He ran back to the Jeep and retrieved the leather bag he’d brought with them. When he returned, he slung the machine gun over his shoulder and dug around inside the bag, coming up with a pair of binoculars. He used the glasses to study the wall of the building.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“These show me the heat signatures of anyone in the cellar. I need to know what we’re up against.”
After staring through the glasses for a minute, he grunted and drew a square in the sandy dirt beneath his knees.
“Here’s what we’ve got. Two guys in this area, here.” He put a couple marks on the drawing. “Then one here, by this door, another on the opposite side, which I assume is the door from the kitchen and dining room, and a third off to himself over here.” He made appropriate marks for each.
“The first four are moving. Not doing jumping jacks or anything, but moving around. The last one is staying very still. I’d wager that’s Nash. Either he’s been captured and tied up or unconscious, or he’s trying to avoid that fate by remaining hidden.”
“What do we do?”
“First, we get every innocent person out of Dodge. Claudine can handle it. I’ll give her a good reason to do it quickly.” He reached into the bag again and withdrew a phone. “Claudine,” he said when the woman answered, “this is Mac. Yes, I know. I don’t have time right now. Listen, you have to round up my team and have them evacuate the hotel. There’s a bomb in the wine cellar. Yes, yes, call the gendarmes, but get the people out first. Get them far away from the building. That’s the important thing. Be careful.”
“She’ll be able to handle that?”
“She and Andy and the rest of the staff and security team. Between hurricanes and high-profile clients, we have drills several times a year. After a drill, we apologize to the guests with special incentives—spa treatments, water-sports excursions to Pinel Island—make them feel extra pampered. It gets the job done.”
“Impressive. Too bad I’m not really writing an article about the place. I could advise them to come when they thought a drill might be imminent in order to get access to the goodies.”
The spark of humor in their situation impressed him, and he grinned down at her, hoping to prolong the moment. “Why no article? You don’t think Vacation Spots for Serial Killers and Arms Dealers is the sort of thing your readers would enjoy?”
“Nope. To them, a ‘sick puppy’ needs doggie detox.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wish I could.” She gave him a strained smile and returned her attention to the building, all levity gone. From around front, they could hear a rising babble and ruckus as people exited.
“So what now?”
“Let’s see what goodies we have.” He dumped out the satchel and began sifting through the items.
The colors of death are steel blue and charcoal, matte metal and black rubber. She glanced away to get her bearings.
“Okay,” Mac said, after hefting a couple of the objects. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to set up behind that palm.” He pointed to a tree some fifteen feet opposite the door and handed her a pistol. “You can use that? You don’t have to be precise.” She nodded, then checked the gun to be sure it was loaded, proving her point.
“Good. When I left, I . . . retained some keys. I thought we might need them. I doubt they’ve had a chance to change the locks, but they will be listening for anyone trying to break in. By now, they have to have heard the exodus and have some idea what’s going on.
“I am going to unlock the cellar access door over there, open it, and get the hell out of the way. You are going to fire. Aside from the guard, no one should be in the path of the bullets, and from this angle, it’s unlikely you’ll hit him. The stairs go directly down from the doorway, so you’re too far above and outside to do much damage.
“Give it six shots. Count them. When you’re done, I’m going to roll in a flashbang. At that point we’ll both run like hell for the front.”
“A flashbang?”
He held up a canister with a loop-and-pin lock at the top. She’d imagined the word to be jargon, but the device actually said “FLASH BANG” in large letters on the side. “I can’t throw it in—you don’t want this baby hitting anyone, believe me—but I can roll it. It explodes, with a lot of light and sound, just as the name suggests. It also generates a fair amount of heat. It will temporarily blind them, especially given the dimness of the wine cellar and the fact that they’ll probably be looking in the direction of the door, and create a distraction. By the time they get sorted, I want to be around front and in through the other door.”
“Do you really think we can run that fast?”
His mouth tilted up on one side. “Nope. But I think six shots and a three count before a flashbang will alert Nash that we’re coming. I’m hoping he’ll provide the rest of the distraction. I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay behind?”
Callie examined his long legs, compared them to her own, suppressed the flash of heated memory at how well they’d fit together. “I’d slow you down if I tried to follow.”
“Okay, then.” He glanced around, eyes coming to rest on a squat, square cement building about thirty feet from the palm-tree vantage point from which Callie would be shooting. “That’s the laundry building. When I roll the flashbang into the cellar, squeeze into the vegetation next to it. Stay close to the building. There’s a lot of scrub, which will keep you hidden, but the cliff drops off pretty quickly, so watch your step. I’m not going far, so if anyone comes after you, shoot and shout. Ready?”
Was she? Did she have a choice?
“Let’s do it.”
He pulled her close, kissed her hard, and led her to the palm tree, where he had her check to be sure she could see where she was supposed to shoot. Then he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and crept toward the cellar door. He eased a large bronze one into the door. In that moment, Callie’s hearing sharpened and silence fell as if the very air had stopped moving, and every footstep on pebbled ground, every jiggle of the key, every snick of the lock was magnified. How could the people in the cellar not hear? Not realize they had an enemy poised to invade?
Mac turned the handle with excruciating deliberation, then slammed the door open hard and fast, simultaneously pressing himself against the outer wall of the building. Callie could see no movement from within the cellar. She hesitated.
“Go!” Mac shouted, and she fired, counting off the shots under her breath. One, two, three, four, five, six. Then, hanging onto the gun with her finger outside the trigger guard, she ran for the laundry building. Behind her, she heard the enormous, crashing explosion that signified the flashbang’s deployment.
She shoved her way into the dense foliage next to the laundry building, ignoring the scratching twigs and occasional thorn. Though she hugged the wall, the three feet separating her from the cliff’s edge seemed mere inches. And no sooner had she found a spot where she felt secure than tires crunched across the gravel at the front of the building and she heard a French-accented voice calling Mac’s name.
***
Mac rounded the corner of the hotel and hit the front door of the Paradis at a dead run, doing his best to ignore the grinding pain of his broken rib. Once inside, he slowed slightly, watching for guards. None appeared, however, despite the shadows fluttering at the edges of his vision. The door to the wine cellar—a stout, darkly stained affair custom-crafted to match the hotel’s furnishings during the remodel—blocked all sound. Mac swung it wide and launched himself through it in a somersaulting leap he could only hope didn’t get him killed.
Shots sounded, and he felt the spit of splintering stone strike his skin, but he landed safely in a deep crouch, his enemy before him. He kicked out, heard the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage signifying a direct hit to the knee and an equally satisfyin
g scream of pain. The man went down but didn’t lose his grip on his gun. He squeezed off a shot that tore the air a breath from Mac’s neck. Mac’s own bullet found its mark a second later, puncturing a neat hole in the bridge of the guy’s nose and spattering the back of his pulverized skull over a tall rack of red wines.
Nash had also dispatched at least one man, Mac realized as he stepped forward and almost stumbled over the body. Now he faced Lewis, who stood in front of the entrance to the secret compartment. He’d evidently opened it before Mac’s arrival. Mac, approaching at an angle, stilled at the sight of the object in Lewis’s hand. In the sudden absence of gunfire, Lewis’s words ran out over the others’ harsh breathing.
“One more step and I’ll kill her.” He held up the small, utterly innocuous remote control. None of the five buttons on it bore labels, but Mac had no doubt that at least one would cause Callie’s death. If the device operated on simple infrared, Lewis would need a direct line of sight to get to her, but the men who’d created the subtle evil he held so casually wouldn’t have gone for something so straightforward. Nor would they have chosen radio waves, not when any passing boat might interrupt the signal. And Mac, no electronics expert, had no clue what other forms of linkage might exist between the control and the bomb.
“Come on, now,” Nash coaxed. “No need for that. You don’t want to kill her, or you’d have done so already. And we couldn’t care less about what happens to her. If we did, why would we be here, with you, instead of back at the house helping her? All we want is the bioweapon.”
“That’s not what he said.” Lewis jerked his head at Mac. “He said he planned to betray you and go into business with Falcone.”
“Did he now? Well, as you may have noticed, Mr. Brody’s loyalties display a certain flexibility. Liberal applications of cash have always kept him in line in the past.” Nash cast an evaluative eye over Mac, who grinned. Oh, yeah. He’d played this game before. Never with Nash, however, which increased the danger, as they’d had no chance to practice timing or signals.
“That’ll work just fine,” he said, ostensibly replying to the cash comment.
“So you say. But I’d just as soon not take any chances.” Nash swung around, aimed, and fired.
Mac fell sideways, deliberately landing in the blood pooling on the floor from Nash’s previous kill without letting go of his gun. His lungs burned and his ribs shot pain through his body, but he stayed perfectly still.
“Jesus Christ!” Lewis’s horrified outburst indicated their ruse had succeeded. Mac cracked one eye open to get a position on him.
“One problem solved.” Nash spoke with perfect calm. “Now we need to discuss your little weapons stash.”
The sound of a male voice heavily accented in French calling Mac’s name distracted Lewis. Mac took advantage of the moment to shift unobtrusively, bringing his gun arm down to aim at him. But Lewis was moving.
“Take it,” he said, gesturing toward the cache. “Take all of it. You won’t get anywhere. Falcone won’t let you.” Every step he took away from the alcove brought him nearer to Mac, whose eyes tracked him though he didn’t move a muscle.
“Go home to your girlfriend, then.” Nash moved toward the alcove, forcing Lewis back yet another step, right into Mac’s line of fire.
Mac emptied the magazine into Lewis’s head.
***
Gritting her teeth against nerves and pain, Callie retraced the path she’d just carved, then poked her head around the side of the building just enough to see, not enough to break free of the foliage. Mac’s friend Vichy stood beside the Jeep. He touched the driver’s seat, and Callie saw his hand come away bloody. The bandage on Mac’s knee must have come loose when they were driving. She hadn’t noticed it when he’d been explaining the plan to her, nor had he given in to a limp when he’d run for the front of the hotel after dropping the flashbang. Remembering the beautiful grace of his walk, she hoped he hadn’t crippled himself abusing that knee.
Vichy raised his hand, showing his companion that the driver of the Jeep had been injured, and Callie suddenly realized the other man was not Vichy’s gendarme partner. This man was younger, with dark, slicked-back hair, sharp cheekbones, and a slim build, and he wore a pair of slacks and polo shirt rather than a uniform. He was almost pretty. Almost.
Could this be Henry Falcone himself? Both he and Vichy had machine guns slung over their shoulders, but Callie had traveled enough to know that was not unusual for police forces in countries other than the United States. And Vichy had seemed friendly enough with Mac. He’d even provided assistance with the DNA testing.
Again, Vichy called Mac’s name, and Callie almost stepped out of hiding to tell him to stop, that he would get Mac killed. But her mistrust of that second man held her in place. Instead, as the sound of gunfire erupted within the cellar, she checked to be sure her own weapon still had bullets.
Vichy ran toward the cellar door. The other man remained with the vehicle. Just as Vichy reached the opening, Mac flew out, a silver briefcase in his hand. Callie had a split second to exult in the knowledge he’d made it before Vichy aimed his weapon at him. Mac lowered his head, dove for Vichy’s legs, and the gendarme’s weapon went flying. Without thought, Callie aimed at the other man and began firing from her hiding place.
The attack clearly came as a shock to him. He took a single step toward the men scrabbling on the ground, then retreated, climbed into the vehicle, and took off, tires shooting gravel in every direction. He’d be back, she was sure, and with reinforcements. Did the case contain the weapon Mac and Nash were determined to protect? She crept out, keeping her gun pointed at the two men rolling in the dirt, hoping she could get a clear shot at Vichy, and grabbed it.
The movement, or the sunlight reflecting off the metal, caught the men’s attention. Freeing himself from Mac’s hold momentarily, Vichy lunged at her. She backed away, but he grabbed her hand and tore the gun from her grip. Dismissing her as little danger, he turned to fire at Mac, who already had hold of him around the waist and was pulling him to the ground.
In desperation, Callie swung the briefcase at Vichy’s head. It connected with a weird, hollow sound, at the same moment as the gun went off. The two men fell backward simultaneously, separating from one another. Callie spared a glance at Vichy to be certain he was unconscious, then stepped over his body to kneel beside Mac, who was cursing and attempting to sit up.
Blood poured down his left arm from a wound in the shoulder, soaking through the bandage she’d wrapped around his ribs. Callie pressed her hands desperately against the hole, but the blood kept pulsing out between her fingers.
“Harder,” Mac ordered through gritted teeth. “You have to press harder.”
Movement caught her eye, and she grabbed in panic for the gun only to relax when she registered Nash staggering out of the cellar. One side of his face had been scraped raw, and he was favoring his right leg, but when he saw Mac’s condition he hurried toward them, dragging his shirt off over his head.
“Christ.” He took Callie’s place, pressing his shirt to Mac’s shoulder. “We have to get him out of here. Travis has The Tramp down at the dock, but this place isn’t exactly accessible. And The Tramp, for all it’s not huge, isn’t a speedboat, either. Trey’s in the air; I radioed him when I left the Lewis house, but I won’t be happy until we’re back in the US. We need to get this show on the road.” He slid an arm around Mac’s chest and heaved him to his feet. Both of them swayed, and Callie was afraid they’d go right back down, but they steadied themselves.
“Grab the weapons,” Nash ordered. “And that.” He jerked his head at the metal briefcase. For the first time, Callie wondered just what kind of evil it contained that so many had to die for it. That so many were willing to die for it.
They made their way around the front of the hotel and past the pool to the path leading down to the beach. Callie kept watch behind
them, becoming more concerned as she recognized the increasing density of the blood trail they were leaving. Still, no one followed. Almost to the sand, Nash paused, holding up a hand. A moment later, Callie heard voices.
“Friend or foe?”
Callie listened to the French, translating the parts she could catch. “Gendarmes. I’d say they’re honest ones from their conversation, but that doesn’t make them our friends.”
“No,” Nash agreed. “So we keep moving. Fast.” He started forward again.
When they stepped off the paved path onto the beach, Callie could see The Tramp anchored out about thirty feet from shore, but there was no sign of Travis. With the gendarmes so close, she didn’t dare call out, but she didn’t see how they could get Mac, who’d begun to sag heavily against Nash, out to the boat without help. Then Travis’s head popped up from one of the small, sleek water-sports boats tied to the dock, and he waved them over.
They stumbled across the sand toward the dock, driven forward by the increasingly loud voices behind them.
“This will be faster,” Travis said as he helped them aboard and fiddled with some wires he’d pulled loose from the boat’s dash. The engine choked, caught, and they pulled away from the dock as three gendarmes appeared on the beach. Shouting, the men ran toward them, weapons at the ready.
“Everybody down,” Travis shouted. He whipped the boat into a steep curve, sending up a huge wake.
Mac’s face had gone gray. Callie and Nash pushed him to the floor and took up positions on either side of him, crouching as low as possible. A bullet thunked into the frail fiberglass side of the boat and Travis turned again, sending his passengers tumbling.
“We’re almost out of range. If we’d been any closer, that would have come right through. But they’re getting on the other boat. I didn’t have time to scuttle it before you showed up.”
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