by Dixie Lyle
Then I’d figured out the killer’s identity, so the trap wasn’t needed—but Shondra had already sent Caroline home and put up extra cameras by then. Which would do us absolutely no good, since Navarro was currently in the process of remotely disabling them and/or erasing their content. At least Caroline wasn’t in danger.
I needed to stop those men, and I didn’t think Whiskey could do it by himself. But maybe I could get him some help.
Tell Ben to go find Tango. Then have both of them hightail it over to the zoo. When they get there, here’s what I want them to do …
When I was finished my instructions, Whiskey chuckled. [Well, that should make things interesting … by the way, the men have broken into the clinic. They’ve left one outside as a guard.]
Think you can take him out without alerting the others?
[Easily.]
How about without killing him?
[Less easily. But I can certainly disarm him and run him off.]
Then do so, please.
[Very well. Switching to Irresistible Puppy Mode now.]
Which I was guessing would last long enough for Whiskey to get within lunging distance, at which point upward of three hundred pounds of mastiff or St. Bernard would clamp its jaws around the barrel of the guard’s gun and yank. Followed by the growling and the snarling and the running away. One down.
“I say, old boy,” ventured Oscar. “I don’t mean to upset you in any way, but none of us is really used to being held hostage. Your leader obviously feels we should all stay civilized about this, and I most heartily agree. He even went so far as to offer us a drink.”
“So?” grunted the gunman.
Oscar lifted his empty glass. “So that was ages ago. A quick refill would do wonders for my nerves, and you can train that extremely lethal-looking weapon at me the entire time. I assure you, my hands will remain in full view the entire time.”
The thug considered this, then nodded. “Go ahead. You even twitch, I’ll blow you away.”
Oscar swallowed. “Ah. Well then, perhaps someone else should go. I’m feeling a little unsteady.”
The gunman shook his head. “Oh, no. No servants here, man. Just us. You want a drink, you’d best get on your feet and go get one. Matter of fact, bring the whole bottle. And a glass for me, too.”
“If … if you insist.” Oscar got to his feet, smiled weakly, and made his way very slowly and carefully toward the bar. Once there, he picked up a bottle of rum, poured himself a large shot with hands visibly shaking, and downed it. Then he grabbed an oversized brandy snifter, filled it three-quarters of the way full, and took two careful steps toward our captor. He extended the glass to him like he was offering meat to a hungry wolf, keeping as much distance between them as possible. I couldn’t see the thug’s grin, but I knew it was there.
And then Oscar dropped the glass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sound the glass made as it smashed into a thousand pieces was mostly drowned out by a sudden clap of thunder. Oscar froze, his eyes wide. The thug’s gun snapped up, pointed straight at Oscar’s heart.
“I—please, I’m sorry,” Oscar managed.
The gunman chuckled. “Little nervous, man? Don’t worry. Not like it’s my booze you’re wasting. Now go back and get me another one, and this time be careful.”
“Y-yes. Of course.”
This time, Oscar moved like he was underwater. He filled another snifter, and gave it to the gunman using both hands. Then he made his way back to his seat and sank down into it.
The gunman stuck the snifter under his bandanna and took a sip. “Hey, that’s got some kick to it,” he said approvingly. “You trying to get me drunk, man?”
Oscar grabbed his own glass and took a quick swallow. “No, the last thing I want in the person who’s pointing a gun in my direction is inebriation. I assure you, the only one I want to get drunk is me.”
The gunman laughed. “Everybody got their own way to get high, right? Just depends on what you can afford.”
Oscar’s eyes moved to mine and held them for a second. “We all have our vices,” he said quietly. And then, quite deliberately, his gaze moved to rest on Karst, before flicking back to me.
Karst. Vices. I thought hard, trying to figure out what Oscar meant.
Karst was a hunter. Was Oscar trying to tell me we could use Karst’s skills to overpower our guard?
No, that didn’t make sense. Karst was so wasted he could barely walk. Is that the vice Oscar was referencing, Karst’s inebriation?
And then I got it. Karst’s other vice.
Karst was a smoker. And he was sitting right next to me.
Think, Foxtrot, think. Karst was right-handed. Most people smoke with their dominant hand, so that’s the one they use to stick the cigarette in their mouth. Odds were that he was used to lighting his cigarettes with the other hand, meaning the lighter was most likely in his left-hand pocket. I was sitting to his left.
Which pocket?
Hopefully, the outside pocket of his suit jacket, which was within reach—but I still needed a distraction. Whiskey? You busy?
[Not really. I’ve treed the guard and he seems sufficiently terrified to remain there for a while.]
Tell Ben I need hail on the house. Just a short burst should do it.
[I shall.]
Either hail wasn’t something you could call up on short notice or Ben was occupied with what I’d sent him to do, but it seemed to take forever before the sound of hard rain suddenly became the machine-gun rattle of ice falling from the sky. It ratcheted up from loud to deafening in a matter of seconds, though, causing everyone—the gunman included—to glance in the direction of the window.
Not me, though. I slipped my hand into Karst’s pocket, felt the familiar shape of a book of matches, and grabbed it. My hand was out of his pocket and dangling beside the couch, out of the gunman’s sight, as fast as I dared.
“That’s some crazy weather,” the gunman said. “Glad I’m in here.”
“The gods are displeased,” Abazu said. Not quite, but closer to the truth than he knew.
Karst gave me an odd look, which I ignored. I hoped he wasn’t so drunk that he’d blurt something without thinking.
There’s a trick I know that involves lighting a match from a matchbook with one hand. First you had to get the book open, which was fairly easy. Then you bent one match all the way over and around the bottom, so that the head was pressed against the striking strip—a little harder, but manageable. Finally, you juggled the whole book around with your fingers until it was upside down with the back facing you and your thumb on the head of the match. Tricky to do, but actually easier when you weren’t looking; all your attention was focused on the tactile.
When you had it all properly aligned, it was possible to light the match by flicking your thumb. Possible, but not certain.
My first attempt failed. I repositioned the match head with my thumb and tried again. No good. The hail stopped and the rain returned.
“Hey,” said the gunman. He was looking right at me. “Aren’t you gonna have a drink with us?”
My drink was on the table in front of me. I couldn’t lean forward to pick it up without exposing my left hand. “I’m not thirsty, thank you.”
“Too good to drink with a guy like me, huh?” the thug said. He took a step forward, stopped, and gulped from the snifter like it was a glass of beer. Getting his courage up.
I smiled at him, pressed the book of matches into my palm with my thumb, leaned forward, and grabbed my drink. I settled back and let my hand dangle beside the arm of the couch again, raising my glass in a toast as I did so. “I can’t stand things that are ‘too good,’ myself. Here’s to trying new things.”
He pulled the snifter out from under the bandanna and joined my toast. We both drank, while I did my best to maneuver another match into position.
It flared to life with an audible sound on the second try, but the rain made enough noise to cover it. Part
of the match head stuck to my thumb, though, and it took all my willpower not to yelp with pain.
I’d only have one try at this, and a single burning match was risky; it could go out before it did its job far too easily. So, one-handed and blind, I had to shift the book of matches into a position that would cause the burning one to ignite all the others, without burning myself.
Or at least without burning myself so badly that I dropped them.
The entire book caught with a loud pffft! and pain seared up my wrist. I forced myself to bring my hand around slowly, and tossed the flaming book carefully onto the floor. I fully expected to be shot dead while doing it, but the gunman just stared at me like he couldn’t believe his eyes.
And then the overproof rum soaked into the overpriced carpet at his feet went up with a whoosh of flame.
It’s funny, the things that make us panic. They tend to be primal: heights, drowning, darkness. And, of course, being set on fire. Panic overwhelms the reasoning part of the brain and galvanizes the central nervous system into action, directing muscles to take immediate steps to solve the problem with no consideration of consequences.
Only the gunman’s pants were on fire, but it was enough to make him react without thinking. He dumped his drink on his legs, trying to put the flames out.
Then he was really on fire.
I rarely panicked. My reaction to a crisis situation was to go the other way, becoming hyperanalytical and detached while events unfolded. My reflexes sped up, and I could make snap decisions based on virtually no information. Also, I became bulletproof, could bend tempered steel with my eyelids, and gained the ability to see through walls.
Okay, maybe not quite. But I definitely don’t turn into this guy.
He tried to shoot the fire.
In retrospect, it almost made sense. Almost. Agonizing pain plus total surprise plus panicked impulse equals frenzied attempt to kill whatever is to blame. Or maybe his ambushed brain made a connection between pistol and water pistol, I don’t know.
What I do know is that he screamed, dumped fuel on himself, shot himself in the leg, and fell to the ground. Shondra was out of her chair in an instant, and had his gun a second after that.
Me, I sprang up and grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall—I knew where every single one on the grounds was, thank you—and put him out. He just lay there, unconscious from shock and covered in white fire retardant.
“Navarro,” Shondra said. She was already sprinting for the door.
“Zhen,” I snapped. “First-aid kit, under the bar. Doesn’t look like he hit an artery, but we need to stop the bleeding. Everybody else, into the wine cellar. It has a heavy door that locks and Navarro will have a hard time getting a dump truck in there.”
“Good thinking,” said Oscar. He finished his drink and set the glass down. His hands didn’t shake at all. “I say, nobody ever told me alcohol would be so readily available in this sort of situation; if I’d known, I’d have taken up being a hostage sooner.”
I helped Zhen bandage the wound as ZZ herded everyone else out the door and Oscar led the way. “Foxtrot,” she said when she was the only person left in the room.
“Yes, ZZ?’
“You are the best assistant I have ever had. Do not get yourself killed, that is an order.”
“Yes, ZZ.”
“When you’ve made sure that horrible man isn’t going to bleed to death on my carpet, go for help.”
“What about Shondra?” ZZ’s security chief had been the first one to leave, but neither ZZ nor I thought she was going for help. She was going to make other people scream for help.
“I’m sure she’ll leave some of them alive for questioning, dear. Don’t get in her way, all right?”
“Yes, ZZ.”
I’d told Zhen to grab the first-aid kit because she was the only one I knew had a background that might include medical training. From the quick and professional job she was doing, it looked like I’d been right.
“He passed out from shock, but I think he’ll be fine,” she said. “Vital signs are strong, breathing is not bad, he did not lose too much blood. Even the burns are mostly superficial.”
I wish I could say I was surprised that nervous, socially awkward Zhen proved to have a cool head in a crisis, but I wasn’t. The better someone is at their profession, the less time they have to spend on their own life; almost every high-powered CEO or celebrity I’d ever worked for had sacrificed part of themselves to become that successful. Put them onstage or at the head of a boardroom, they’d shine—it was when you stuck them in their own kid’s birthday party that they’d fall to pieces. If you were rich enough, you could hire someone like me to keep all those pieces connected. If you weren’t quite that rich, you just filled all your hours with work and avoided certain situations altogether.
“Great,” I said. “Now hold his wrists together while I use the rest of these bandages to tie him up.”
As we worked, I kept expecting the sound of gunfire from upstairs. Navarro must have heard the shot; since his communication system wasn’t working, he’d have to investigate personally.
Poor guy.
Tango! Can you hear me?
Fine. Guests are safe, we’ve taken down one guard, and Shondra’s hunting Navarro.
I know, right? Still, he deserves it. How’s it going on your end?
Well, yeah. But it’s going to take all of them to move that body, so their guns will be slung over their backs. The heavy rain will cut visibility down to almost nothing. And all we really have to do is scatter them and destroy the cart.
Belt and suspenders, Tango. I’m on my way to do that now.
“You need to get to the wine cellar with the rest,” I told Zhen. “I’ll give you directions—”
“No. I am coming with you.” She wasn’t arguing, either, simply stating a fact. “That is my liger he is attempting to steal. I will not let him.”
I tried to sigh, but wound up smiling instead. “Don’t have time to discuss this, do we? Well, I guess I can use a lookout. Let’s go.”
I cracked the door and stuck my head out cautiously. No sign of Shondra or Navarro. “Come on,” I whispered. We crept out, down the hall, and to the front door.
I opened it and peered out. The rain hammering down was deafening, a deluge of biblical proportions. Hailstones covered the ground like the remains of an epic snowball fight between two leprechaun armies, and a new lake swelled on the driveway. The dump truck stood in the middle of it, an industrial island of rusting gray steel on heavy-treaded tires. The back was probably half full of water by now.
“Stay on the porch and keep an eye out for Navarro,” I said. “If you see him coming down the stairs, yell, slam the door, and run that way.” I pointed toward the graveyard, then gave her quick directions to get to the caretaker’s bungalow. “His name is Cooper. Tell him what’s going on and to call the cops. If he’s not there, there’s a key hidden in the flower bed, under the gnome smoking a pipe. Let yourself in.”
“What about the men who went to get Augustus’s body?” she asked.
“Oh, they’re going to be having problems of their own.”
I sprinted out into the downpour. It was like running full-tilt into a waterfall, drenching me in an instant, cold and shocking and relentless. I splashed through the lake, made it to the truck, and vaulted onto the running board. The door wasn’t locked; I wrenched it open, jumped inside, and slammed it shut behind me. No way anyone would hear the noise over the pounding of the rain.
Then my luck turned bad. No keys, which meant I couldn’t just steal them. I tried shifting it into neutral, but we weren’t on enough of an incline for it to roll on its own. I was doing my best to figure out how to pop the hood when I heard a rap on the driver’s-side window.
&nbs
p; I snapped my head to the side. Navarro stood there, pointing a gun at me. He motioned for me to move into the passenger seat. I had no choice but to comply.
After I did so, he opened the door and got in beside me. Through the curtain of falling water, I could see that Zhen was no longer on the porch; either I hadn’t heard her yell over the rain, or she hadn’t seen him in time.
“You’re very resourceful,” Navarro said. He was as soaked as I was, but I doubted that would affect his gun. “But you should quit while you’re ahead.”
“‘Quit while you’re ahead’? What kind of bad-guy dialogue is that? Shouldn’t you be threatening my life or my mother or something?”
Navarro sighed. “I didn’t come here to kill anyone. All I want is the liger. Really, you should just cooperate.”
“Okay, I’m pretty sure you’ll get thrown out of the Villains’ Union for talking like that.”
“I’m not a villain. A villain would have shot your security chief instead of sneaking down the back stairs.” He had a set of keys in one hand, and now he stuck them in the ignition and started the truck. “But now that you’re here, I don’t have to worry about her, do I? And by the time she figures out I’m no longer in the house, we’ll be all loaded up and ready to leave.”
“Yeah, no. See, your men are going to be showing up empty-handed, due to the little accident they had with their cart. No cart, no liger. Sorry ’bout that.”
He frowned with his eyes and smiled with his mouth. “Accident?”
“Well, altercation, actually. With a hippo.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. Oh, didn’t I mention we have a vicious guard hippo? He likes to prowl around in rainstorms, looking for wheelbarrows, trolleys, laundry carts—anything that rolls, really. Then he bursts out of hiding, bellowing at the top of his lungs, knocks it over, and stomps it into the mud. Caroline thinks it’s some kind of competitive mating behavior, but I tend more toward the theory that somebody used to dress him up in a flowered bonnet and parade him around in a baby carriage when he was just a tiny little hippo, and now he’s working out deep feelings of helplessness and humiliation.”