Brant's instinct confirmed what he already knew. The death room was a sideline, a gift to someone. He took one last look around, disgusted but somehow relieved he had found no evidence Kit had come through the door. Then he himself stepped back into the hallway and stalked to its end, silently headed up the stairs, prepared for anyone who might stumble on him.
But he hoped he could question at least one live guard.
On the main level, Brant heard no sound. He hadn't been downstairs that long – maybe fifteen minutes – so it appeared that no one had yet stumbled over one of the dead exterior guards. No alarm had been sounded, at the very least because someone would have been sent to check that lower level. He checked the main hallway and saw no movement, but he heard faint television sounds from upstairs. The opulent staircase that wound its way from the great room to the second floor balcony was wide open with no chance of cover. Brant poked his head into what turned out to be a bedroom-sized pantry, then a basketball-court-sized kitchen in which stainless steel appliances sparkled with disuse. The kind of dead kitchen not expecting the boss, he mused. He was glad not to have to threaten a cook or other innocent staff – Brant had killed enough innocent Vietnamese to last him a lifetime of guilt and shame, and the thought of shooting innocent household help was sour on his palate.
There seemed to be a rear wing to the house, perhaps leading to the indoor pool perched on top of the hillside. While there might well be bedrooms for guests or guards along that hallway, the fire door that led to it was closed. The sounds from upstairs indicated more likely danger, and more likely prisoners, so he headed for the great room. As he turned the corner, he nearly bumped into another guard who carried an empty beer pitcher.
The man's eyes widened and he went for his waist holster, but Brant was ready and two very silent slugs entered the man's head through the forehead and right eye socket. Brant rushed forward and pinned the dead man to the side wall as he spasmed, grasping the pitcher before it could crash to the wooden floor. He lowered the dead guard to the floor, smearing a wide swath of bright blood over the creamy wall paint.
Time and luck were running out, and Brant knew it. He set down the pitcher and began climbing the staircase.
At the top of the stairs, Brant found two men playing cards in a large bedroom. They both stood at his entrance, but again he was prepared and they weren't. He shot the one on the right twice and jabbed the other hard in the stomach with the Woodsman's silenced barrel, hoping he hadn't knocked it out of alignment. The guard went down to the floor, vomit spilling from his mouth in a stream. Brant could see the remains of food and beer on the card table. Before the guard could start to arise, Brant smacked him in the side of the head with the flatness of the pistol, opening up a round wound. Blood seeped into the unfortunate guard's eye and mouth, and he stared at Brant, his defiance greatly shaken.
Brant dropped the empty magazine and quickly reloaded.
"Where are the girls?" Brant's voice was low, menacing. He touched the tip of the silencer to the guard's forehead, searing the skin. Before the guard could express the pain caused by the attack and the hot barrel's burning metal, Brant put a finger to his own lips. "Keep quiet or die. Your choice."
He wondered whether he'd chosen a non-English-speaking thug to interrogate, because the guard's blank look seemed to indicate a lack of understanding. Brant pulled back on the pistol and made a show of tightening pressure on the trigger.
"No, no," the guard whispered. "I answer."
"Good. Where are the girls?"
"No girls here anymore. They are gone, all sold off. No one here until new group coming later."
Brant nodded once. He'd begun to think there weren't any more kidnapped girls here, but there was more house to search, though it made no sense to keep them anywhere other than the basement cells.
"Where were they taken?"
"Some picked up for warehouse, some shipped."
"Shipped?" He lined up the Woodsman with the guard's eye.
"Yes!" the man almost shrieked. "Ship. In harbor. We send some overseas. Others to warehouse."
"Where's he warehouse?"
The man closed his lips, defiance making a comeback.
"What about the dead ones downstairs? Who's responsible for those? Goran? One of the guards?"
The man remained silent, clearly afraid to answer.
"Who killed the dead ones?" Brant clicked back the hammer to make his point, even though he didn't need to.
Still the guard hesitated. "They kill me-"
"I kill you."
The guard's pathetic look wasn't enough to move Brant, not after what he'd found below the house. But there was a sudden sound in the hall behind him, the guard chose the distraction as a way to grasp at one last chance, and Brant shot him in the head and turned just in time to fire at yet another thug now framed in the doorway behind him. The slug went wide and punched a hole in the man's shoulder. He swore and went for a revolver on his hip, and Brant shot him twice – much more accurately this time – and then he was out in the hall and heading down the stairs. His thinking short-circuited by the headache and jabbing that still throbbed below the skin, Brant knew he'd reached a point of diminishing returns. He couldn't expect to outshoot every one of Goran's employees, and the Woodsman's magazine was half empty again. Switching would cause too much noise and leave him unarmed for precious seconds. It was time to get out.
At the front door, a guard positioned outside and behind the potted bushes turned and took a shot at him. Brant felt the bullet graze his arm and returned fire. His .22 slugs found their mark and brought the guard down in a heap. But then he rolled over and brought up a weapon and Brant put two more slugs into his head. This time the guard stayed down. Then he was running for the street, down the twisty gravel driveway and toward the gatehouse, dropping the near-empty magazine and snapping another in place only by feel in the dark.
He heard shouts behind him and picked up his pace, hoping those in the gatehouse had the television volume up too loud. He reached the gate and found that it was securely shut, so he rounded the corner of the gatehouse – which was a miniature replica of the main house – and headed for a corner of the wall. Lights blared on and lit his way, but also pinned him against the darkness. A short burst of near-silenced gunfire reached his ears even as he tumbled under the row of firs flanking the wall.
More bursts of gunfire. Slugs raked the trees all around him. They didn't have him precisely spotted, but they were close enough. Shouts back and forth from the gatehouse and the driveway meant that a pursuit was only seconds from following his path.
How many men does Goran employ, anyway?
The wall was too high to climb easily, probably topped with glass or barbed wire, and anyway he would be perfectly outlined for the arriving gunmen if he reached the top. There was nothing for it but to make an unexpected move.
He raced behind the firs and reached the rear of the gatehouse, which made a dead-end corner with the wall itself. In fact, the gatehouse and perimeter shared the common wall. There was a window set slightly higher than ground level. He leaped for it and found hand-holds, pulling himself up, his feet on the brick side of the house. With his gun hand, he punched the window glass and shattered it, then heaved himself up and through the shards and tumbled into a small living room. At one end, a flat television hung on the wall, images of slick and sweaty sex filling its magnificent screen. The gatehouse guards had abandoned their hole to join those chasing him down the driveway, so he had a few moments to himself in their hastily abandoned post. He oriented himself, breathing hard and feeling the cuts made by the jagged window glass remains just beginning to throb and bleed, then headed for another window. This one fronted Lake Drive, the busy upscale street that wound along the lakeshore. He heard more gunfire outside, and then shouts coming closer – someone had spotted the broken window. He had barely seconds to make his move.
He launched himself at the window, crashing through it and flying through the air, landing on h
is side among wood slats and glass shards, and rolling on the sidewalk. Half on his knees, he peppered three quick shots through the window he'd just trashed, driving back the guards who had reached it and apparently catching at least one with a lucky slug. Now he wished he was using the HK with its heftier loads, but he didn't have time to switch and the quieter .22 tended not to give away his location. He sought the shadows of the tree-lined road and melted into them as well as he could, keeping his pistol hidden at his side so the traffic at his left wouldn't see more than what they had already – a crazed man crashing through a window and running into the night.
He was sure they wouldn't mount a search. They had way too much to keep hidden themselves, and if neighbors were even now reporting the gunfire, then they'd have to be about the business of cleaning up the mess he'd made. He hid within the bushes and undergrowth of a nearby mansion. The homes here were set so far apart that perhaps the gunfire hadn't been noticed, or reported.
He was wrong.
Moments later he heard the sounds of two men scraping their shoes on the sidewalk, apparently searching for him. He waited under cover until they were even with him and slightly past, then stepped out and shot them both in the head twice. He'd heard the clinking of their weapons, so he'd been certain, but he had a sudden surge of doubt and hoped they hadn't been some innocent joggers after all. No, they were on the hunt – they both looked like hard-chiseled berserkers in ill-fitting mobster suits. He rolled them under the nearby bushes quickly, then melted away again, waiting.
Ten minutes passed. The gate of Goran's estate opened and two cars pulled out into the street, passing within twenty feet of his hiding place and roaring away into the night. At a glance, it looked as though several of the guards were wounded and being removed by their less-damaged fellows.
Only then did Brant take time to breathe and assess his own wounds. Glass bits had lodged in his hair, and he felt the sting of glass particles in his face and neck, as well as hands and forearms. Nothing much to worry about. He headed for his car, his ears attuned to sirens.
Once seated, he put another call in to Kampmann and began by requesting about the much more intensive wipe he needed. Kampmann was not amused. Brant explained in detail, what he had found in the basement of the house.
"Bastards," the old man whispered with emotion. "Very well, Richard. I think it's time we bring down this Serb, don't you?"
"No matter who wants him protected?"
"No matter who, Richard. I'll see what I can do from here. Meantime, I'll send the wipe team. I don't think we want this blowing up in our faces publicly, do we?"
"Better send them armed and ready. I don't know if they left anyone behind to guard the place. Maybe they bailed, but I can't be sure."
"Anyone left alive will be dealt with, Richard. Don't worry. Go find your niece."
Brant was surprised to hear emotion hiding beneath the surface of the old man's tone. "Thanks. I'm going to do just that, and then I'm going to kill this guy."
"I'd like him alive, of course..."
"But..."
"But you may have to do what you need to do, to rescue and safeguard any prisoners he might have."
"My thoughts exactly," Brant said, and closed the connection.
KIT
Kit recognized the thug who tore the gun out of her hands – he was one of Irina's friends, who came over at all hours of the night. He backhanded her viciously across the face. She bit down hard on her tongue and kept herself from crying.
"Little girls should not play with dangerous toys." He stared hard at Kit. "You'll pay for this, I guarantee it. Both of you. The Serb will take care of you cunts."
Behind her, Kit heard Anne Marie whimper. Another thug had her in an arm lock.
Kit stared back at him. She couldn't believe their escape had ended this way. And her father, louse that he was, had looked at her beseechingly as he died. She felt tears squeeze out of her eyes despite the trying, and then she felt the vomit run hot into the bottom of her throat. Her father's staring eyes accused her of failing him, failing Anne Marie, failing everyone.
She gasped out some words, managing to swallow the acid bile. "We never did anything to you!"
"That is about to change," the big thug said, smiling. His crooked teeth showed, and Kit shuddered. "Take them back to their cell. Uri, check on Boris. See what these two did to him. They'll pay for that, eh?" He rattled off a long sentence in his own language. Kit caught the name Goran. It was a familiar name, and now things fell into place.
The last images Kit took with her were of her father's sightless stare and Irina's Cheshire cat grin. Kit growled and sputtered, but no words came to her lips.
Manhandled back to their cell, they saw that no one else had taken the opportunity to escape after their doors had been opened. None of the other girls had even stepped foot out into the hall. How many were there? Kit felt her hopes die. She still tried to keep her uncle's face in her thoughts, but she was now too frightened for herself to keep the illusion alive that he could sense her.
Less than ten minutes later, their door opened with a crash.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The "packages" were waiting for him outside the Mitchell International baggage claim, where they stood in the warmer than normal air, light suitcases at their feet. They managed to both blend in and look out of place. Old warriors, they looked too much the products of their time. Now they should have looked like grandfathers waiting to hug a bunch of kids, but they couldn't – it was beyond them, being normal. So they stood out even though they tried to blend in.
Digger and Smitty had both aged, but Brant sensed they hadn't changed much. Both had put on weight, but Digger more so – and even he was still fairly scrawny. He had a mouthful of dentures, as if he'd done all his digging with his teeth. Smitty still looked like a shadow, nervously sucking on a cigarette as if it might be his last. His teeth were yellowed and crooked, but they were defiantly his own.
Their eyes said everything about where they had been and what they'd done. It hadn't been a bright shining life for them, either. The three shook hands solemnly. He took in their once-thin features, now somehow both hard and flaccid.
Strange how time carves its channels into us, he couldn't help thinking.
Brant wondered how he appeared to them, especially with the fresh cuts and scrapes.
"You look good, Loot," Digger said.
"You lie, like you always did." He grinned.
Digger might have filled out, but his grip was iron. On closer inspection, Smitty looked as if he had gained weight and lost it a dozen times, under duress. His eyes were never still, preferring to roam rather than fix Brant with their gaze.
Some things don't change.
These guys still felt solid. If he had to take down the Serb's whole operation to find Kit, then these were the ones to have with him. No words conveyed this message, but the handshakes did.
"Long time, Loot," Digger whispered, almost as if he were still inside a tunnel.
"Sure has been. Smitty?"
"Nice to see you, Loot." But his eyes wouldn't stop shifting.
The stood in uncomfortable silence until Brant broke it.
"I'm in the ramp. You can't park and wait in the car like you used to."
"Nothin's like it used to be."
Brant knew Digger meant much earlier than what most people would think.
They watched the black mouth spit bags onto the carousel belt and snatched two light duffels off a few minutes later.
The tunnels made minimalists of us all, Brant thought. In the soul department, too.
They didn't talk until after he'd led them to his car.
"Okay, so what's the deal? Sarge wasn't very talkative. And you look like you've been through a glass sieve." Digger lit a cigarette and waited as Brant followed the freeway Exit signs. Smitty spread himself out in the back.
Brant stopped at the booth, handed over a twenty and had to offer another twenty before the gate swung up
.
He told them in broad strokes, leaving out the most recent details for now.
"What's the scoop on this Serb guy?" Smitty tapped his head. "Besides being stupid for messin' with you."
"He's trouble and bad news all rolled into one, but I'm smelling something nasty because he should've ended up on trial for war crimes in Kosovo."
"Instead?"
"Instead he winds up here, bankrolled and smelling pretty. He does some nasty business, but the cops don't try very hard where he's concerned, is the picture I get."
"Fix?" Digger's smoke was collecting. He cracked his window. It wasn't cold at all, for late December. The drizzle was on and off, mostly off.
"Maybe. But not local, not originating locally anyway. My connections in DC aren't coming through, so there might be dirt in some office there."
"Sarge in?" He had been the one to call them.
"Yeah, I think so. Appeals to his love of adventure. He's got toys he wants to play with."
"He said he'd set us up."
"Digger, you can't make a request he couldn't honor – take my word."
"Always did, Loot."
"Damn right," Smitty added. "Any chance we can eat first?"
Swallowing his irritation at the delay, Brant nodded.
Digger pointed to Brant's various cells in the cup holder. "Separate lives?"
"Right. Divide and conquer."
Brant checked the mirror often, wondering whether Sergeant Colgrave had picked him up, or anyone else. He didn't spot anyone in the medium traffic, but that didn't mean anything. He drove to his diner, but his familiar waitress wasn't there, to his relief. They ate a quick meal of homemade chicken dumpling soup and grilled burgers. Brant skipped the beef, as usual, picking at a turkey on rye.
"Damn airline food used to suck, but at least there was some," Digger pointed out. "But now..."
"Nothin's like it used to be."
Watching them eat, Brant felt himself slipping into the past. It was almost like one of his nightmares, except he wasn't asleep – the tight little jabs from his injuries would make sure of that – and he couldn't imagine how his overworked system would allow it. But he knew in the back of his mind that he might be gathering clues his strange extra sense sometimes offered.
Savage Nights Page 24