by Maureen Tan
I crouched, pulled the Walther’s stiff trigger, felt the semiautomatic buck in my hand, heard the muffled sigh of the silenced shot. The fellow’s neck and head erupted, spattering the wall and ceiling behind him. He crumpled to the carpeting, oozing a dark stain onto a field of cobalt blue flowers.
The Special had a seven-bullet clip. One bullet used. Six remaining. The mental tally was automatic.
I dragged the body into a nearby room, then went back to Hugh’s bedroom. I twisted the knob, found the door unlocked, and dove into the room, tucking my body into a roll that carried me off to the right and gave me a split second to survey the scene. I found my footing and stood. My Walther was clenched in both hands and aimed squarely at Hugh’s chest.
He was oblivious to my presence.
The heir to the Winthrup fortune sat cross-legged and naked in the center of a massive four-poster bed like some huge, pale bullfrog. Close-set eyes, closed for the moment, were set in a large, pimply face. Straight brown hair hung down on his forehead and covered his ears. Music blasted from six-foot-tall speakers located in the corners of the room and on either side of his bed.
If it had been quieter, I could have heard him sniffing. As it was, I had only the evidence of my eyes to know that he’d just snorted a line of coke. A small mirror with a smudge of telltale white powder and a thin straw lay on the nightstand. Beside the mirror was the open, fist-sized bag.
I was horrified to find myself shouting over the music.
“Hugh!”
No response.
I held my Walther out of sight, stepped nearer the bed, touched his bare shoulder with my left hand. His eyes opened. They were pale brown, the irises liberally flecked with yellow.
I stared, startled by the unusual color and the certainty that I’d seen those eyes before. Hugh stared back, open-mouthed, his surprise mirroring my own. Then his mouth and chin tightened into the familiar lines of the Winthrup family portraits. I remembered that some of those eyes were the same peculiar color.
“Your uncle sent me,” I shouted.
“Sod my uncle. Stingy wanker. I wrecked his precious treasures. Now we’re really going to make him pay.”
Then the Winthrup features softened into a leer.
Hugh’s tongue touched his upper lip as his eyes did a slow trip over my body, my wet silk turtleneck undoubtedly exposing more than it hid. An erection grew between Hugh’s flabby thighs.
“They promised to take good care of me, but you’re quite a surprise.”
He shifted forward, grabbed at one of my breasts.
I slapped his hand away, leveled the semiautomatic at him.
His smile froze, faded. Passion withered.
“Get dressed.”
He slipped from the bed as I glanced around the room. Heavy furniture. A closet. An open door to the bathroom. No lock on the bedroom door. Even so, I could easily defend our position. Assuming it needed defending. As long as we stayed put, and the music continued blaring . . .
The man hiding in the bathroom made the mistake of moving during a two-beat rest.
I’d been careless.
He was slow.
I dropped to the floor, fired twice. My bullets pierced the door, then his body. His scream blended with the music. Then he was silent.
Four bullets remained.
Hugh sprinted past me, still naked. He ran from the bedroom, yelling for help.
I scrambled to my feet, raced after him.
He was young and had a head start, and we both had to avoid the glass littering the floor. But I was fit. I caught up with him as he reached the foyer, before his shouts could be heard over the music. Mötley Crüe, I thought inanely as I tackled him, ramming my shoulder into the back of his knees and toppling him forward. He kept crawling, difficult to stop but now blessedly silent. His panic took him across the foyer. I followed, finally grabbing him by the hair. I wound my fingers in it and forced him to his feet.
When I let him go, he stood, red-faced and gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks.
I didn’t want to risk crossing the foyer again, and Hugh’s bedroom was now farther than the attic. I’d take him there, put another set of stairs between us and trouble. I held the Walther at waist level, pointed it at Hugh, lifted my chin to indicate direction. No resistance. He marched forward to the sounds of a screaming chorus: Knock ’em, knock ’em, knock ’em dead, knock ’em dead, kid . . .
I glanced behind me, pulled the radio from my belt left-handed, pressed the transmit button.
“Primary target secure—”
A man came into the foyer, his Uzi held point up, obviously not expecting trouble. He saw us. And died. His finger spasmed on the trigger, bullets unaimed, ineffective, loud. No way the music could cover the sound.
Three bullets left.
I swung back on Hugh.
The abrupt movement saved my life.
He held the broken liquor bottle, undoubtedly intending to plunge its jutting edge into my neck. As it was, I saw the murderous look in his yellow eyes as his blow drove the bottle’s razor-sharp edge through the flesh and muscle of my right upper arm, slashing it to the bone.
Reflex took over in the critical moments before my brain acknowledged the injury. I slammed the radio transmitter across his exposed wrist. As he dropped the broken bottle, I tried to secure the transmitter to my belt. When it slipped from my fingers, I abandoned the task. I transferred the Walther to my left hand and aimed it point-blank at Hugh’s crotch.
“Attic. Now!”
I followed Hugh down the hall the remaining few meters, opened one of the bedroom doors as we passed by, and smeared the knob with blood, hoping the ploy would buy an extra minute or two.
Hugh located the inconspicuous brass knob, yanked the attic door open, and took the steps two at a time. I closed the door behind us and followed him.
With the point of the gun, I urged Hugh past the empty rooms, into the bathroom at the far end of the passageway. There was barely enough space inside for the two of us. To our right, an old loo. Behind the door, a pedestal basin. Directly before us, a claw-footed cast-iron tub. Blue enamel on the outside, grubby on the inside.
I prodded the fat roll at Hugh’s waist.
“Into the tub. Face down.”
His large body was tense with outrage. But he sniffed deeply, straightened his back, and climbed in. He folded his legs beneath him as he pillowed his face against his arms.
The music cut off abruptly.
I left the bathroom door open, wedged myself into the cramped space between bathtub and toilet. Cursing whoever had removed the lid and seat from the toilet bowl, I braced my left arm along its cold porcelain edge and sighted down the passageway to the small landing.
Now that I wasn’t moving, pain no longer ripped through my arm. It throbbed in angry rhythm with my heart. I looked at the red mess dripping from my fingertips onto the dusty white-tiled floor. Undoubtedly, the bastard had nicked an artery. I had to stop the bleeding.
First, I had to reload.
I glanced over my shoulder. Hugh hadn’t moved. Yet.
I ejected the nearly spent clip from the Walther, muffling the sound with my body, then pinned the semiautomatic against the floor with my foot. I retrieved a full clip from my belt pouch, loaded the Walther, picked it up again.
Seven shots.
How long, I wondered, before they realized we were in the attic, before they picked out the telltale droplets of blood from the pattern on the carpet?
Behind me, Hugh stirred.
I waited, gauging his progress by the sounds he made, and fired as he lifted his head. The bullet whizzed past him, buried itself in the wall, sprayed him with plaster and splinters of wood.
One bullet gone. Six remaining.
I aimed point-blank at Hugh’s face. And for one dizzy, crazy moment imagined that I was looking into the barrel of the gun.
If I didn’t remain lucid, I’d be too dead to worry about blood loss.
I tig
htened my grip on the Walther.
“There is an alternative to rescuing you.”
Color drained from his cheeks. His eyes widened. His mouth formed a slack O.
I knew exactly how he felt. Maximum vulnerability. The certain knowledge that death would come screaming from the depths of that long, dark cylinder.
I waited, let terror build, then offered a reprieve.
“Down. Now.”
He obeyed.
I thumped the tub with the butt of my gun.
He whimpered, huddled in deeper.
It would take a few minutes before desperation made him stupid. That would be time enough.
I laid the Walther on top of the cistern, fumbled the belt from around my waist, fed the leather end through its buckle, slipped the resulting loop up over my arm, above the biceps. I pulled the belt tight, wound its remaining length around my arm again, and threaded it through itself to secure the tourniquet.
I retrieved my weapon.
I didn’t faint.
* * *
Someone at the base of the steps shouted.
I peered down the passageway with eyes well adjusted to the darkness.
The rush of footsteps on the stairs paused before reaching the landing. They moved cautiously after that.
I waited, heard movement, glimpsed a shadow and pulled the trigger twice. My first shot missed. The second found its target.
A man tumbled into the passageway.
Four bullets.
Two men followed the dead man through the doorway and used his crumpled body for shelter. A volley of bullets ricocheted off the bathroom fixtures. Behind me, Hugh screamed as a bullet was deflected by the tub.
Muzzle flashes gave me something to aim at. I fired. The fellow on the left fell. His mate huddled behind the improved cover of two bodies.
Three bullets.
The sharp, abrupt explosions of flash-bang grenades signaled that the assault team had arrived. Had the kidnappers remained downstairs in the main area of the house, the grenades would have stunned them. Unfortunately, I’d drawn most of them to the second floor, south wing. They were trapped unless Hugh could be recaptured and used as a hostage.
The fellow attacking my position grew desperate. He sprayed the hallway with machine-gun fire, then dove for the doorway into one of the abandoned rooms. He landed dead.
Two bullets.
Downstairs, the distinctive sound of government-issue MP5 submachine guns combined with the clatter of Uzis.
I shifted to relieve the cramping in my legs. Managed to bump my right arm against the edge of the loo. I bit down hard to keep from screaming. The dim passageway blurred, wavered, and came back into focus with sick-making abruptness. I wiped my face against my left shoulder, braced my cheek against my extended left arm.
Hugh flung himself onto my back.
He clamped his fingers around my throat, tried to force my head into the few inches of water at the bottom of the bowl.
“Up here! I’m up here!” he shouted.
I dropped my Walther, grabbed blindly for his back, caught a handful of hair. I wrenched him forward with all my might, bucked my body upward, flung him over my shoulders. He slammed flat against the tile floor, air whooshing from his lungs, and lay very still, head near the loo, legs sprawling through the bathroom door.
I retrieved my Walther, staggered to my feet, stepped over him, and flattened my body on the hallway floor, leveling my semiautomatic.
Just in time.
Another attacker came into view. I fired. He crumpled.
The fellow behind him stopped short, dropped his weapon, and raised his hands.
“Don’t shoot. Please.”
I’d never killed an unarmed man. Or woman.
And I had only one bullet left.
It took me a moment to make my mouth form the words I wanted.
“On the floor! Face down! Hands behind your head!”
As I followed his rapid downward movement, the walls on either side of him undulated toward the wavering rectangle at the end of the passageway. I tried to refocus. Couldn’t.
I heard a groan, wasn’t sure if it was mine or Hugh’s.
Another shadow moved.
I shot at it.
No more ammo.
I doubted I’d have the opportunity to load another clip.
“Miss Nichols! Hold your fire!”
The urgent voice belonged to Hawkins.
I lowered my weapon.
The bare bulb in the passageway came on, flooded the scene with 40 watts. Two men rushed into the passageway, intent upon my captive. They bound his hands behind him, checked him for weapons, pulled him into a sitting position. I’d created a problem by leaving him alive, I thought. I doubted any of the other kidnappers had survived.
It didn’t matter. As long as I followed my orders. If Hugh talked to anyone, he could let loose the very scandal his uncle and Mac were trying to avoid. So no one besides John or me would be allowed near him until he was taken away by private ambulance to a remote sanatorium.
I dragged myself into a sitting position, braced my back against one wall, and slid my feet forward, effectively blocking my end of the hall.
The walls and floor tilted threateningly.
Resisting the temptation to close my eyes, I rested my left elbow on one bent knee and let my wrist relax so that the Walther hung, point down, between my legs.
Hawkins pushed past his men, moved toward me and Hugh.
“Everything’s under control. Let me see to—”
He came too close. I lifted my Walther, aimed it.
“Back away.”
He took two quick steps backward, hands raised, palms outward. Turned his head, shouted over his shoulder.
“Maccoby! Clear our people from this hallway. And get her partner up here. Now!”
* * *
Awareness washed out. And in. And out. An eccentric tide assaulting a black sand beach. The cough of a silenced weapon broke the rhythm, pulled me back. Then I heard John’s voice.
“Dispose of this. With the others.”
A rush of footsteps responded to his order.
Problem solved, I thought. The last kidnapper was dead. No prisoners, no charges, no testimony, no scandal. Duty done, debt paid.
Beside me, Hugh was groaning his way to consciousness.
Ugly prick. Let John cope with him.
“Janie.”
I made the effort, opened my eyes.
John knelt beside me, pale blue eyes intent on my face. His hand was outstretched. I stared at it, uncomprehending.
“Give me the gun, Janie.”
I’d forgotten I had it, didn’t have the strength to lift it.
“Take it. No bullets anyway. Bad guys got ’em all.”
I thought it was rather a good joke. Tried to laugh. Couldn’t.
John didn’t laugh either. He took the Walther from me, laid it on the floor, away from the blood.
I couldn’t understand why he looked so grim.
My arm didn’t hurt anymore.
Nothing hurt anymore.
I closed my eyes. Ignored the conversations around me, the touch of a stranger’s hands tending my wounded arm.
Nagging thoughts.
“John?”
“Yes, love.”
His voice seemed to have moved. No matter.
“Is Mr. Beane all right?”
John laughed.
“Oh, yes. He’s a tough old blighter and as big as a house. I came through the cellar door, thinking I was going to rescue him. But he’d already gotten his arms— wrists still bound—around his guard’s neck. He snapped it like a twig, then grinned at me and muttered, ‘Ceud mile fàilte.’ ”
It was a traditional Celtic greeting. “One hundred thousand welcomes.”
I smiled, attempted to drift away.
But an odd idea formed at the edge of awareness, demanded attention, snapped my eyes open. I needed to tell John before I forgot.
&nb
sp; The medic was kneeling where John had been. John was on his feet, leaning against the wall opposite me, posture casual. Except that his Browning was pointed at a spot a few feet to my left.
“Hugh,” I said.
John shifted his eyes to my face, fractionally lifted the Browning’s muzzle.
“Still here. The ambulance is on its way. In the meantime, I’m hoping he’ll give me an excuse—”
Hugh moaned.
I didn’t turn my head, didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to look at him.
“He was there,” I said. “In Greece. He killed my parents.”
Spoken aloud, the accusation made no sense at all.
I was thinking just that when consciousness abandoned me.
10
Music from a radio at the nurses’ station drifted through the open door to my room. Christmas Day evening, and a choir was singing about good King Wenceslaus. The volume was low; memory provided most of the lyrics.
I swung the Formica tray-table aside, moving the remains of Christmas dinner out of reach, and settled back against the cranked-up head of the hospital bed. I eased my body into the pillows. From my left arm sprang an IV line, anchored to the top of my hand by a wide piece of sticking plaster and ending in a bag of electrolytes hanging from a portable stand.
My right arm was wrapped, shoulder to elbow, in a thick layer of bandages and supported by a sling. I wasted a moment sourly contemplating the wrapping job, wishing I were ambidextrous. Shooting left-handed was a survival skill I had struggled to acquire. Otherwise, I was chronically, pathetically right-handed. If the wound didn’t heal properly . . .
I took a deep breath, rotated my shoulder and wiggled my fingers, ignoring the pain, seeking reassurance. Everything moved as it should. Thanks largely to Dr. Bowers.
She had stitched up my arm early in the morning, told me how lucky I was to have reached the clinic within six hours. Longer than that and—assuming I hadn’t bled to death—infection would have made stitching inadvisable. As it was, a little intravenous rehydration, antibiotics, and some skilled needlework— absorbable sutures in the deep part of the wound; a neat, closely spaced series of nylon sutures on the surface—had done the job.
But later that morning, Dr. Bowers had frowned as she’d visited me in my room.