by Jack Du Brul
“Then it’s no coincidence. We’re being hunted.” Mercer’s voice was thick with unfocused anger.
“Looks that way. The piece of steel was just delivered to Quantico and Dr. Goetchell said she would have a preliminary report by late tomorrow morning. As soon as I get it, I’ll let you know, and then I want you to vanish.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be the invisible man.”
Mercer was woken again, just past six o’clock. This time it was a pounding at the door that dragged him from the blissful embrace of oblivion. The skylight over his bed was a darkening square, the sky above swollen with rainclouds. He threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt and spun down the stairs. His injuries had stiffened, so he moved like an old man, shuffling and slow.
He looked through the peephole and saw Special Agent Mike Peters standing next to someone he thought he’d never see again. He swung open the door with a tired smile.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but this woman insisted that I tell you she was here.”
If Aggie Johnston was beautiful in a designer dress, she was absolutely enchanting in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. Her face had the clean scrubbed look of a college coed, except for the enticing pout of her lipsticked lips that drew attention to her understated sensuality.
“You’re quite a surprise,” Mercer said, catching her green eyes.
“I came over with some dinner.” She held up a plastic bag emblazoned with Chinese dragons and characters. “The next thing I know I’m being felt up by this guy. What’s going on here?” She paused when she noticed the bandage on Mercer’s cheek. Her voice softened. “Oh, my God, what happened to you?”
Mercer turned to Agent Peters. “You frisked her?”
The big FBI agent looked sheepish. “I had to make sure she wasn’t armed.”
“Lucky boy. I think if I’d tried that, she would’ve torn me limb from limb.”
“Mercer, what happened to you?” Aggie cut in impatiently.
“You might as well come in. I’ll tell you all about it.”
He moved aside to let Aggie enter, tossing a wink at Peters as she crossed the threshold.
“I didn’t expect this.” Aggie eyed the tall atrium. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. Come on upstairs. I’ll fix you a drink.” He followed her up the staircase, his eyes luckily at the level of her tight backside as she took the steps with long-legged grace.
She paused in the library, scanning the titles, her fingers running along the spine of one of the twenty-eight volumes of Denis Diderot’s eighteenth-century Encyclopedie Methodique. She looked at the shelves with the rapt attention of a true bibliophile. Many of the books in Mercer’s collection were early editions of some of the great works on geology and mineral sciences. She went to one shelf and withdrew Earth in the Balance by Al Gore. “This is one book I would never have suspected of you,” she teased.
“It was a gift,” Mercer defended himself quickly. “I swear to God I never read it.”
In the bar, Aggie ran her hand along the massive mahogany bar top, surveying the delicate woodwork that made up much of the room. “This is more what I expected from you. Masculine, overbearing, and dedicated to alcohol.”
“Your father must have a higher opinion of me than I thought to give me such a glowing review. I assume he told you how to find me?”
“Actually, I sneaked your address out of his Rolodex.” Aggie put the bag of food on the bar and sat on one of the stools, cocking one leg so it rested on the seat with her. Her pose unintentionally rucked her jeans into the juncture of her thighs. Mercer had to drag his eyes away from the alluring sight. “The estimate of your personality is all mine. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re limping and have a bandage on your face?”
She had been teasing Mercer since the moment she entered the house, but there was real concern in her voice that softened her jibes.
Mercer ducked behind the bar. He’d offer her a drink, but he felt it more important to put a little distance between himself and Aggie Johnston. The physical barrier of the bar, he hoped, would help him build a psychological barrier between them. In his chaotic life, the last thing he wanted was to succumb to the attraction he felt building toward her.
“White wine all right?” he asked, reaching for a bottle in the fridge.
“I’d prefer a stinger.”
Mercer cocked an eyebrow in approval as he reached for the brandy and white creme de menthe. “After I dropped you off last night, I stopped at a bar just up the street to have one more for the ditch.”
He set the drink in front of her and dribbled a healthy shot of brandy into a snifter for himself. There was an ashtray on the bar, used primarily by Harry White, which Aggie took as de facto permission to smoke. She left the pack and the gold Dun-hill next to her drink.
“I left a couple of hours later, pretty mixed, I might add. Anyway, a guy tried to mug me as I was walking home. He did a good number on me, as you can see.” Mercer touched the bandage on his cheek. “This was from a pistol whip.”
“Jesus!” Aggie exclaimed. “What happened? How did you get away?”
“I didn’t. I ended up killing him.” Mercer waited for a squeamish reaction from Aggie, but he remembered that she was Max Johnston’s daughter. It would take more than the death of a criminal to rattle her. “I’d left the bar with a couple of beer bottles. I smashed them against his head, and the next thing I knew, I’d stabbed him with the broken neck of one. I passed out and came to in the hospital with a nurse cleaning blood off my face.”
Aggie was silent for a moment; this was not one of those stories that demanded some immediate soothing response full of feigned emotion. At last she asked, “Are you still in pain?”
“Only when I laugh.” Mercer smiled. “Actually, the worst part about it was the high-grade hangover all morning.”
“If you were the victim of a mugging, why is there an FBI agent guarding your door and pawing your guests?”
“I didn’t know he’d be pawing, I swear, but he’s there as a favor to me. I thought there may have been someone else involved in the attack. I’m just being a little paranoid about possible revenge.”
Mercer mixed enough fact with fiction to make a credible story, but again he underestimated Aggie.
“My father has always liked you, and he knew I had a crush on you, so whenever he heard something about your career, he’d tease me about it. Your boyfriend did this or your boyfriend did that.” Her tone was flippant and self-mocking as she mimicked her father. “My crush was pretty transparent when I was younger. He told me all about what you did before the Gulf War, leading a team of commandos into Iraq to evaluate their uranium-mining facility.
“He also told me that there are some people in this world who, no matter how hard they try, can’t get out of the way of danger. He said you were one of them. I know you don’t believe that you were the victim of a mugging, and you know that I know it, too. I’ll leave you your cover story and let it drop, but next time you don’t want to tell me something, just say so. Deal?”
Mercer was inordinately pleased at the prospect that he would have a next time. In fact, he was mystified that she was here in the first place. He asked her why.
She lit another cigarette, more out of nervousness than nicotine addiction. When she spoke, her eyes were downcast. “I said some things last night that I shouldn’t have, burdened you with a lot of skeletons from my closet. I’m a little embarrassed.”
Apologies didn’t come easily to Aggie, that was plain to see. Her shy, elfin smile exposed beautiful white teeth and turned the corners of her eyes into creased points. But when she looked at him, her emerald eyes were almost imploring, exposing herself as surely as if she stood naked.
She laughed, cutting the sudden tension. “Just because I’m here and I apologized doesn’t mean I don’t hate what you do for a living.”
“I promise not to rape the planet until after you l
eave.”
They ate the Chinese food and talked for hours. They steered well clear of talking about themselves, in an unspoken understanding that too much had been said the night before. Despite the adversarial nature of their beliefs, they were highly intelligent and well-informed people. Even when their companionable discussion turned into debate, both enjoyed it immensely. By nine-thirty, they were sitting on the leather couch, their bodies almost, but not quite, touching. And just before ten, Aggie made the first move, reaching out to take Mercer’s hand. He was speaking when it happened, and his voice caught.
He paused, looking at her face. Her eyes had gone glassy smooth, and her pupils were dilated twice their normal size. Her mouth invited. Mercer read her expression expertly, cupping his hand behind her head and lifting her slightly so their lips would meet.
At that instant, Harry White’s graveled voice echoed through the house. “Hey, Mercer, you home? I thought you were going to Tiny’s to watch football today.”
The moment was lost immediately.
He moved away from her quickly. To delay would have meant he never would have stopped. “Harry,” he bellowed with frustration, “your timing sucks.”
“My timing? I’m not the guy with twenty bucks on the Steelers who didn’t show up to even watch the game.” Harry’s voice was getting louder as he made his way up the spiral stairs, his limp more pronounced with each footfall.
Suddenly the situation dawned on Mercer with a galvanizing shock. “Harry, how in the hell did you get in here?”
“With the key you gave me five years ago. What are you, stupid?”
“Take cover now!” Mercer shouted. “Aggie, get behind the bar and stay down.”
For Harry to get into the house without first confronting Agent Peters meant something had happened to Mercer’s FBI guard. Mercer ran from the bar, pounding up the back set of stairs to his bedroom. There was just enough light flooding over the balcony to see the ugly shape of the Beretta on the nightstand where he’d left it while he napped through the afternoon. He dove bodily across the bed. Just as he reached for the gun, the skylight above his king-sized four-poster exploded downward with the force of an automatic weapon, bullets shredding the down comforter in a storm of feathers, glass shards, and jacketed rounds.
Mercer torqued his body as he crashed to the floor, sweeping his pistol off the stand in the same motion. He landed on his back, his legs up on the destroyed bed, the gun aimed at the ceiling. It took only a fraction of a second to thumb off the safety before he started pulling the trigger, cycling through the clip as fast as the manufacturer said was possible.
He was back on his feet as the assassin fell through the shattered skylight, his lifeless corpse smashing into the bed so hard that the frame cracked, tumbling him to the floor and leaving crimson splashes on the covers. Mercer ejected the spent clip and rammed a new one home, cocking the slide with practiced confidence.
Adrenaline fizzed in his veins like agitated champagne, sharpening his senses to a fine edge. If Harry had gotten in un-challenged by Mike Peters, it was safe to assume that the agent was dead and at least one of the assailants was in the house downstairs. He could only hope that the man on the roof had been the sole backup for whoever lay downstairs.
Now that the backup was dead in spectacular fashion, Mercer had no idea what the partner would do. There was a chance he would flee, but it seemed unlikely. This was the second attempt on his life in twenty-four hours, and they would want to end it now. Since he knew the brownstone better than his adversary, his only chance was to go on the offense. He had to think about Aggie and Harry.
He stalked to the balcony, ducking his head over the railing to make sure the foyer below was empty before pumping three rounds into the marble floor, the bullets sparking off the stone like fireworks. He dashed from his perch, retracing his steps across the bedroom to the back stairs. Whoever was below him would assume that the shots were covering fire for a descent of the spiral stairs, but he planned to outflank, not charge in headlong.
The narrow back stairs were empty as he cautiously made his way down, the Beretta held at the ready, his finger no more than an ounce away from squeezing off a round. The doors to the two guest bedrooms were closed. Mercer guessed that his adversary hadn’t had the time to stage an ambush here, so he ignored them. The bar was a little farther along the hallway, and he was torn between forming a defensive position around Aggie or keeping on the offense. The question was answered for him.
“Come out, or your father dies.” The voice was heated with anger but commanding.
The library, thought Mercer. The guy has Harry in the library and thinks he’s my father. He raced down the back stairs, gliding so quickly that his bare feet barely scuffed the steps. Through the hallway that divided the kitchen and the billiards room and out into the foyer he ran, not making a sound but knowing he was going too slow. The attacker would expect an answer within a few seconds, and he’d already taken too long.
He came to the spiral stairs and started up, his gun trained before him. Just below the second floor, he heaved himself over the railing, hanging ten feet over the foyer and continued upward, his toes finding purchase on the outside of the oak steps. He raised himself to see into the library, a quick motion that would have gotten him killed if he’d stayed between the banisters of the staircase.
The gunman was positioned in the juncture of two book-cases, his back tucked into the corner, Harry held before him as a human shield. The motion of Mercer’s head ducking over the railing caught the assassin’s eye and he fired off a snap shot that went wide but would have drilled Mercer if he’d come up where expected. Mercer had only a split second to react; the next shot would compensate for his deception.
He launched himself off the staircase, lunging for the thick newels that lined the front balcony of the library, his body stretched far out into open space. He grasped the heavy oak in one hand, the momentum of his leap swinging him in a wrenching arc that felt as if it would tear his shoulder from its socket. The barrel of his pistol cleared the library floor. He fired too fast. The shot caught Harry White just below his knee, the impact of the nine-millimeter slug folding his leg under him. He took the gunman down with him when he fell to the floor.
Mercer caught another banister with his right hand, clutching at it desperately while trying to maintain a grip on the Beretta. He slithered over the railing as the assassin untangled himself from a stunned Harry, ignoring the blood pooling under them both. The gunman recovered just a fraction of a second before Mercer did, raising his weapon in a steady, side-arm stance. Mercer took another snap shot, the concussive explosions coming as one thunderous sound.
A molten stream of acid ran across Mercer’s shoulder as a bullet gouged a shallow trench through his flesh. The force of the shot slammed him back into the railings, splintering three of them and threatening to send him down to the hard marble below. Through the pain, Mercer saw that his shot had caught the other man in the middle of his chest, the 115 grain bullet driving him off his feet as if he’d been yanked by a marionette’s strings.
The body landed in the bar, sprawled on the floor in the unnatural pose of death. Aggie’s shrill scream pierced the air like a siren, rising and falling in terror. Mercer ignored her; her wailing was fear, not pain. Harry lay motionless on the floor, his face deathly pale and waxen. Mercer crawled to his old friend, the drops of blood oozing from his shoulder soaking into the beige carpet. Mercer feared he’d hit Harry in the wrong leg.
“You son of a bitch.” Harry turned, holding the shattered remnant of his prosthetic limb in his hands, the flesh-colored plastic shredded where the bullet had passed through. “Do you have any idea how much these fucking things cost?”
Relief made Mercer sag to the floor, his face pressed into the deep pile of the carpet, the adrenaline rush dissipating like an alcohol buzz. “Bill me,” he panted.
“Mercer!” Aggie screeched, the fear in her voice jolting him like an electric shock.
The gunman was struggling to his feet, his pistol trained on Aggie where she crouched near the edge of the bar. A burgundy stain ran down from his thigh where Mercer’s first shot must have caught him after passing through Harry’s artificial leg. He was heaving great drafts of air, struggling to regain the breath that had been knocked from him when the second shot had been stopped by his Kevlar vest. Mercer let out a roar as he charged into the bar, his gray eyes fixed with rage.
The assassin turned toward the sound, his aim swinging from Aggie to Mercer in a quick arc. Mercer ignored the pistol wheeling toward him. He crashed into the gunman after six powerful strides, his damaged shoulder pounding into the other man’s chest, throwing them both against the back wall and rattling glasses behind the bar. Mercer used his slight advantage to torque his pistol into the assassin’s belly just under the protective vest that had just saved the man’s life. He pushed with all of his strength, feeling the hard muscle resist for an instant. Mercer screwed the gun in deeper, almost tearing through skin, before angling the barrel up and firing four rounds into the chest cavity, tearing internal organs into wet chunks that exploded through the gunman’s back and sprayed the wainscoting beyond.
Mercer staggered back, letting the corpse fall to the floor, his hand covered with the assailant’s blood. He turned. Aggie had regained her feet, though somewhat shakily. She clutched the edge of the bar, her knuckles white with the tenacious grip. She stared at the body with a mixture of fear and revulsion even as she came across the room to collapse into Mercer’s arms.
He gasped as her hand slid across his shoulder, forcing fresh blood to well to the surface. As he sank to the floor, Aggie went down with him, her arms still around his neck, her eyes still fastened on the body only a few feet away.
“That’s, that’s…” she stammered but could not continue.
“What is it?” Mercer panted, his heart racing three times normal speed, his hands only now beginning to tremble from the fear he’d been able to ignore.