Anders. Just feet away.
No weapons. Too late to run. Macmillan stuffed his hair firmly and completely under the hat, pulled up his collar to cover his hairline, and took a seat, resting his head on the desk, face down, just like the other two guards. He forced himself to be perfectly still even though his every instinct drove him to tear out of there and get to Laney. Because he’d die before he reached the street. Anders was a true pro, a man who’d fought before he could walk, and he’d be armed head to toe. Macmillan had nothing but pepper spray. And he was raised a scholar, not a killer. He’d come to killing late.
Macmillan’s heart pounded. He was unarmed against a superior killer. He needed luck. Surprise. Something.
He felt Anders come in and move past him. He peeked out the corner of his eye to see Anders standing over the guard without the jacket, Sig P229 with silencer in hand. Anders took hold of the guard’s hair and yanked his head up, then let it bang down. It was a wonder the man didn’t wake up. Lucky, too. Anders would kill the man if he woke up.
Anders picked up the coffee cup and sniffed, then put it back down.
Macmillan could follow the track of Anders’ thoughts exactly. He’d been to the empty cell. He’d figure Macmillan had gotten the guards drugged so that he could escape. There was no reason for Anders to think Macmillan would stay. And his hair wasn’t showing.
But there were only two coffee cups for three drugged guards. Anders would notice that. It would be even worse if he noticed Macmillan’s bare feet. Macmillan wished he could move them deeper into the shadows under the desk, but he didn’t dare.
His mind clouded with images of Laney, hurt and scared. The way her eyes would look. Laney running, caught. Beaten. Worse. He felt like a volcano was in him.
Tap.
Anders had discovered the video feeds.
Macmillan felt his body clench.
Tap.
Anders was using the feeds to determine where and when Macmillan left. Who he’d been with.
Tap.
Tap tap.
Silence.
It began as a tickle of awareness. Maybe a subconscious realization that the keyboard taps had been too far apart that last time. A sense of stillness that hadn’t been there before.
Tap.
Anders had noticed his feet.
Tap.
Macmillan’s heart raced; he didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know when a gun was on him.
It was at that moment, that very moment, that one of the guards groaned. A chair squeaked. “Aao…aao…”
Macmillan slit his eyes enough to see Anders swinging the weapon around to the guard. He’d shoot. He’d shoot all three of them.
Macmillan yanked the pepper spray from his belt and exploded from his chair and right into Anders, spraying the assassin in the eyes and knocking his arm as a wild shot went off.
Anders coughed and gasped, blinded.
Macmillan grabbed Anders’s arm and brought his knee up into the killer’s elbow with crushing force. He heard the bone crack as the gun clattered to the floor.
Even blinded, even with a destroyed elbow, Anders kept coming. He landed a left-handed blow on Macmillan’s throat—just a hair to the right and it would’ve been lethal.
Macmillan hit back, coughing, eyes watering from the spray, barely able to see or breathe himself.
Anders fell. Macmillan was on him with a final blow that knocked him out cold. Macmillan cuffed Anders’ wrists to different metal fixtures and raced off with the man’s Sig shoved into the utility belt, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he didn’t finish Anders off.
He should’ve killed him, but something in him had shifted back in that cell, back when he’d told Laney about the men he’d killed. He hated the man he showed to her that night.
Two minutes later, Macmillan was slipping out onto the dark sidewalk, throat raw, eyes stinging from the pepper spray. He melted into the shadows to avoid a trio of drunks helping each other down the block, then he picked the back gate padlock and crept through the pool area, sidestepping empty lounge chairs until he reached the pergola.
Stealth was key now; if Jazzman was on his way, the Shinsurins would be out and about with the guards on high alert.
He scaled the back of the hotel; not easy with each floor wider than the one below it. When he hit the third floor he began to move sideways, balcony to balcony, using the railings as monkey bars until he got to hers.
Room dark. He swung his legs over.
The patio table and chairs they’d knocked down during the fight had been put back right. She’d mentioned sitting on her porch in those emails to Charlie. She needlepointed out there, and watched sunrises. She’d made herself a life here. Of course it was hard to leave.
He picked the lock on her sliding door and slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him, standing perfectly still as he let his eyes get used to the dark.
She slept on her stomach, sheets tangled around her legs and waist, her back a pale expanse of white undershirt, hair a dark mass to one side of her head. Face calm in sleep.
He needed to tell her about her brother and get her out.
Her brother.
He felt suddenly as if he was looking down at a version of himself the moment before his life went dark. There was a time when he would’ve given anything to go back to that blissful, ignorant before, to spend just one more minute there.
She stirred.
“Laney,” he whispered—gently. It wouldn’t do to alarm her.
She turned, reflexively pulling the sheets up around her, eyes wide.
He clapped a hand over her mouth before the scream could come out. “Shhh.”
She tore at his fingers, kicking him. Confusion in her eyes. Fear.
No way could he carry her out of there; he needed her cooperating. “You’re okay. Just don’t scream.”
She kept twisting.
He grabbed her wrist. “You’re okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She stilled, nostrils flaring, in and out, in and out.
“I’m taking away my hand,” he said softly. Slowly he removed it.
She sucked in a breath, preparing to scream. He clapped it back on.
Chapter Twenty-one
She tore at his fingers. He was suffocating her! He’d escaped dressed as a guard and snuck into her room! She tried to bite him.
“Okay, I deserve this,” he said. “What with the papaya bit and all.”
She struggled and thrashed, but he was solid as a mountain. She stopped hitting him and brought a knee into his ribs.
“Oof.” He seemed to collapse a titch, but he didn’t release her; instead he climbed over her further, straddling her, which prevented any more knees. “Sorry,” he said.
Sorry? He was on her. Holding her down. Suffocating her. Her heart beat wildly.
“I’m here to help you, but you need to calm down.”
She tried again for the rib but he had her legs and arms pinned.
“I read the emails,” he said softly.
She glared at the monster, unsure what to do.
“One question. Shake your head yes or no.”
She watched his cool blue eyes. Some part of her wanted him still. Some part of her liked him there on top of her. So screwed up.
He sucked in a ragged breath. “Did you ever hear Rolly use the word vim with a word other than vigor?”
“Mmm!” She struggled against his hand. Was he crazy?
“Vim,” he repeated, “unaccompanied by vigor. Vim and something else.” Like that was the problem of the universe.
“Mmm!”
“I’ll know it if you’re about to scream. Before you do,” he warned.
“Mmm-mmm,” the best okay she could manage.
He removed his hand.
“Get the hell off!” She tried to push off his heavy bulk. “You give me your answer on the letters or you get out of here. ‘Cause I’m not talking about Rolly.”
He
didn’t budge. “Think. Does he like to modify sayings?”
She stilled. How did he know?
“It’s not a difficult question. Yes or no.”
“Yeah, he used to change around sayings. He thought that was real clever. Why?”
“Did you ever notice his b’s and p’s sounding alike? And like shots. Panorama. Banana.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed that you listened to a tape of Rolly or something?”
His face darkened. “Does he ever over-explain and trail off with the word so. For example, This new blender is powerful. The best in its class, so…” He continued, “Or, I don’t like tomatoes. They taste like hell, so…”
“What the fuck?” She wriggled underneath him. “Get out.” It was a nightmare, hearing Rolly’s talk coming out of Maxwell. “Get out.”
“Did he take trips to Panama just before he went inside?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah.”
He got off her. “Get dressed. We’re out of here.”
She felt shaky. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“It’s me or Rolly,” he said.
“Rolly’s in prison.”
He tossed jeans at her. “I examined the emails. Do you know who you were emailing with? It didn’t feel familiar?”
Ice crackled through her veins.
“It wasn’t your brother,” he said.
“Yes, it was.”
“Not for the last five weeks. The change occurred about five weeks ago. Am I right?”
She hadn’t told him that. “You so full of it, Devilwell—”
He spoke right over her. “Did you ever notice Rolly’s fondness for that as an intensifying article with proper nouns? For example, he’ll say That Laney drinks beer when he could just as easily say, Laney drinks beer. It’s common to only 4% of the population. It occurred twice in recent emails from your brother. That Brittany Spears is a whore. That Mayor O’Hannon will burn in hell.”
No. She’d known something was off, but…Rolly? “They don’t let prisoners email.”
“No,” he said. “They don’t, do they?”
Every nerve on her skin prickled up. “You think Rolly’s out. No way, my brother would’ve found a way to warn me if…oh, my God!” She felt the blood drain from her whole entire soul. “My brother.”
“Come on. I’m getting you out of here.”
“No,” she whispered as the world careened around her. “I know my own brother.” Her eyes misted up. “It was my brother, he’s just depressed or something.”
“Did you notice how very, very badly he wanted to make sure you stayed put in the last few weeks? And the sentences. The music of the language.”
“You’re messing with me.”
He grabbed her shoulders, looked into her eyes. “You feel language the way other people can’t, Laney. It’s why you showed me the emails. Would that we had Twisty-Kreme here. That’s Rolly talk, not Charlie talk.”
“Oh, my God.” She shook out of his arms, feeling like she might throw up. Rolly inside her brother’s emails like a spider in her brain.
“He could be down there, Laney. In the lobby,” he said.
She went to her dresser and pulled out her gun. “I know you’re right. But that doesn’t mean I suddenly trust you.”
“Let’s get out of here and you can decide on the trust part later. Grab what you need and let’s go.”
“He’s not dead. I’d know if my brother was dead.” She shoved her wallet into her backpack along with her phone, her iPod. “Crap, I think I might throw up.”
“Ignore it.”
Her brother. She stuffed in her clothes from the day before.
“Put on your jeans, a dark shirt, and sneakers. Now,” he said. She couldn’t believe how calm he was. “What’s Rolly’s full name?”
“Jerry Lee Drucker.” She pulled on her clothes as Devilwell took out a phone and called somebody, mumbling something about Jerry Lee Drucker and Jazzman. She was glad for the icy cool Devilwell. He was the ally she needed now. He would kill.
Another thought hit her and she spun around. “The Shinsurins are in on it.”
“Most likely.”
Rajini.
She shoved on a shoe, mind whirling at the betrayal. She knew he was right. It was then she caught sight of his bare feet—they were red, crusted with something dark. “Oh, my God! Your feet!”
“It’s nothing. Go. Other shoe.”
She slammed on her other shoe. “All this time I’ve been like a bird in a cage. Like a stupid singing fool.”
“Not like a stupid singing fool. Like a survivor.”
“A survivor who sings cornpone songs.” She stood.
“Well, there’s that.”
She hauled off to hit him. He caught her arm and yanked her up. The air felt thick and wild—at least to her. “Put everything out of your mind but doing what I say,” he said calmly. He shoved her pack at her. There was still room in it, so she nestled Amy in and slung it over her shoulders. “Charlie’s not dead. I know you think so, but he’s not.”
“Ready?” Like he didn’t believe it.
A sound at the front—the doorknob jiggling, followed by the clink of keys.
With lightning speed, Macmillan moved across the room, shoved a chair under the knob, then grabbed her hand and pulled her out onto the porch, into the steamy heat of the night.
“Jump onto my back. Now.”
He turned and offered his back. She did as he asked, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle.
A hiss of pain. “Avoid the ribs if possible.”
She shifted her legs down. “Are you hurt?”
“Hold on. I’m climbing sideways.”
She held on, trying not to look down as he climbed over the railing. A little wall jutted out between porches; she and Sirikit next door used to lean over and talk to each other, but she’d never imagined traversing it. She clutched him harder as he straddled the wall. He grasped the railings on both sides before he swung them all the way over.
A pounding from the inside of her room. Trying to get in.
“Crap,” she said as he scooted down and swung around the wall to the next porch, then to the next. Like the whole hotel was a jungle gym.
Sweat poured off her face, her palms. “You’re getting slippery,” she said.
“Just hold on,” he said, moving like a monkey to the next porch.
“Where are we going?”
“The Sawadee Palace,” he panted, moving to the next porch. “I hear it’s excellent. I understand there’s not a leg iron in the place.”
A gunshot blasted out. The sound was so loud, it almost rocked her right off his back.
“Ignore it,” he whispered.
A man screamed, then moaned. A chorus of street dogs set up barking.
“Hellbuckets.” She clutched on harder.
“We’re okay.” He kept on. Senseless, muffled words came from the direction of her patio. He got them around to the next patio.
“Let’s go in and run out the hall,” she said.
“Bad idea.” He straddled the next wall.
Bang. This bullet hit nearby. Maxwell sucked in a breath.
“They’re shooting at us!”
“Not to kill. They’re forcing us in.”
“Maxwell! You’re bleeding!”
He examined his arm when they got to the other side. “Ricochet spray. Skin deep.” He climbed over the rail and let her off on a porch. She felt grateful for the solid surface. “Stay back.” Maxwell leaned out and shot back.
“They know where we are, now.” She gave him her gun and he tucked it into his waistband.
“That’s why we have to go down. They won’t expect it.”
“It’s three stories!”
“Just to the porch below.”
“How?” The building’s V-shape made going down as hard as going up.
“I’ll jump down. All you have to do is lower yourself and I’ll p
ull you in.”
Maxwell hopped back to the outside of the rail and climbed down, so that he hung by his fingertips from the concrete slab that composed the floor of the porch. He began to swing, and then he disappeared. She heard the thud of his landing, then a voice. “Hang down and I’ll grab you. Hurry.”
She scrambled over the rail and paused, fixated on the rocks and bushes below. A person would die, falling that far. And her hands were so sweaty!
“Hang down,” Maxwell said. “You can do this. I’ll grab your legs.”
She could hear voices inside over the neighborhood dogs. Somebody pounding at the door. Other voices even nearer. Somebody had been sleeping in there. She crouched on the outside of the porch railing.
Shouts in Thai. A crash.
She wiped her hands on her shirt, then crouched on the outside of the bars and lowered her legs. She felt Maxwell’s arms close around her knees. “All the way down,” he said.
A deep voice. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
She jerked her gaze up to meet Rolly’s angry eyes. He leaned over the railing. She gasped, grip frozen on the bars.
“Emmaline.” His warning tone. Her stomach clenched and curdled as he clapped his hands around her wrists, fingers like iron vices.
“No!”
“Yes,” he growled, face hard under his dark flat-top.
She began to struggle, but guards appeared on either side of him. They grabbed her arms and started pulling her up, right out of Maxwell’s grip.
“No!” She twisted and squirmed. “Maxwell! No!” They pulled her all the way over the rail and onto the porch. Rolly looped an arm around her neck.
Movement out of the corner of her eye. She saw fingertips on the edge of the slab.
Maxwell.
Strong hands clamped the railing. Forearms bulged with muscles as Maxwell’s head appeared. He was heaving himself up.
One of the guards leveled a gun at him.
“Maxwell, watch out!” she screamed, trying to get at the guard.
“Do it,” Rolly said.
He aimed right at Maxwell’s head.
And shot.
Maxwell disappeared.
A crash below.
She stared at the place his hands had been, dizzy with shock. Maxwell. Gone. Shot. She felt like the whole world got turned upside down and shaken out.
Off the Edge (The Associates) Page 17