“Pressure,” he instructed her.
She wrapped her arms around the towels and held them like a life preserver. She looked scared. She had good reason.
“Tight,” he said and shut the door behind him.
At the suite’s door, Fa paused to listen, uncertain what to expect on the other side. Certainly not the carnage he found. He cleared the room of immediate threats and counted at least two dead. Thankfully, Charles Merrick lay on his side tied to a chair and very much alive. A guard who lay dead near Merrick had cleared his gun from his holster but hadn’t gotten off a shot. His killer had been firing wildly; he’d been hit in the shoulder, the gut, and the thigh. The last of which had clipped the femoral artery, judging by the blood loss.
Chelsea Merrick’s handiwork, he presumed. She had heart but lousy aim . . . lucky but lousy. Fa took the gun and pressed a finger to his lips for Merrick to stay quiet. A near-catatonic Merrick made no answer.
To Merrick’s left, two hooded figures sat tied to chairs. The first could be only Veronica Merrick. Fa could hear her hyperventilating. He couldn’t guess who the man beside her might be. A bodyguard perhaps? A fourth chair, rope coiled around the legs and armrests, sat unoccupied. Chelsea Merrick’s, no doubt, but how had she freed herself and gotten her hands on a gun? He had more questions than answers.
He didn’t recognize the woman in the wheelchair, but apparently she’d been in charge. Hard to imagine someone so frail being the author of so much havoc. Perhaps she’d been more fearsome before Chelsea Merrick had put a bullet in her head. Judging by the star-shaped wound in her forehead, blackened by soot from the discharge, it had been done up close and personal. The woman’s expression, a mix of outrage and disbelief, suggested that things had not gone the way she had envisioned. Fa retraced Chelsea Merrick’s footsteps back to the inner room.
On the bed lay the tools of the modern-day torturer. The would-be torturer, splayed on the carpet, had taken a bullet to the throat. Clearly Chelsea Merrick had had other ideas. Fa regretted shooting such an impressive young woman. But the interesting part of the narrative was that, after freeing herself, Chelsea Merrick had abandoned her parents. Chelsea Merrick had worked hard to put herself in this room with her parents and then brushed by them like strangers. What had she said to him before leaving him to his fate? Judging by Merrick’s stricken, tear-stained face, it would have been worth hearing.
Fa knelt beside the fallen man.
“Hello again, Mr. Merrick. Do you remember me?”
“Lee Wulff.”
“Exactly right. Have you enjoyed your first day of freedom?”
Merrick craned his neck up to look Fa in the eye. “What do you want?”
“Not in the mood to spar with me today? The last time we spoke, you were intent on being clever. I was looking forward to a rematch.” Fa shrugged. “Ah, well. Straight to the point, then. Last we spoke, I made you an offer. You weren’t interested. I thought perhaps you’d had time to reconsider, now that your financial situation has changed.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Who do you think pointed Gibson Vaughn and your daughter in the right direction?”
The head of the unidentified hooded man jerked in the direction of Fa’s voice.
“Who the hell is Gibson Vaughn?” Merrick asked.
“A very rich man, thanks to me,” Fa said.
“Why?”
“So that I could help you, Mr. Merrick.”
“You’re here to help me?”
“Yes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“What are you offering?”
“To get you out of here. To offer you a comfortable life.”
“How comfortable?”
“More comfortable than dying in that chair when your captor’s men come back.”
“And what do you want?”
“The name of your Chinese collaborator. Merrick Capital had a source inside my country’s Politburo. The real secret to your success. I want the name of the traitor you sacrificed to the Americans to save your skin.”
Merrick’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? Really?”
“For God’s sake, Merrick,” the other man said from beneath his hood. “He’s a Chinese spy. Shut your damn mouth.”
Fa rose and pressed the muzzle of his gun into the hood. “Who is this man?”
“Damon Ogden. My CIA pimp.”
“Your handler?”
“Not anymore.”
Not that Fa had any doubt, but the presence of the CIA was final confirmation that Merrick knew Poisonfeather’s identity.
Ogden’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
“He hasn’t done so well by you, has he?” Fa said.
“No. What are you offering?”
“An apartment in Shanghai overlooking the Huangpu River. The opportunity to be a stockbroker again with one of China’s finest investment firms. Citizenship in the greatest country on earth. And of course a generous consulting fee.”
“How generous?”
“Ten million. US.”
“I want twenty.”
Fa chuckled. Even tied to a chair in a room full of bodies, Charles Merrick wanted to negotiate. The identity of Poisonfeather was worth ten times that amount to his government.
Veronica Merrick interrupted. “I’ll give you the name for nine.”
That was an unexpected development. Fa pulled off her hood.
“How nice to meet you, Mrs. Merrick. You know the name?”
“Of course I know the name. Who do you think ran Merrick Capital? Charles? That would’ve cut into his mirror-gazing time.”
“Veronica, what do you think you are doing?”
“Negotiating my release.”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Negotiating your release. I learned my lesson eight years ago when you changed the passwords on our accounts. Do you think I’m going to sit idly by while you double-cross me again?”
“You want to talk about a double cross? Let’s talk about the fact that we started Merrick Capital together, but somehow your name wasn’t on a single document. You reaped the reward and left me to take the fall.”
“Charles. You wanted to play the big man and cast me as the little lady. Well, big men go to jail.”
Fa watched them in wonder. Despite being tied to chairs, despite the bodies at their feet, despite the surging gunfire, neither Merrick possessed any inkling of the direness of their situation.
“It’s a package deal, or I tell him now for nothing,” Veronica Merrick snapped. “I would have gone to the press before just to see you suffer. I’ll do it again now.”
The Merricks glowered at each other.
“Okay, okay, you win. A package deal.” Merrick looked to Fa. “Get us out of the country, and we’ll give you the name.”
“This is treason, Merrick,” Ogden yelled. “Do you understand that?”
Fa cracked the butt of his gun across Ogden’s head, and the man went limp. He cut Merrick free as a crash in the hall caught his ear. Fa handed Merrick the knife.
“Cut her loose. Be ready when I get back. I’m going to check our exit.”
Fa drew his gun and glanced out into the deserted fifth-floor hallway. Sporadic gunfire echoed up the stairwell; the battle had reached a stalemate. If the Merricks followed his instructions and kept quiet, there was still time to get away. He recognized the enormity of that if. He calculated the time to get the Merricks to his safe house and make arrangements for their exfiltration. He hadn’t counted on phone service getting knocked out. That had set him back, but he had a satellite phone at the safe house.
That left Damon Ogden. Leaving him alive was a risk, but killing a CIA agent on American soil was an act of war. Even the identity of Poisonfeather couldn’t justify an unsanctioned assassination. But if Ogden somehow managed to raise the alarm, it would complicate matters. Fa scratched the back of his head. Then again, the man was tied to a chair in a building rigged to burn. Somet
imes the thing to do was to do nothing at all. These situations had a way of working themselves out.
In the hall, an upended planter led Fa to a thin blood trail on the carpet leading from the room where he’d stashed Chelsea Merrick. Somehow she was gone; a bloody handprint on the doorknob marked her exit. It didn’t seem possible, but he saw no drag marks; she had gotten up on her own. His admiration for her continued to grow. Most people would have lain down and died, but not this woman. She didn’t stand much of a chance, but Fa wished her good fortune.
Fa went back to the presidential suite to collect his cargo. Charles Merrick hadn’t cut the ropes binding his ex-wife to the chair. It took Fa a moment to understand the blood on the knife. The blood everywhere. Merrick had put her hood back on. Had not looking into her eyes made it easier? Nonetheless, he’d made a mess of it, but he hadn’t given up. American stick-to-itiveness at its finest. Merrick stood over Veronica Merrick’s body; his shoulders shook, and he looked to Fa, eyes wide.
“Twenty million.”
Fa raised his gun. “Drop the knife.”
“I want twenty million.”
“Twenty million,” Fa agreed. “Now the knife. Put it down.”
Merrick did as he was told and looked at Fa with sundown eyes.
“It’s not the same, getting your own hands dirty, is it?” Fa asked.
“Twenty million.”
How Fa despised these people.
CHAPTER FORTY
The tile floor felt cool against her face. She might be content to lie here forever, though Lea didn’t imagine forever would be that long in coming. Still, the idea of dying facedown on a hotel kitchen floor didn’t appeal to her any more than dying in an anonymous hotel room. With what strength remained, she raised herself to a sitting position and put her back against a wall between two stacks of boxes. Better. Not good, but better. A shaft of moonlight lit the kitchen in pretty blues it didn’t deserve. All around, boxes stacked like haphazard skyscrapers formed a cardboard skyline that reminded Lea of the New York of her childhood.
What an odd place to die, she thought, but couldn’t think of anywhere better. Not that it was up to her. Her legs could take her no farther. They hadn’t been in a cooperative frame of mind, and the old, disused servant staircase, warped and uneven with age, had exhausted their patience. They’d gone out from under her at the top of the last flight, and she’d tumbled her way to the kitchen floor. Not that it had hurt. Strangely, nothing hurt, although her hands and legs felt terribly cold. Didn’t seem right to die and feel fine. If she didn’t look down, it was almost possible to forget that she was even shot.
Honestly, dying didn’t sound so bad. Today hadn’t given her the satisfaction she thought it would, but she’d done what she’d set out to do. She took comfort in the knowledge that this had all been her decision. That would have to be enough.
Strange the way it had ended, so close to getting away, only to take a bullet from a Chinese fisherman. He’d seemed irritated and a little sad about it. She hoped he didn’t feel too badly; it all just struck her as funny now. The utter randomness of it. Except, of course, not at all. They’d all, for their own selfish motives, come to this godforsaken town, this godforsaken hotel. None of them were innocent. They’d all tallied the risks and chosen to stay out of greed or revenge. Or both. The very essence of human purposefulness in all its venal glory. So it was pure arrogance to think she would leave unscathed from this meat grinder. Lea could accept that now.
The gunfire sounded far away. Soothing in its way. Lea licked her lips. What she wouldn’t give for a sip of water, but the kitchen sinks might as well have been in New York.
A stack of boxes blocking the dining-room door tilted and spilled across the floor. A figure squeezed through the opening and slunk toward her. Lea considered where she might hide, then realized the utter pointlessness. Whoever it was would be doing her a mercy.
Gavin Swonger stole into the moonlight, weaving his way toward the servant staircase. He paused a few feet away, almost close enough to reach out and touch. He hadn’t seen her, and the dying part of her hoped he left her in peace. The living part thought that was about the stupidest thing it had ever heard. The living part won out. For now. Her lips spoke his name but couldn’t muster so much as a whisper. Had she died? Become a ghost in her own silent film? He moved on, and an animal panic seized her.
“Gavin,” she whispered in a voice filled with gravel.
Swonger looked back in her direction. A big goofy smile spread over his face that made her want to cry. She was too thirsty for tears.
“Been looking all over for you,” Swonger said.
“Here I am.” She waved weakly to him.
Swonger knelt beside her, smile dissolving when he saw the blood.
“What happened?”
“Got shot.”
“You think?”
“What’s going on out there?”
Swonger shook his head. “Dog, it’s bad. World War Four and shit. Bodies everywhere. How is it upstairs?”
“About the same. What are you doing here?”
“We’re looking for you.”
“We?”
“Gibson’s back at the Toproll.”
“You guys are idiots.”
“Yeah, been feeling like that for a while now. So what’s up with the dress, Duchess?”
“Shut up, Gavin.” She took his hand and squeezed it; he squeezed back.
“Okay, the hell with this Notebook shit. Let’s get you to a hospital, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she agreed, not letting go of his hand.
“Swonger!” Deja Noble stood over them both, gun at her hip. “Saw you creeping off. Who you got there?”
Swonger moved aside so Deja could see. “Thought I’d try the back stairs. Found her here. Got to get her to a hospital.”
“That’s good thinking, but the only thing we got to do is get to the fifth floor while Terry has them boys tied up out front.”
“I got to help her.”
“Isn’t any helping her. Bitch is dead. She just don’t know it yet.”
“She’s not dead.”
“Let’s go.”
“No.”
“No? Say that again.”
Swonger licked his lips.
“Give me your damn gun.” Deja put her hand out expectantly. “Time to get gone.”
Swonger pointed his .45 at her in answer. Deja stared at it. She almost looked proud. One of her men stepped into view, rifle trained on Swonger’s forehead. Deja gestured for him to hold his fire.
“Sure this is your play?” Deja asked.
Swonger shrugged at her. “Only if it’s yours.” Gone was his bluster and cockiness; in its place Lea saw calm and determination. Deja saw it too.
“Give me the gun,” she said, but her voice lacked the weight it had once had. She kept her own gun against her hip.
“Clock is ticking. This the conversation you want to be having?”
Deja glanced at the servants’ stairs, then back to the muzzle of Swonger’s .45.
“All right, then. I’ll catch up with you down the road.”
“No need for that.”
“Oh, there’s need. But you get your girlfriend to the slab on time. Tell me later, you think it was worth it.”
With a disappointed shake of her head, Deja disappeared up the stairs. Her man pivoted and followed her up the stairs backward, rifle on Swonger until he disappeared from view. Swonger’s arm fell to his side, and he let out a shuddering sigh.
“I thought I was going to die.”
“Join the club.”
Swonger snorted with laughter despite himself. “That ain’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Forget that; you owe me. Ain’t no dying now.”
“Deal.”
Swonger hoisted Lea to her feet and slung her arm around his shoulders. She could feel him shaking, not from fear but from the adrenaline throwing a house party in his chest. To
gether, they squeezed through the dining-room door and hobbled out through the lobby. Deja’s men had fought their way up the staircase but at a terrible cost. Smoke hung over a lobby torn apart by small-arms fire. One of the double front doors lay across the floor, ripped from its hinges; the walls were splintered. Bodies lay contorted and mangled where they’d fallen, as if a child had scattered his action figures across an imaginary battlefield. These had been living men once. It was a haunting, ghastly landscape. Lea heard music: Jimmy Temple’s eternal Christmas soundtrack had survived the carnage—David Bowie and Bing Crosby traded verses on “Little Drummer Boy.”
Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.
Out on the street, Swonger paused to adjust his grip. He looked at Lea with concern. In the last few minutes, sensation had returned, and a shrill squeak escaped from between her clenched teeth with each agonizing step. It had left her out of breath and bathed in sweat, but all she could manage were short, jagged gulps like a fish on a cutting board.
She managed a grateful grimace. “Didn’t think I was going to ever be outside again.”
“Me either. Feels like a dream,” Swonger said. “Okay, just a little farther. Car’s around back. You good to make it?”
Lea nodded as Margo’s red pickup truck rounded the corner and stopped in front of them. Old Charlie rolled down the passenger window, took one look at Lea, and cursed with Shakespearean eloquence. Margo leaned across him, the left side of her face an archipelago of stippled bruises that would fuse into one large mass before long.
“Oh, Gilmore. What have they done to you?”
They propped Lea up in the backseat of the cab and used a seat belt to keep her from tipping over. While they worked, Swonger gave Margo the short version of events inside the hotel, and Margo told him about Truck and her baseball bat. She said that she’d waited as long as she dared but that it was high time to get to a minimum safe distance.
“Where’s Gibson?”
“He went after you,” Margo said.
Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2) Page 31