“You are going back. The question is if you go back with broken arms or not.” He yanked her arms upwards. The pain was so intense, her eyes streamed with tears. “Break them,” she hissed. “I’d rather die than go back.”
“Dammit.” He picked her up instead and hauled her over his shoulder, fireman style. She felt so helpless with her wrists bound behind her back, but she tried to knee him in the head all the same. She couldn’t. He was crazy strong and fast. They rounded another corner. A darker, less traveled place.
“Please. You have no idea what he’ll do to me.”
“I have a pretty good idea,” he said.
“And you don’t care? What? You have no humanity?”
“Humanity’s irrelevant,” Thorne growled.
Figures emerged from the shadows.
A voice, thick with a Russian accent. “We’ll take her, Thorne. Hand her over and there won’t be trouble.”
“Want her?” She felt the world spin as Thorne flung her straight at a trio of guys. She felt strong arms catch her as the world erupted in gunfire.
The next minute she was lying on top of a pile of bodies.
Blood was everywhere. She scrambled backwards, hitting another body. A scream ripped from her lungs.
“Come on.” Thorne yanked her up.
She tried to pull away from him, horrified. He’d thrown her at his foes and then mowed them down after they caught her. She struggled to free her arms. He picked her up—and then put her down—or more, let her fall again as he fought two more men who’d appeared from nowhere.
He spun and kicked one right in the head. The man crumpled. He began to fight the other. Another appeared.
She saw her chance and took it, running like hell in the other direction, zigging and zagging.
She rounded a corner and nearly stumbled flat on her face. She had to get her arms loose! Around the next corner a woman was cooking over a tripod camp grill—the one she’d seen before! She was near the hotel. The woman eyed her suspiciously.
“Dai prot Chuay chan duay na kha,” Laney said—please help me. “Na kha,” she added, doubling the politeness words.
“Ma thi ni,” the woman said softy. Come here. Let me see.
Laney went to her, twisting to show the woman what she was tied with, beckoning her to hurry.
The woman unwrapped a cloth roll that contained a knife and sliced her wrists free. She offered to hide her, to alert the police.
“No, but thank you.” Laney asked directions to the hotel instead.
On she went. Things were looking more familiar. She finally came to the larger alley that ran behind the hotels. She recognized their fire escape and ran toward it.
Then slowed.
Her blood froze as she spotted a lump in the shadows beneath.
Peter.
She ran to him. He sat against a wall down underneath the fire escape, holding his thigh, hands wet with blood.
She knelt. “Peter.”
“Get out of here.”
“You’re shot!”
“Flesh wound,” he grated. “You should see the other guys.”
She looked at him in horror. A gun lay in his lap. And he was so bloody.
“I’m just resting,” Peter said. “You have to get out.”
“No, we’re getting you medical help. You’re losing blood.”
“But I’m also producing it. I’m running the operations simultaneously.”
“Don’t joke anymore. I need you to be serious.”
“I’ll get help once my friends arrive,” he said after a beat.
“Your friends are coming?”
“Just a flesh wound,” he repeated.
“Oh, Peter.” She squatted in front of him. He looked so pale. Sweat on his brow.
“Got anything in your pack you can rip a bandage out of?” he asked.
She scrambled off her pack and dug out the silk scarf.
“That’s good,” he said. “Got anything gauzy?”
“This is all.” She ripped it carefully. “I’m not leaving you.”
“If you stay, you’ll get me killed.” He ripped a giant hole in his pants. All she could see was blood inside. He tied the scarf around his leg. “This is just a flesh wound,” he whispered. “My guys and I get these all the time.” He finished tying it. “Much better.” He looked up. His blond hair was hanging loose instead of neatly stowed behind his ears, and the gray shards in his blue eyes seemed too bright, like gray shards of pain. At least he still had his glasses, but they had a bloody fingerprint. She took them off him and cleaned them.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“I mean it, you’ll make me a target. Everybody’s after you, and if you don’t take this chance to run, you’re going back to Rolly.” He glanced over her shoulder as he spoke. “I didn’t go through all this hell for you to go back to Rolly now.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“It’s the only thing that won’t get us both killed.”
She touched his sweaty cheek, feeling so helpless.
He glanced again over her shoulder, eyes roving all around, and then back to her. “You’re so beautiful.”
She thought to say the same to him, but men didn’t like to be called beautiful.
The laptop case lay next to him, and he instructed her to go in there and get a wad of cash. She complied. “Take it and start walking. There are guys with motorcycles down there. Pay one to drive you to the train station.”
“I’m not leaving you!” Her eyes were hot with tears. She didn’t care.
“Don’t make it worse for me,” he said.
“I can’t just leave you.”
“You think I can’t find you? You’re not a good hider. Laney.” He smiled, but it was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You can’t be here when my friends come. Unless you want to go back to Rolly.” He looked again beyond her shoulder. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” she whispered.
He glanced again over her shoulder.
“Do you see something?” she asked.
“Kiss me,” he grated with crazy intensity.
She bent forward and brushed her lips to his, feeling wild with fear for him. She felt his hand close around her hair. He tightened his grip, then he yanked her head down, pressing her head to his belly.
Two blasts sounded above her, loud as thunder.
“Holy hellbuckets!” She looked up, catching sight of his steely arm, straight as a girder holding a fat black gun.
“Stay small.” He shot again—bang!
Boom. Boom. Bullets from an unseen gun pocked into the metal wall.
He shot again. Bang!
Then nothing.
“Okay,” he said.
She looked around, dazed, ears ringing.
He tipped his head up. On that roof.
She spotted a body. Two.
“Every hunter out there is now heading for this neighborhood. Your window of escape is closing fast.”
“No.”
“I know it seems heroic to stay here, but it’s the worst thing you can do for me. If you stay here, you’ll force me to protect you, and I’ll die, and you’ll be back with Rolly. Is that what you want? Me dead and you back with Rolly? Because I’m going to be honest with you: it’s not my first option.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Then get the fuck out.”
“But—”
“I mean it. Now.”
She stood. His friends were coming. Her presence endangered him. She had to go. And yet…
“What do you need? Runway lights?” He pointed. “Go.”
Her heart pounded. Was this it? “Okay. I’ll wait for you.”
“Go!”
Still dazed, she forced herself to turn and run, knees shaking so badly, she could hardly keep a straight line.
She didn’t want to leave him, but she didn’t want to endanger him!
She would go to Koh Samui. She would wait there for him. She wou
ld wait there for him forever.
Chapter Thirty
He’d never see her again. Macmillan wasn’t one to lie to himself, and that was the strongest probability. They were doomed for sure if they stayed together, but even apart things were dicey. Especially for him. She could still get out of this.
The bandage was getting soaked, dammit. And he needed to move; he was a sitting duck where he was, lit just enough by the ambient light from the hotel roof sign. He spotted a gap between buildings some yards to the right. Bad to use the leg, but it wouldn’t be good to be seen. He straightened his glasses, slung the laptop case over his shoulder, and limped over. Quick as could be he nestled in, pushing aside the newspapers and piling up a few crates to put himself in darkness.
He closed his eyes, hoping fervently she was on her way out, hoping that she’d be safe. She could still save herself; it was a good plan he’d supplied her with.
She’d wanted him to stop joking, to be serious, but she didn’t understand—that cool, jokey part of him was the only thing holding him up, the only way he’d gotten the strength to let go of her like he had. Letting go of her was the most logical course. Highest probability of success. Best he could do for her.
Hardest-ever move.
But she deserved to live.
He’d lied about his friends, of course. They weren’t coming; at least not immediately. Their numbers had been blocked. Dax didn’t want him calling. Probably figured out he had Fedor’s phone.
His leg burned and throbbed. Between the silk and his hand, he was staunching the bleeding—somewhat—but the bullet was still in there like a little piece of hell, tweaking some nerve. Every movement hurt. At least it took his mind off his toes, he thought grimly. He just needed to rest and get back his energy. He’d go back to the spectrograms. It would be his fault if the TZ got out. Getting the prison phone calls seemed a distant dream, but Brussels could still come through. He had Fedor’s laptop in his bag—he could complete his library and get to the weapon. It wasn’t impossible.
Just very improbable.
He could bleed out, too. That was probable. Without stopping the TZ. All those deaths would be on him.
It was his own damn fault he’d been shot back in that hotel room. His mind had been on Laney when Thorne and his guys burst in. He’d shot the guys, but he’d let Thorne destroy his rhythm. Thorne was a master at destroying people’s rhythm. It was a miracle Thorne had left him alive.
He still didn’t understand it. Alive but badly injured.
He thought about that time in her room. Lying against her belly and feeling the vibrations as she sang. He’d been so resistant to the good feeling of her, as if she would break down his walls, push him off the edge. Now, suddenly, it was all he craved.
Now that she was gone.
A pair of hunters strolled past. Peter’s heart lifted when he caught snatches of their conversation. So she hadn’t been found.
How long had it been? Ten minutes? Thirty? She could be out of Bangkok.
His vision swam, and the wound bit like battery acid. He was feeling hot, or maybe cold. Definitely lightheaded. Maybe he’d been too cavalier about the blood loss.
Some kids walked by, laughing. Macmillan called out in Thai, asking to borrow their phone. They just kept on.
This was bad.
Once you started getting woozy, you got worse at putting pressure on a wound, and when you got worse at putting pressure on a wound, you got even woozier. A vicious cycle.
It was probable, really, that he would die now, alone. But he’d been dead and alone ever since that train wreck ten years ago, ever since he’d stood there holding that hand, disconnected from everything. These last days with Laney had been like sunshine. It was a kind of cruelty, really, that he’d die when he finally had something to lose. But he wouldn’t trade those days for anything.
Footsteps nearing.
He willed the person away, though he could tell they were coming in his direction.
This was it.
A voice over him. “Such bunk.”
His heart lurched as Laney’s head appeared over the crates. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
She pulled the crate aside. “Scoot down, Devilwell.”
“Get out of here!”
“Scoot down unless you want me to stand here like a fool.”
He dragged himself deeper into the crevasse. She scooted in with her bag and pulled the crate back in front of them.
“Bunk designed to hornswoggle folks.” She knelt, pressed a cool hand to his forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“I got supplies. Gauze and tape and some coagulant gel hoo-hah the fellow at the rankaya swears by.”
“You have to go,” he said.
“Yeah, well that’s way off the table. Tell me what to do with this stuff.”
“Laney—”
“I know. Save myself. Leave you to die. Nothing good in you anymore. You and your stupid severed hand.”
“Excuse me?”
“We have to stop the bleeding, right?” she asked. “Did it go all the way through?”
Stupid severed hand?
“The bullet, Peter, the bullet. Lie back. What do you want me to do? Concentrate.” She pushed him gently.
He gave in and lay back, elevating the leg. “Roll that gauze into a pad as wide as your hand.” He had a good idea what the coagulant was—it was a good choice, and he gave her specific instructions about slathering it onto the silk and fixing the gauze over that. He’d seen a lot of blood in his day, but he didn’t think she had. Still, she was amazing. Like an angel. No, a warrior.
When she finished with his leg, she arranged the crates to look more natural. It was better, but they were still too vulnerable, dammit. He had one bullet left in the piece Rio had left him with. Maybe two.
A rhythmic noise sounded nearby. A bouncing ball and shouts. The boys were back.
Thwack.
The ball hit the wall right near their hiding place. A few feet over and it would take down the crates.
Thwack.
“I’ll ask ‘em to—”
“Shhh,” he whispered as the sound of new footsteps grew louder. Large footsteps, followed by a deep voice asking the boys if they’d seen Laney. The man spoke a few words of Thai— “Phu ying American,” he said. American girl. “Pom see nam-dtaan,” he added. Brown hair. Another voice repeated the phrases. American hunters, maybe Canadian.
He picked up his gun. “I tried to borrow a phone from those boys before,” he said. “When I was under the stairs. There could be a slight blood trail from there to here. Not much, but…”
Laney nodded. If the boys thought to mention what they saw, the hunters would take a look and see the trail. But the hunters weren’t very polite.
Thwack. That one hit too close.
The hunters kept pressing. “Phu ying American? You sure?”
Macmillan held his breath. Some six feet above them, a spider had spun a web between buildings. It was a beautiful web that caught the haze of light just so.
“That ball’ll take down these crates,” she whispered.
He nodded.
More voices.
Thwack.
“Hell,” she whispered, eyes shut.
Thwack.
He squeezed her hand.
Thwack.
Finally the footsteps started up again. The hunters moving on.
“I’m going to talk to those boys,” she said.
“Laney, no.”
“Sorry, Devilwell.” She pulled out the wad of cash and poked her head up over the crates and then she was gone. He heard her conspire with the boys, speaking softly and sweetly in Thai, wrapping them into the fun and excitement of helping her stay hidden from the bad guys. She had money for each of them. And if they did the job well, they’d each get more.
She was back, arranging the crates. The bouncing had started up again, but they were bouncing the ball on the ground now, counting. “They’
re to count bounces. And if anybody comes, I ran to the road long ago.” She checked his wound. “It’s not soaking through,” she whispered. “So far so good.”
Just when she’d settled in, the bouncing stopped. Uneven footsteps approached, like somebody limping. Macmillan recognized Thorne’s voice, questioning the boys.
The boys directed Thorne to the road.
Thorne wasn’t easy to fool; he needed to be ready.
Macmillan sat up, cradling the gun, fire tearing through his thigh. Laney shook her head, meaning no, lie back down. Macmillan ignored her.
After an excruciatingly long exchange he only caught parts of, the uneven footsteps headed off. Thorne actually believed them? A minor miracle. Unless it was a trick.
And the limping. Had Thorne been injured?
The bouncing and counting started back up.
“We have to get out of here,” she said.
“Too dangerous to stay and too dangerous to go, dammit.” Even she had to see that. Hunters swarming. The TZ on the loose. Everything gone to hell. He’d failed the whole damn world and worst of all, he’d failed Laney. He wouldn’t be able to protect her if they were discovered. She deserved so much better.
His heart beat fiercely, as though his chest was nothing but the thinnest membrane separating him from the world.
Strength drain. Bad sign.
And then he laughed. “Stupid severed hand?”
“That’s right, your stupid severed hand,” she whispered back, making herself small with him in the shadows. “I think you got hornswoggled by your own metaphor there.”
“You don’t know—”
“Oh, I know well enough,” she interrupted. “Hands are part of what makes us human and all of that. You standing there holding one disconnected from a body, I see why you took it where you did. All the world fallen away,” she whispered. “Doomed to be disconnected. It’s bull is all.”
“Only shows you don’t get it.”
“I get it. I think you had to be disconnected to survive—hard and jokey and cut off as that hand. Chopping apart language like you do. I think disconnection is what saved you, but it’s not your destiny.”
He grunted in dissent.
Off the Edge (The Associates) Page 25