anyone else.”
“Amen,” said the DCS, with some irony.
With a grimace, Savoie inspected the bleeding wound on his leg, where the guard’s bullet had wounded him. “Tell me what you do here. Quickly.”
“There’s a plot afoot to murder this man.” Diplomatically, Doyle didn’t mention that it was no doubt Acton’s plot, with Savoie providing the assist. “I’d like to extract him; is there anyone here that’s not utterly corrupt?”
“My assistants—the people who work in the ministry with me,” the DCS offered.
“They’re probably not very good in a fire-fight,” Doyle reflected doubtfully.
Mathis spread her hands in a disarming way at Savoie. “Let me have a look—you may need a tourniquet.”
Jerking his head in acquiescence, Savoie hoisted his leg onto the desk. “Who else is on the floor?” he asked the DCS, and then grimaced and swore, when Mathis probed his wound.
“No one—since this floor isn’t for incarcerations. But there will be a security check-in at the top of the hour, and the central command will notice when no one checks in.”
Savoie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Do you know how to do this check-in?”
“No,” the DCS confessed.
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“I can try to do it, by looking at the history on the laptop,” Mathis offered, “but if I don’t do it correctly, it may trigger an alarm. I’m rather surprised the disabled camera hasn’t triggered an alarm.”
Savoie made no comment, and Doyle belatedly realized that the alarm probably hadn’t been triggered because everyone knew Savoie was in the room, and they were all carefully trying not to notice that he was murdering the DCS.
Savoie asked Doyle. “Any extra rounds?”
“Just the one cartridge,” she admitted. Truly, she wasn’t of much use, and unless she very much missed her guess, she was asking Savoie to turn coat on his own people, and they were not the sort of people that handled such things very well.
“There’s an exit wound,” Mathis pronounced. “And the bone’s not impacted.”
“Bien,” said Savoie, as Mathis firmly pressed his bloody leg between her hands.
Doyle spoke up. “A through-and-through is nothin’, truly. I’ve been shot in the leg, myself.” Best not to mention the circumstances, of course—talk about awkward, that would be the topper.
His jaw clenched, Savoie glanced over at Doyle. “Acton, does he know you are here?”
“No,” Doyle admitted, and then realized a bit glumly that there was no way she would be able to sweep this little contretemps under the rug.
Without comment, Savoie pulled a disposable mobile out of his prison jumpsuit’s pocket, and pressed the call button.
With a touch of gallows humor, Doyle remarked to Mathis, “I’m betwixt the devil and that sea person.”
The devil and the deep blue sea,” Mathis corrected, lifting a hand to take a glance at the oozing wound.
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“Quiet,” said Savoie. He began to speak rapidly in French, and then paused. Doyle couldn’t hear the words, but she could hear the sweet, sweet tones of her husband’s voice, and suddenly had to blink back tears.
Rather to her surprise, Savoie handed the mobile over to her. Doyle swallowed, and pulled herself together. “I walked into
a rare randyrow, Michael, all unknowin’. I’m truly sorry.”
“No matter, Kathleen. If you would, please give me a report.” “We’ve two guards down, and Savoie’s been wounded.
Mathis is here, and we reckon we’ve got six minutes before someone realizes somethin’s amiss.”
There was a small pause. “Is your hair in your eyes?”
He was referring to the signal they used when she knew someone was lying, which meant he was apparently wondering if it was a trap. Small blame to him, what with the DCS and Savoie figuring prominently in this little holy show.
“No,” she replied steadily, and hoped it was true—she hadn’t had a chance to sound out Savoie’s loyalty to the Russian contingent as yet, since that concern had suddenly dropped down in her list of priorities.
“Are you hurt?
“I am hale and hearty,” she lied. Her back felt like it was set to break in half.
“Tell him I can access the roof,” the DCS offered, in the background. “I conduct baptisms on the roof, and now we have the guard’s security access card. The stairwell is across the hall.”
“Did you hear?” Doyle asked Acton.
“Put him on,” Acton said, and Doyle handed the mobile over.
It was apparent that Acton began asking about schematics. “C-3,” The DCS responded. “Bars on the windows, and reinforced glass. A security door on the stairwell and at each end of the hall, but otherwise minimum security, since it’s an administrative floor. Can you pull it up on your screen?”
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There was a pause, whilst he listened to Acton. “I don’t think we should wait; they will employ tear gas through the vents, as a riot-control tactic. DS Doyle probably shouldn’t breathe tear gas.” He paused, and then lowered his voice. “And I’m afraid it may be a GBH.” This was a police term—grievous bodily harm—that referred to a highly dangerous situation, where the suspects were willing to do their worst.
Then to the roof we go, thought Doyle, mentally girding her loins. “Best to move quickly,” she said aloud, trying to sound confident.
Suddenly, they could see flashing lights through the glass panel in the door, and a blaring alarm sounded. With one accord, they all leapt to their feet, and Doyle’s water broke.
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He signaled to his assistant,
and started issuing rapid-fire orders.
“W e should move,” the DCS said. “Once they realize these two are down, they will turn off all security card access and institute a lockdown. Then they’ll
turn on the tear gas—it’s what I would do.”
“We go, then,” said Savoie, as he held out his hand for the mobile. “Come, come.”
The DCS willingly handed it over, and Mathis asked, “Should we leave it on, so that Acton can track us, and hear what’s happening?”
“Non,” Savoie replied succinctly, and lifted the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment, said “Bien,” and then rang off to shove it into the desk drawer.
“It’s a burner phone,” Doyle explained. “Can’t keep usin’ it, or they’ll hone in.”
“Give me a gun, then,” Mathis said to Savoie. “I’ll stay behind, and fire at them down the hall when they try to approach. It will buy some time.”
While this seemed an excellent plan, Doyle knew she couldn’t allow such a thing. “No, you’re comin’ with us.”
“I’m sure they won’t shoot me,” the girl insisted, and it was not exactly true.
“Non,” said Savoie, who was apparently willing to back Doyle. “Allons.”
But the girl’s heroics had triggered an idea in Doyle’s semi-panicked brain. “They’ll be reluctant to shoot—or even use the
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gas—if they think Savoie’s a hostage. I’m sure there’s a camera in the hall, and they don’t know Acton’s on the way. It might buy some time.”
“Good idea, Sergeant,” said the DCS with a nod. “He’s already been shot, so that will add authenticity.” The DCS held out a hand to Savoie. “Here; I’ll hold a gun to your head.”
As could be expected, Savoie flatly refused to hand a gun over, and so the DCS suggested, “Take the ammo out, then; they need to think you’re at risk, and that I’ve already shot you.”
There was a tense moment, and so Doyle offered, “It’s that deep-sea-devil-person, again, Philippe. Nothin’ for it.”
With a grim expression, Savoie pulled the cartridge out from one of the guard’s guns, and then
handed the weapon to the DCS.
“Thank you,” the man said. “Now, put your hands behind your back, and I’ll wrestle you across for the cameras.”
“Bien.”
“Here,” Mathis stepped forward to smear her bloody hands on Savoie’s face. “We have to make it obvious; they may not be able to see the leg.”
It’s all very ironic, thought Doyle, and if I weren’t dying to lie down somewhere, I think I’d appreciate it miles more.
“Got the security card? Good. Everyone ready?” The DCS paused. “My God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.” He kicked the door open, and then made a show of manhandling the bloody Savoie down the blaring and flashing hallway. In a menacing manner, he gestured with the weapon toward Mathis, who hurried over to the stairwell access door, with Doyle close behind.
There was a tense moment when the card didn’t seem to activate the heavy iron door, but then the green light flashed, and Mathis began to pull down on the handle. “I’ll need some help, she shouted at Doyle over the noise. “It’s heavy, and if it re-locks it may not let us activate again.”
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Galvanized by this potential disaster, Doyle grabbed the handle and pushed with what little strength she could muster, but was surprised to find another hand impatiently pushing hers; a man’s hand, encased in a thick, leather glove.
With some surprise, Doyle looked up to see the Trestles knight, heaving the door open in a manner that left little doubt that he was very unhappy with the fair Doyle.
“Sorry,” she shouted at him over the din, as Mathis braced herself against the heavy door to prop it open. “I didn’t realize I was in labor.”
“You’re in labor?” Mathis stared at her in alarm, as the DCS pushed Savoie through. The girl glanced down the hall toward the empty security desk. “Go; I’ll stall them. We’ve got to give Acton enough time to get here.”
“No,” Doyle shouted. “Everybody who works here is bent; you come with us.”
But the girl had stood back, and was allowing the door to automatically swing shut. In vain, Doyle clutched at her arm, but Mathis yanked it away. “Go—I’ll be all right.”
But then, Mathis jumped forward with a small yelp. “Ouch; what was that?”
A sword, thought Doyle, as the door clanged shut behind them, the tip of the sword getting caught in the process. Yet another sin to be laid at my door; the stupid knight was very fond of his stupid sword.
The closed door had the benefit of muffling the alarm, and they paused to recover for a moment, whilst Savoie immediately demanded the empty gun back—it was apparent he didn’t want the DCS to have any type of weapon.
“Lady Acton is in labor,” Mathis announced, carefully suppressing her extreme alarm.
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“It’s early,” Doyle disclaimed in an airy tone. “Nothin’ to speak of.” She was then subject to a wave of pain that caused her to bend over and cry out, before she bit her lip, embarrassed.
They all stared at her in dismay for a moment before the DCS took her elbow. “Then let’s move up to the roof, while you still can.” They began to climb the stairwell, and he smiled at her in a reassuring manner. “Not to worry; I’ve delivered a few babies, in my days as a field officer. It’s not something you forget how to do.”
This was true, and much appreciated, but Doyle was ready to change the subject. “What now? Should we block the vents, just in case?”
“The command will re-assess,” the DCS said, as they climbed the stairs. “They’ll be worried about Savoie, and they’ll think we’re contained with no way out, so that they have a few minutes to think it over. It should be enough for Acton to scramble a helicopter SWAT—it takes about twenty minutes.”
This was said with more certainty than he felt, but Doyle took comfort in the fact that she knew her husband, and knew that he’d move heaven and earth to get her out of this mess. And besides, there was an angry knight doing his best to gum up the works—although it wasn’t clear what a fifteenth-century specter could actually accomplish. He’d poked Mathis, though, which was certainly a mark in his favor.
They clanged up the stairwell, Savoie grimacing, as he leaned heavily on the railing, and the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. At the top, they came to the roof access door, which required a security card to exit.
“We wait here,” said Savoie. “Acton, he will unlock it from his computer. That is how we will know it is safe to move.”
Doyle decided she wasn’t going to stand on ceremony, and sank down on the top step, as another wave of pain washed over her. “Grand.”
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Mathis pointed out the flaw in this plan. “How will we know it’s Lord Acton, and not prison personnel doing the unlocking?”
“We will not know,” the Frenchman replied briefly, and then swore, as he bent to examine his wound.
“They saw I have a weapon,” the DCS assured the girls. “Unlikely they’d try to storm us, and put Savoie at risk—it would be poor tactics.”
“They may be panicked, and not very interested in tactics,” Doyle declared a bit grimly, as she clutched at the railing. “They’re a passel of blacklegs, with a lot to hide.”
The DCS glanced at Savoie. “We just need to stall—and not much longer, I imagine. If it comes down to it, I can negotiate— I’ll tell them I know where the money is, and that I was trying to escape to get to it.”
Savoie met his gaze, and then nodded. “Bien. Go stand by the door, and see if you can hear anything.” He handed the DCS the empty gun again.
“May I have a gun?” Mathis asked again.
“Non,” Savoie replied shortly, and then crouched beside Doyle. “You must tell this baby to wait, yes?”
“Yes,” Doyle agreed, and clenched the railing until her knuckles showed white.
Savoie made a sympathetic sound. “We have the deep blue devil, yes?”
“We do,” she agreed, then swallowed—the mention of the missing money reminded her that she hadn’t yet found out what she needed to know. The situation was hair-raising enough as it was, but if Savoie was planning to double-cross Acton, it would immediately get worse—faith, she may have to shoot Savoie herself, when all was said and done. “I wanted to ask you somethin’, Philippe.”
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“I may not answer,” he advised fairly. “Me, I do not answer the questions.” Thinking about this, he amended, “For Emile, and for you, sometimes I do.”
Doyle could appreciate this attitude, and ventured, “I understand that Mrs. Barayev—Emile’s aunt—was here at the prison, when Emile was visitin’. Emile says she was arrangin’ to take him back to St. Petersburg.”
“Yes,” said Savoie, his mouth suddenly thinning. “This is so.” Nothin’ for it. She continued tentatively, “I was worried—I suppose when Emile told me this, I was worried that you were in
cahoots with her. That you were plottin’ against Acton.”
He stared at her with open incredulity. “Fah—you do not trust me, still?”
“I truly can’t be blamed, Phillippe,” she defended herself. “You’re an out-and-out blackleg, yourself.”
Savoie gave her a very put-upon look, and said as though speaking to a simpleton, “I do not plot against Acton. Me, I did not know about this plan, but Acton, he found out, and he stopped her. He stopped la chienne from taking Emile away, remercie la sainte mère.” He paused, and lowered his gaze for a moment, as emotional as Savoie ever allowed himself to be. “Acton, he kept Emile safe from her.”
This was of interest, as Doyle was aware of no such abduction attempt. Not to mention it suggested that Savoie didn’t know that the woman had been shuffled off this mortal coil. Carefully, she offered, “So—she’s fled to St. Petersburg, then? A good riddance, I say.”
“Non, he replied in a grim tone. “Non—it is bad rid-dance. The money, it
is gone.”
Doyle stared at him, her scalp prickling, and a terrible, terrible thought forming in her mind. Swallowing, she asked, “So—it’s Mrs. Barayev, who has the money that everyone’s chasin’?”
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