Solid Gold

by Stephanie Andrews

  I stepped quietly toward the room, worried that there was no safe approach, then thought what the hell and stepped quickly in.

  It was a wood-paneled dining room, with a long dining table down the middle. Hideous hunting trophies hung from all four walls, all glassy eyes and matted fur. Now I really was going to throw up, but I was distracted by a sound coming through the swinging doors at the far end of the room.

  I moved carefully closer, presuming it to be the kitchen. Unfortunately, it didn’t have those cool round porthole windows you sometimes see in restaurants, so once again I had no line of sight.

  I burst through the door with the gun in my right hand, arm fully extended. The kitchen floor was covered with something slick and my boots came straight out from under me. I landed hard on my butt and slid across the floor until I banged into a prep table that formed an island in the middle of the space.

  “Jesus Christo, Riley,” said a voice behind me, and I looked up to see Jorge. He was sitting on a counter, an open first aid kit in front of him. His shirt was off, and he was wrapping gauze around and around his upper arm. His torso was completely covered in tattoos.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me.

  I struggled to my feet and slipped the gun deep between my belt and the small of my back, wincing when I touched the abrasion there. The floor was covered with a slippery white substance, that was now all over my t-shirt, and the back of my jeans.

  “I’m fine,” I said casually.

  “You don’t look fine,” he said, continuing to wrap the gauze. “I mean, you look fine, chica, but maybe not so healthy.”

  I looked down at myself. My hands and arms were covered with dirt and blood, some of it from my scrapes and cuts, some of it from the man in the stairwell. My clothes were torn, and my hair was falling in my face—why had I wanted to grow it out again?

  “What is this crap?” I asked, indicating the white slime that was all over me, and the floor.

  “Fire extinguisher. We had to improvise a bit on weapons when we ran out of bullets. Did you get him?”

  “What?”

  “Negron, is it all over?”

  “No, I just got here.”

  His eyes widened, alarmed. “That’s a total bummer, dude. You were supposed to come in through the top!”

  “Long story. Are you okay, you are acting really weird.”

  “Cosmo is up there somewhere.”

  “So’s El, come on, we’ve got to go.”

  “I mean, who builds a place like this?” he gestured around. “No windows at all. It’s a goddam bunker. What kind of mentality comes up with something like that.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Jorge. We’ve got to go!”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “What?” I nearly wiped out on the slippery floor again.

  “I’m shot, twice.” He indicated his right leg, which was tightly wrapped with a dish towel.

  “Oh my god! You seem pretty calm about it.”

  “Chef’s some kind of junky. I found morphine hidden in the first aid kit. I’m not feeling anything, but if I try to walk I’m going to fall on my face.”

  I tried to process all of that. I couldn’t.

  “Okay, stay out of sight. Which way did Cosmo go?”

  “That guy is so badass. He killed liked five hundred guys. Six hundred. He should be a strong man in the circus.”

  “Which way?”

  Jorge pointed toward a door on the other side of the kitchen, then fumbled with a pair of scissors as he tried to cut the gauze.

  The glint of steel gave me an idea and I looked around until I found a wooden block that held a dozen different knives. A selected a six-inch paring knife and put it in my boot. I also grabbed a larger knife and kept it in my right hand.

  “How long ago?”

  “Time is a river, you know...”

  I thought about the other stairway I had seen. I wasn’t sure it would be that useful to come up behind Cosmo, but maybe one of us could get the drop on Negron if we approached from different sides. I stepped carefully across the floor and back though the swinging doors, wiping my feet on the wall to wall carpet.

  Behind be, I heard Jorge say, “Bunker mentality!” His words were starting to slur.

  I passed back through the dining room, averting my gaze from the hideous trophies on the wall, and ran down the hall and up the grand stairway, slowing at the landing and peeking cautiously up to the level above. It was another long hall, wider than the one below, lit by gaudy chandeliers every eight feet.

  No one was in sight, so I advanced up the stairs, happy to get my boots on the deep, quiet rug that covered the floor on this level. At the end of the hall a pair of double doors with frosted glass stood closed. On the right-hand side were three dark wooden doors, on the left only one entryway, another set of double doors.

  I moved quickly and quietly to my right and eased open the first door. It was a bedroom, with an enormous king-size bed in the middle. The decorations were gaudy, and without windows the room felt claustrophobic. There was an open door that led to a bathroom, and another one that opened onto an adjoining bedroom. As I passed between rooms I noticed a clock on one of the dressers. It was 12:45. Even if the others thought it was safe to come and help, they wouldn’t get here from the coast for another half hour at least. El could be dead by then.

  The adjoining bedroom had three single beds in it. I didn’t recall anything about Negron having kids. Who slept here? I put down my knife, pulled open one of the dresser drawers and found women’s clothes. Wife? Wives? Three? I shuddered at the thought. Maybe Negron considered himself a harem king. Maybe he sampled all the girls before he sent them into slavery.

  I had to get a move on, but things were quiet for the moment, so I stepped into the adjoining bathroom. I stripped off what was left of my t-shirt, and then my sports bra. I took the brass knuckles off my hand and set them on the vanity. I looked at myself in the mirror: the only place I wasn’t covered in grime and blood was where my bra had been. It looked like I had a bikini sunburn. I ran cold water and grabbed a towel off the rack, wetting it and wiping my face and hands. The water felt good as I ran the towel over my body and then threw it on the sink.

  I stepped back into the little bedroom and rummaged through the drawers until I found a bra and a white button-down cotton shirt. There were also several pairs of black pants, and I thought about changing into them except it would probably take me an hour to get my boots unlaced and then laced back up.

  White shirt, black pants. I realized the women who lived here were probably cleaning or cooking staff. That probably wasn’t Negron’s bedroom after all. His was probably red satin with a revolving bed.

  The bra was a little roomy in the cups, but I put it on and pulled on the shirt, buttoning it as quickly as my finger-deficient hands could manage. It, too, was a little large, and I left it untucked to obscure my waist. I slid the brass knuckles back on my left hand and grabbed the big knife from where I had left it. I crossed to the door, listened, and then slipped back into the hall. Still empty.

  I stepped across the hall and tried to open the double doors, but there was no handle. It took me a second to realize they were pocket doors, and I slid them open to reveal a lavish billiard room, large enough to hold two pool tables and several club chairs.

  A noise behind me made me step quickly into the room. Someone had opened the big frosted doors at the end of the hall and were walking my way. It sounded like there were at least two of them. I stepped back into the shadows, holding my knife at the ready. I wanted to leap out and get the drop on them, but what if it turned out there were six of them?

  There were, in fact, only two. One was tall and Caucasian, the other was Latino. They weren’t wearing Hawaiian shirts like the man who had shot at me earlier. They were in boots, black pants, and black t-shirts, and they carried rifles slung across their shoulders. The tall one was smoking a cigarette. I’d have to talk with Negron about instituting
some more health-conscious policies in his evil lair.

  They were almost past the doorway when the shorter guy looked to his right.

  “Hold on,” he said in accented English. “This door shouldn’t be open.” He stepped into the room, level with where I stood pressed against the wall. He looked around but then stopped suddenly, his attention on something across the room. I followed his gaze to a large, gilded mirror that hung on the far wall above a cabinet of alcohol. He was looking at me!

  Our eyes locked.

  I moved first, lunging toward him and sinking the knife into his left shoulder. As he shouted and turned, I grabbed his rifle strap and wrenched it down over his bleeding shoulder, dislodging the knife, which clattered to the floor, and causing him further pain. He punched at me with his right hand, but I had stepped in close to him, jumping up and planting my right foot on his thigh, pushing off hard, still holding on to the strap.

  The tug on his arm caused him to fall forward and we went down in a heap just as his partner stepped into the room and flicked on the overhead chandelier. I grabbed the knife from the floor and rolled to the side, throwing it at the tall guy as he brought his gun up, his face still surprised to see a red-headed woman on the attack. The knife spun through the air and hit him, hilt first, in the chest, then dropped to the ground. He looked down at it and grinned, but when he looked back up I had rolled under the closest pool table.

  I was going to have to practice that whole knife throwing thing.

  He gave a shout, over his shoulder, for back-up, and then stepped toward me. Meanwhile, his partner had struggled to his knees, his right hand clamped over the wound in his left shoulder.

  “You bitch,” he growled at me through gritted teeth. For some reason this made the other guy laugh.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “I do,” he said.

  I scooted quickly to the end of the pool table, reaching into the ball return and pulling out two balls with my right hand. Without standing, I passed one of the balls to my left hand and lobbed it up into the chandelier. As soon as it hit, I leapt to my feet facing guard, whose head was tilted up toward the tinkling glass. With my right hand, I threw the other ball as hard as I could. I aimed at his nose, but I hit his Adam’s apple, which turned out to be better. His left hand clutched his throat, his right involuntarily squeezing the trigger and sending a spray of bullets over my head, shattering the mirror and shooting out the lights.

  I hit the floor again and rolled across the space between the two pool tables. The room was now dark again except for the light streaming in from the hall. Looking under the table, I could see the tall guard lying on the floor, convulsively trying to breathe. I kept moving and slid across the floor and behind one of the big leather chairs. I reached up and grabbed a pool cue from the rack on the wall.

  I could also see the legs of the shorter, Latino guard, who had managed to get back to his feet. I heard a noise out in the hall, and the guard shouted “Aqui,” in a belabored voice, his feet moving as he slowly turned to look toward the door and the approaching help.

  I took my chance and sprung from my crouched position, taking one quick step before vaulting up onto the pool table. The guard realized his mistake a moment too late, turning back toward me as I launched myself off the table and into a flying sidekick, striking him in the face with my heavy boot. He was already off balance from being wounded and fell over backward with the blow. I continued past him, landing hard on my left foot, unable to stop my forward momentum, and tumbling through the wide doorway and out into the bright light of the hall, rolling onto my back.

  I was looking straight up at the shocked face of two more guards. I poked hard with the pool cue, still in my right hand, and jabbed the end of it into the gut of one of the men. I rolled away from the second man as he reached for me and jumped up to my feet, holding the cue like a quarter staff and hitting him hard in the shoulder. He was solid, and I’m sure the blow hurt, but he didn’t move much. I went for the knee instead. He blocked the first blow by raising and twisting his leg, absorbing the blow with his large thigh, but I caught him on the opposite knee with the second blow, and he howled in pain on his way to the ground.

  Behind him, the guard I had jabbed in the stomach had straightened back up and pulled a pistol from a holster on his hip. He pointed it at me even as I stepped forward, an agonizingly far distance between us. He pulled the trigger but hadn’t released the safety. The end of my staff connected with his hand and sent the gun flying from his grip, into the billiard room and out of sight.

  I windmilled the stick in my hand and tried to press my advantage with quick left and right hacking blows, but the big man blocked them with his forearms, finally getting a hand on the stick. He grabbed it with both hands, at which point I let go of it entirely and punched him in the face with my brass knuckles. He let go of the stick and I caught it as it fell, at the same time bringing my right foot up and kicking him between the legs. He doubled over, and I brought the stick down on his head with both hands, snapping it in two. He was out cold.

  My victory was short-lived though, as a strong hand gripped my left ankle and pulled me off balance, hard. I fell to my knee and kicked back with my other boot, which was a mistake because the hefty man on the floor grabbed that boot with his other hand, and now I was stuck.

  I twisted my torso, trying to hit his grasping hands with the half pool cue, but I missed and hit my boot. He gave a massive pull with both hands, and dragged himself up my body, letting go of my boots and grabbing me around the thighs. Now he was close enough to hit with the stick, but he twisted hard, rolling us both over so that we were on our backs, my legs covering his face, but trapped in the grip of his massive arms.

  I heaved forward, crunching my stomach muscles and sitting up, pushing his head harder into the floor. I jabbed his forearms with repeated hard punches with my brass knuckles, but he wouldn’t let go. I twirled the half pool cue around in my right hand so that instead of a cudgel it was now a spike, and I jabbed the sharp end under my right thigh and into his ribcage.

  His grip broke. I rolled off him and jumped to my feet. The pool cue was still sticking out of his side, and his face had gone deathly pale. I may have punctured his lung. Still, he reached out toward my ankle with his beefy hand. I stomped on it with my big Belleville boot and then skipped out of the way.

  I left him there, breathing wetly, and staggered to the frosted glass doors. I didn’t look back to see if he was following, because my God, if that hadn’t stopped him nothing would. I reached for the doorknob with my left hand and was startled to see my fingers swollen and bloody. I eased the brass knuckles off my hand and dropped them on the floor with a ringing clang.

  I was too tired to care about stealth anymore. I opened the door and saw another broad staircase, this one made of stone. I leaned heavily on the wrought-iron handrail and staggered up, shielding my eyes against the sudden and intense sunlight.

  Thirty-five

  I felt like I had stepped into a dream. Nothing made sense. Instead of the dark stone and wood paneling below, everything here was made of glass and light blond wood. The floor was highly polished, and white upholstered furniture was spread artfully around the room. Along the left wall, a long countertop of polished wood and copper formed a bar, behind it were shelves holding glittering bottles of alcohol. Speakers mounted high on the wall emitted samba music softly. From the top of this high wall, a glass ceiling descended at an angle lowering from twenty feet to around eight feet on the other side of the room, where a glass wall looked out on the wooden overhang deck and beyond that to a stunning view of the forest stretching away toward the sea in the far distance. It was ridiculously impractical. The Mexican sun would heat this place like an oven, which is why cool air was flowing from vents placed along the top of the wall.

  I leaned heavily against the newel post at the top of the stairs and stared around. There were five people in the room. On a white sofa in the middle of the open fl
oor sat Cosmo. He was battered but didn’t seem too much the worse for wear. His hands were tied in front of him with a long piece of rope, which I realized was my climbing rope. The rope went from his wrists to around his knees, but not so tightly that he had to lean over. Cosmo may have been able to reach the knots, but he couldn’t work on them because a man stood behind the couch, watching him closely and pointing a pistol at the back of his head. It was the man I had seen earlier, with the bright Hawaiian shirt. His ensemble was rounded out with white khaki pants and open toed sandals.

  At the end of the bar to my left, Ellery Park sat perched on a high stool. Her arms were pulled behind her back in a way that suggested handcuffs. Other than that, she seemed completely unharmed, and gave me a bright smile. Standing next to her was a black man with a salt and pepper beard, wearing the same pants and black shirt as the other guards. He too held a pistol, but it he held it casually at his side.

  On the far side of the room, looking out the big glass window, was Antonio Negron. He was dressed in a white business suit over a bright blue dress shirt that was open at the collar. In his left hand he held a tumbler full of alcohol. His right arm hung limp at his side.

  He turned to look at me.

  “Ah, Ms. Wrigley, or is it Ms. Riley? I can’t keep it straight. Please, have a seat.”

  I took two steps sideways to the right and sat on the edge of a cane chair that was next to a little decorative table. On the table sat a twelve-inch-high statue of a dancer. It seemed to be made of real gold. Looking around the room again, I noticed that almost every flat surface had a gold statue on it. Negron caught my gaze.

  “Ah yes, you’ve noticed some of my collection. One of the benefits of living on top of a gold mine. It’s just one of the many—”

  “Oh Jesus, will you shut up already,” I blurted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I get it,” I said. “You’re a supervillain. You have a lair. You probably have a white Persian cat somewhere. Can we cut to the chase? I am utterly exhausted. I reached over and started to unlace my right boot. The man behind Cosmo came instantly on alert and redirected his gun at me.