She tried to twist away from Rolly, who hauled her up to his angular face, fingers gripping her upper arms, lips curled, eyes angry. He pinned her to the rough, nubby patio wall. She breathed in the stink of his acrid sweat—booze sweat, she used to call it. She’d forgotten about that smell. He’d put on a lot of muscle in prison. And she couldn’t move.
Maxwell gone. Dead.
“This could have been so much easier,” he whispered, rage and pain oozing out of him. “Come on, now.”
“Hell, no,” she whispered.
A wild look passed across his face and he tightened his grip. “You’re my wife, Emmaline.” Pain in Rolly’s eyes. He would hurt her now. She felt the old fear creeping its icy fingers over her. “You’re my wife, Emmaline.”
Futilely she kicked at him—she needed to get away and get to Maxwell, if only just to touch him one last time. Maybe he hadn’t died instantly. He’d be alone. Afraid.
Tears fell from her eyes as Rolly wrapped both hands around her neck. She stopped kicking and clawed at his fingers as he dragged her inside and through the dark blur of somebody’s room. She stumbled along, choking.
They emerged into the bright hallway and moved clumsily through the jumble of people. She strained for air as they entered the elevator—she and Harken and two guards. And Rolly.
“Deal with her hands,” Rolly said, releasing her. She coughed and sputtered, and in a flash she was pinned to the elevator wall, cheek rubbing against the carpeted panel, her hands bound behind her back with something sharp and cutting.
She stayed there, eyes squinched shut, tears flowing as the elevator rose.
Maxwell. Gone. You didn’t survive being shot in the head and falling three stories.
If only she’d been braver. If only she’d hurried when he’d asked her to. She’d frozen instead.
She vowed never to freeze again.
Rolly dragged her into a room, shut the door behind them, and pushed her up against it, choking her again. “You’re wearing black. I like you in white. First thing, we’re going to put you in white.” Then he claimed her mouth in a suffocating, stinking kiss.
She bit his lip. He jerked away and she kicked him in the balls—and connected. He stumbled away and she tried to open the door with her hands behind her back. She’d escape or die. She’d never freeze for him again. Ever!
He grabbed her hair and threw her to the floor. Without her hands to break her fall, she fell on her shoulder and banged her head—hard.
He turned her onto her back and placed his boot on her chest, pressing until she could barely breathe, until her shoulders felt squished behind her. He had a hammer.
“Go ahead, kill me,” she said.
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind, Emmaline.”
“Emmaline’s gone. I’m Laney.”
He just frowned.
“I’ll kill you,” she said. “I’ll never stop trying.”
“You’ll stop trying,” he said calmly. “You’ll see.”
Laney’s heart banged in her chest. He was going to do something with the hammer. Maybe break her hands. Or her feet? His cock was hard in his pants. She fought back the urge to beg him for leniency. Never again.
Just then there was a knock at the door.
“What?” He barked, not taking his eyes from her.
“It’s important.” Harken’s voice.
“Better be.”
Harken came in and handed Rolly a phone.
“Yeah,” Rolly said into it, eyes roaming up and down her body. He frowned, then a slow smile spread over his face. “Decisions, decisions,” Rolly said. “Seems there’s a body on the hotel grounds that needs to be gone before daybreak. What should we do? Throw it to the dogs, or put it in the trash?”
She glared, fighting back a heaving sob.
Rolly watched her. She knew what he was looking for—a kind of death in her eyes. The point where she stopped fighting. Once upon a time she would have crumbled for him, just in the interest of self-preservation. She realized with some surprise that now it wasn’t even an option. She’d go down fighting. She’d fight him to the death. She’d do it for herself—and for Maxwell.
Rolly flicked his gaze away, listening to the caller. “Handle it,” he said. “You don’t want me to have to come out there.”
She bit back the tears. She hadn’t known Maxwell that long, but the way they fit together—it felt ancient, like they’d been connected for eons, like showing up in each other’s lives was just the tip of things.
He’d tried to rescue her, and now he was dead.
Rolly handed the phone back to Harken, who pocketed it.
“Leave us.”
Harken left.
Rolly picked up the hammer. “Now, where were we?”
Chapter Twenty-two
Macmillan awoke to the feel of his shoulders being wrenched clear out of their sockets and excruciating pain in his toes as he was dragged over what felt like cut glass. He groaned.
“You awake, buddy?” Douglas. “Can you walk?”
Macmillan tried to speak as Fedor and Douglas let him go. He gripped Fedor’s arm, swaying.
He straightened his glasses. They were in the alley behind the Des Roses pool, heading for the street. “Laney,” he grated.
Fedor looped his arm around his shoulders. “Come on.”
“I have to get back there.”
“You can’t,” Douglas said. “Place is full of muscle. Shinsurin’s and Jazzman’s both. How do you feel? Anything broken?”
“Nah.” Macmillan’s thoughts raced back to the scene on the porch. He’d let go of the rail just as soon as he saw the tendons in the back of the guard’s hand activate, escaping the bullet by milliseconds. He hadn’t counted on blacking out. He’d meant to slip back in.
“How long was I out?”
“Minute or two,” Douglas said. “Good job, by the way. You did it—you identified Jazzman. Jerry Lee Drucker. We’ve got Associates assembling. Don’t worry about Laney, we’re taking him down.”
“Did you aim for that pergola?” Fedor asked, urging him onward. “Those fucking vines broke your fall.”
“You were there?”
“We heard the gunfire,” Douglas said. “Figured you were involved.”
They came to the corner of the alley.
“Hold up,” Fedor muttered. He moved to the end of the alley, checking the street.
Macmillan tried to focus through the pain. Keep it together, he told himself. “I have to get back in there.”
“I can’t let you do that. We’ll draw him out and take him the right way,” Douglas said. “Look at me.”
Macmillan looked at him.
Douglas pulled up his eyelids, one after another. “You have a concussion. You’ll feel more stable in a bit. But your feet—bare feet—”
“Give me your piece. I have to get her out of there,” Macmillan said.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Douglas grabbed his shirt. “Jazzman isn’t going to kill your girl. Look what he went through to keep her on ice. We need her right where she is, occupying his attention.”
“I have to—”
“No!” Douglas shook him, face close enough to kiss him. “You busted open his identity, Macmillan. You did it—you just saved a shitload of lives. Do you want to jeopardize that? This situation couldn’t be more perfect—Rolly will be focused on her.”
“No—”
“Yes,” Douglas barked. “We’re almost there. You remember what you always say? Anybody can carry out a plan when things go right. We Associates have the balls to stay the course when things go to hell.”
Things were definitely going to hell.
“We almost have it,” Douglas said. “We’ll win.”
Maybe. But Macmillan felt like he was still back in that dark jungle, unable to get to the people he loved. All he could see was the fear in Laney’s eyes when she talked about Rolly. And now Rolly had her. He tried to shake out of Douglas’s grip.
&nb
sp; “Don’t make me fight you,” Douglas growled. “This is my mission and I won’t let you fuck it up, got it?”
“Yut! Aao, yut! Stop!” Guards were pouring down the alley from the other direction.
“Fuck me,” Douglas said. “Let’s go.” Douglas and Macmillan slipped out onto the street, practically running smack into Fedor, a pack of guards hot on their ass.
The three of them were across the street like a shot. They hit the ground and rolled behind a car. Pain speared through Macmillan’s entire body. Still woozy.
Fedor crawled under the car on his belly, shooting.
Macmillan pulled out Anders’s Sig. He peeked over the car trunk and took some shots at shadows. His aim was all off. Still dizzy. Douglas shot from the other side.
“Do we have backup? Where’s Rio?” Macmillan asked.
“On a job,” Douglas said. “Everyone else is twenty minutes away. We can take them. Jazzman doesn’t need to know we have a small army in town.”
Fedor pulled back. “Small army out there. Hold up.” He reloaded, switching guns.
“I have to go back there.”
“Not possible,” Douglas said.
“I’ll grab Laney and bring down Jazzman myself,” Macmillan said. “The TZ’s biometric security is all voice. Voice. I can crack into that, but I have to get her out of there first. I have to go back for her.”
“How about you break the security after we have Jazzman?”
Fedor holstered up. “Let’s scatter.”
“Agreed,” Douglas said. “Two directions along the cars. Fedor, you go up, we’ll go down. Let’s get to the truck and get out. Go, Fedor.”
Macmillan took a shot at a darkened doorway as Fedor ran to a nearby car, then Fedor covered him and Douglas as they moved.
Somebody shot from a fire escape above and they rolled under a truck. A nearby pop and a hiss. Another pop and a hiss. Shooting out the tires. The truck body lowered.
“Dammit,” Douglas said.
“Now or never,” Macmillan rolled out and started shooting. They ran, covering themselves with wild shots. Amazing how a firefight cut your wooziness and pain. They slipped around a corner.
Douglas slid to the ground. “I’m hit.”
“Where?”
“Belly. To the side, though…”
So maybe it had missed organs. “Keep up pressure. I’ve got you.”
A guard came around the corner, clearly not expecting them to be waiting there. Macmillan grabbed him and head-butted him. The man crumpled in his arms. He kept him upright, using his body as a shield, shooting at the rest of the oncoming guards. The guard he held jerked in his arms.
Shot.
Macmillan felt the man’s blood warm on his own face. He shot again and again. Their attackers dropped and scattered.
He had to get to Laney. Macmillan pulled the dead man back around the corner, lowered him to the ground, and knelt by Douglas. “Where’s the truck?”
“Too far.”
“Like hell. Are you putting pressure on it? Are you able to do that?”
“Of course.”
Macmillan ripped off part of the guard’s jacket and folded it into a pad for Douglas to hold. He pocketed the guard’s gun and crouched. “Grab around my neck.”
Douglas looped an arm around Macmillan’s neck as Macmillan grabbed his legs and shoulders. He stood with Douglas in his arms, fighting to keep his balance. “The truck. Where?”
“Three blocks north.”
Macmillan took off, arms straining, head pounding, toes screaming. He saw sparkles on the dark pavement ahead and knew he’d be going through glass, but he couldn’t stop. He rounded a corner and a truck roared up.
Fedor.
Macmillan ran around to the passenger side, opened the door, and heaved Douglas in.
“Come on,” Douglas urged. “Get in.”
“I can’t do that,” Macmillan said.
“Are you crazy?” Douglas barked.
No. He was sane for maybe the first time in years. People he loved had been on that train, and he couldn’t save them. He could save Laney.
He would save her.
“This is you fucking up the mission. This is you declaring war on Dax,” Douglas bit out. “This is you ending things with the Association, Macmillan.”
He shut the door with a glance at Fedor. The dark watchmaker wouldn’t oppose him. Macmillan slapped the top of the truck and Fedor squealed out.
Macmillan melted into the shadows. Seconds later, a pair of cars sped up the dark street after them. Macmillan leveled Anders’s piece and shot out the tires.
One. Two.
Convenient to have that silencer on there. They might not guess he was still out there. He wiped his face and squinted down at his bloody, torn-up feet.
The pain he could bear, it was the footprints that would sink him.
He ran back to where the dead guard lay. Nobody had found him yet. In another hour the city would wake up, and the cops would be all over this.
He pulled off the man’s boots, conscious that he’d taken this man’s life. That this man had people who loved him waiting at home. It was a Peter Maxwell thought.
Bad time to have Peter Maxwell thoughts.
He shoved on the socks and then the boots. The pain was fire and ice.
He grabbed the guard’s gun and checked the magazine. Mostly full. He stowed it and slipped through the dark sidewalks until he reached the neon-lit strip across from the hotel. Alarms had been raised. He recognized two of the Shinsurin brothers flanked by guards. He could get by the clerks, but not the Shinsurins. He reversed course, considering the liquor hatch. Finally he decided to scale the back porches again. A stupid move.
Which is why they might not be expecting it.
He slipped into the pool area and hid behind a fat palm. A lone guard was out there smoking. Macmillan threw a rock into a dark corner and waited for the man to pass by. As soon as he was near, Macmillan jumped on him, covering his mouth and cracking his gun out of his hand with a neat arm destruction, then he smashed the man’s head into a post, and locked him to the fence with his own cuffs. The man was out, but he gagged him all the same and rushed off.
He headed to the side and began to scale the drainage pipe. When he got to the fourth floor, he stole into a room and out into the hall, taking the stairwell all the way to the roof.
He pushed open the door; nobody up top, as he’d expected. The night was curiously still so high above the din of dogs and traffic, and the sky was growing pale in the east. Flocks of carrion-eating birds flapped energetically around, as if they knew about the killing that had happened, the killing that would come.
Douglas had a point; he was throwing everything over with this move. Macmillan told himself that he could save Laney and stop the TZ. It didn’t have to be an either/or.
He looked around for something to use as a rope. Bar towels. He ripped a few of them in half and knotted them together. He tied an end to a post and lowered himself to the honeymoon suite balcony two floors down.
The curtains were drawn, but they were filmy. He could just make out a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, bathed in the blue glow of a TV. Too large for Laney. Rolly? One of Rolly’s men?
Macmillan pulled Laney’s gun from his pocket and took Anders’s piece from his waistband; his next moves were critical; he had to be perfectly quiet so as not to alert the man—or the guards who were no doubt roaming the hall. He slid the balcony door open just enough to get a view in—along with the barrel of his gun.
It wasn’t Laney or Rolly sitting there; it was a bald man. And there, curled up in the far corner, knees hugged to her chest, was Laney, wearing some sort of white negligee. Her eyes widened as she spotted him.
“Hey, Harken.” She stood up. “I’m hungry.”
“Wait ‘til Rolly gets back,” the man grumbled, eyes glued to the tube. A .22 lay next to his thigh. He could snap it up in an instant.
She moved toward the man, st
opping at the dresser. Her cheekbone and throat were bright pink. Rage surged through Macmillan.
The man turned his attention to her. “You’re not to leave that corner.” He moved his hand to his gun. “Get back.”
She flicked her eyes to Macmillan.
Damn.
The man—Harken—jumped up from the bed, grabbing his gun. At that very instant, Laney flew at him with something silver in her hand; she was a blur in a white negligee—with a hammer. She brought it down onto the man’s head with such crushing force, such a loud thwock, even Macmillan winced.
Harken staggered into a lamp. Macmillan rushed in and caught the man and the lamp. He righted the lamp and eased the man down quietly. Blood poured from the back of his crushed skull.
“Laney! Are you okay?” He went to her, wrapped her in his arms.
She gaped at the man on the floor. “Is he dead?” She was fraying—he could tell by her voice.
“He’s out of commission, that’s the important thing,” he whispered into her hair. “Where’s Rolly?”
“I don’t know. He got some calls a while back and left. Thank heavens.”
Calls. Probably about what happened out on the street.
She looked nervously out at the porch. “We have to get out.”
“Don’t worry, you’re not going out that way again. Who is this guy?” he asked.
“Rolly’s right hand man. Is he dead?”
“Yes, but we’ll pretend he’s not.” He pulled Harken’s body into the chair and sat him there, upright as possible. He had her put on her shoes and socks, and then stand behind Harken in his chair, holding her gun to his head. “Hit the ground when they enter.”
She slung on her backpack and waited, gun to the man’s head. He didn’t like that she’d have to stand there staring at the crushed back of Harken’s skull, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Macmillan slipped to the side of the door. “A little help,” he grated out.
The door opened and three guards came in, all focused on her with her gun. They called for her to drop it. She ducked.
Macmillan picked them off with Anders’s Sig. One, two, three. “Come on!” He and Laney ran out into the hall. More men were coming. “The elevators! Go for the elevators!”
Off the Edge (The Associates) Page 18