their telltale blue lights flashing against the sky. A dozen official motorcycles were hunkered against a far rock wall.
“Lower level clear,” someone barked in English.
Which meant the house was being systematically contained. If the lower level was clear, that meant the worst was probably not yet over, since most of the bad guys had been in the upstairs bedrooms when the assault started. But her goal wasn’t some sleazeball terrorist.
Where was Blade? Had he that much of a lead on her? Where would he be headed once he made it this far?
A bird trill sneaked though the other sounds, at odds with the tension both inside her and around. She glanced in the direction of the sound and caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.
Blade was at the edge of the grove of cyprus trees, his dark clothing melding with the early evening shadows. As she watched, he paused, then darted toward the first vehicle near him, a Morris Minor.
Before she could alert any of the assault team he was in it, revving the engine even as she sprinted toward him, Stone close behind. Obviously adrenaline and risk healed a guy faster than TLC.