by C. A. Szarek
An open balcony rested at the top of the stairs. The bastard probably stood up there, hands on the decorative rail, watching over his kingdom.
Behind it, even more stairs led up to the innards of the mansion. All the steps were covered with a deep red carpet—hell, it looked as soft as velvet, too.
He tried to ignore the opulence around him, but the Italian marble floor beneath his feet pissed him off. Made his blood boil. He wanted to stomp it. Crush it, or shoot it up.
Jeremy growled and surveyed the large space, cataloguing everything.
There were four closed doors off the main room.
Corridors behind the stairs on the ground level led to hell knew where, but the security office couldn’t be far. It made sense for it to be central to the front doors, but hidden from obvious view.
He had to locate it. Find out where Caselli’s suite—wing or whatever, according to Guido One—was.
The house was too big to search every hallway, every room. He needed to learn where he needed to go.
Place was silent. No one in sight. It looked more like a museum than a house where people actually lived.
Guess it’s tough living the life of a high-dollar trafficker.
Jeremy’s entrance has been easy. Had Caselli become careless or was he really running a skeleton crew because of some wild party?
He moved forward, studying the stairwells and the support wall that gave way into the hallway entrance behind them.
Which way, which way?
His gut screamed right, so he hurried into the dim corridor. An unmarked door beckoned. He slipped the strap on the assault rifle over his torso and reached for the handle, but tightened his grip on the gun so he could pull the trigger with his right hand alone if he had to. Jeremy’s whole arm shook when he reached for the handle.
Not locked.
He dropped back and raised his weapon, pushing the door open with his foot.
The hum and whir of electronic equipment teased his ears.
Pay dirt. Security room on the first try.
A large man sat slumped in a chair at a desk in front of the wall-to-wall monitors. Snoring loudly.
Jeremy froze.
The oversized Italian didn’t stir, even with the soft creak of protest as the door inched open.
Two choices stared him down. Kill the bastard while he slept, and risk rousing the whole house. Or wake him and demand Caselli’s location.
Wait.
He could study the cameras himself. Jeremy didn’t want to hazard a welcoming party. He slipped behind the guy and raised the AK. Slammed the stock down on the man’s head. A sickening crack made him wince.
The man rolled more than fell out of the chair, landing with a thud. Blood leaked from the top of his head, but he still didn’t move.
Jeremy rolled him over with a damp boot, looking down into his face.
He wasn’t dead. His massive chest rose and fell, one arm across his body and the other beneath him. The position couldn’t be comfortable.
“You’re gonna wish you’d died. Caselli probably doesn’t appreciate guys falling asleep on the job. Then again, you can just thank me for saving your ass after I kill him.”
Not even a grunt.
After a kick to the guy’s hip, Jeremy stared up at the monitors, gaze darting from screen to screen.
It only took him a few minutes to discover the location of Caselli’s private rooms. All the corridors looked the same—except one. Unlike the cameras outside in the gatehouse, these were high definition and full colour.
The gold-leafed frames on the wall-art were his first clue. From what Jeremy could tell, every painting was of a naked woman. The walls of the hallway were blood red, contrary to the rest of the house’s corridors, which sported a beige colour.
“So where are you, Caselli?”
He stared at each monitor for a few moments before moving on, mentally walking through the house as he went.
Caselli would want the utmost privacy for his quarters. Wing was the word Guido One had used.
Winter sun shone through the window, making a bright white spot on the camera view. Blotting out the painting on the wall beside it.
“Ah-ha!”
East. It was morning and the light bathing the hallway was bright.
The mobster had to be in the east wing. Facing the outside of the house, since there were several windows in the red-walled corridor.
He’d have to figure out what floor by trial and error, but knowing Caselli, he’d be high and as far away from the front entrance as possible. The place had five floors. He would start at the top.
Jeremy left the security office at a jog. Instead of heading back around to the front of the stairs, he slipped farther down the dark hallway. There was an elevator at the back.
He hit the up arrow, tapping his foot and flexing his fingers on the assault rifle. Stairs might be faster, but he was less likely to run into anyone else if he could hit each floor via the elevator.
There hadn’t been any movement on any of the cameras. The guy he’d knocked out had been the only other soul he’d seen, except for the Guidos at the gate.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” His words shook even as the elevator dinged. Jeremy jumped, but scrambled inside.
Anyone could pop up at any time, and he wouldn’t see it. Wouldn’t be able to see where they might come at him from. That made him twitchy as hell.
Unknowns had never been his cuppa.
He tapped the button for the fifth floor—his best guess for the red-walled corridor.
The doors opened several minutes past his comfort level. Everything was taking too damn long. When Downs woke up, he’d call the team in.
Jeremy needed to be long gone by then. Leaving a dead Caselli in his bed.
He stepped off the elevator. “Fuck yes.”
The walls were red. He’d been correct the first time out the gate. Headed down the carpeted hallway without a sound.
“What the hell? Who the fuck are you?”
Jeremy bit back the shout on the tip of his tongue and whipped around.
A tall, dark-haired man stood at the top of the stairs, one hand on the rail. He was dressed in silk pyjamas and had a steaming mug in the other hand.
He was too far from Jeremy to simply knock out like the sleeping camera babysitter. And besides, he wasn’t far from Caselli’s private rooms—he could feel it in his gut.
All or nothing time.
Raising the AK, Jeremy flashed a feral smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
Then he pulled the trigger.
* * * *
Lee squeezed her eyes shut as she rounded the corner and collapsed into the side of Caselli’s house. She flexed her fingers on the grip of her Glock. Her arms shook.
Get it together. Breathe.
“Just breathe.” Her whisper fell from her mouth at the same time a frigid breeze burned her cheeks, but the cold cleared her head. Like a good smack.
Handcuffing Nate so he couldn’t leave the car had been the right thing to do.
Right?
Her pulse thundered in her ears, sounding more like a tidal wave than her heart.
“Fuck.”
The backup weapon was right there. In Nate’s reach. And he knew how to shoot. He’d be fine.
He has to be.
She sucked in cold air and let it out slowly. Did it again until her head stopped spinning.
Had Stewart killed the guys at the gatehouse? Or had Clint shot his way in?
“And why’s it so quiet around here?” Lee pushed off the house and squared her shoulders. She studied her surroundings, then glanced down at the tracks she’d first spotted by Clint’s car.
She followed the boot prints. Two sets, larger than her own and similar in patterns. Lee would bet money they belonged to her partner and Stewart. But if that was the case, why only two?
If the dirty FBI ass was turning Clint in to Caselli after a negative confrontation, wouldn’t he have backup, thug-style? Downs cou
ld take a skinny little bastard like Stewart in his sleep.
Lee stuck close to the side of the mansion, crouching low as she went and searching for any movement. She held her Glock at the ready and prayed she wouldn’t be ambushed. There was no cover in sight.
She spotted what had to be a garage looming from across a stretch of snow-covered cement. After glancing over her shoulder, Lee realised the driveway curved around the whole place. She and Nate could have followed it around if they’d gone to the right instead of parking next to the Charger.
Lee counted seven closed bay doors on the huge building as she came to the end of the house. “Damn. It’s like a warehouse.” The wind whipped her words from her lips and she shivered.
Shit, it’s cold.
Her eyes darted over a long line of vehicles. A black Mercedes sedan and four—no, five—Cadillac Escalades. They were parked in a row, one behind the other. Close together. All covered with winter’s gift of white blankets from the night before.
She looked up into the sky. It was bright blue, but the fat fluffy clouds promised more snow. It’d let up for now, but Lee wanted to get this crap over and done with. With her luck, a fricking blizzard would trap them at Caselli’s place and keep the team from arriving any time soon.
Hopefully the guys had wasted no time after she’d hung up on Dex. Liv was going to be pissed about being in the dark about Stewart, but her boss would have to be placated later. She needed to find her partner and the dirty agent.
To her immediate right was the back of the house.
Has to have an entrance somewhere.
Lee narrowed her eyes, looking for a—
“Shit! Clint!” She saw her partner’s boots first. He was lying about ten feet from the house.
After dashing to his side, she hit her knees hard on the pavement. Lee winced at the sting from impact as well as the wet snow leaking through her jeans. She visually swept the area before she took the risk of holstering her Glock. Needed both hands to check Clint.
Blood trickled down his forehead, but a cursory glance didn’t notice any other damage. No holes. “Thank God.” Lee shook his shoulder. “Downs.”
Nothing.
Her heart skipped and she ran her hands through his short dark hair. Besides the lump above the cut on his forehead, she couldn’t feel or see any other injury. “Clint. C’mon, partner. Wake up.”
She slapped his chest, calling his name again.
Clint groaned. Opened his mouth, making his moustache twitch. But his eyes stayed sealed shut.
“Downs. It’s me, Lee. Buddy, please wake up.”
“Lee.” Her name exited his mouth on a breathless moan.
“Yeah, Lee.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged.
Finally pale blue eyes met her gaze, but he cradled his head, crushing his eyes closed again.
Clint squinted. “Bright.”
“Right. I need you to get up, partner. Can you do that? We’re totally out in the open.”
“My ass is wet.”
Lee grinned and helped him to his feet. “You’re gonna be fine, thank God.”
“My head is pounding.” Clint wiped the blood from his forehead and looked around, his eyes going wide as he orientated. Probably remembered where the hell he was. “Shit.”
“Right again. We need to move. Now.” She pulled him behind a wide pillar under a cement overhang protruding from the back of the house. It reminded her more of a fancy hotel valet entrance than a residence.
A massive steel door on the back of the house was ajar. She slid around her partner, making sure they were both out of view. It wouldn’t buy them much cover if someone came out that door shooting. Lee drew her Glock, glancing at her partner.
He rubbed his face and groaned, but didn’t miss her searching gaze. “Stewart?”
“I haven’t seen him. Where’s your gun?”
Clint peered around the pillar, scanning the ground where he’d lain. “I guess the bastard took it. He was headed inside when I caught him. He has an AK-47. He knocked me on the head with it.”
“Fuck. I gave my backup to Nate.”
“No worries. I have mine.” He bent and drew his small Glock from an ankle holster. When he straightened, their gazes locked. “Wait. Crane’s here?”
“What choice did I have? I couldn’t get a hold of you. No one knew your plan, and I couldn’t exactly explain things to Liv. I… I…kinda freaked.”
“Aw shucks, partner, I didn’t know you cared.” One corner of his mouth shot up.
Lee glared. “Of course I care. We need a plan, now.”
“Where’s your witness?”
“I left him in the car with a gun, like I said.” She swallowed a wince. “Don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere.” What would her partner say if Lee admitted to cuffing Nate to the steering wheel? She cleared her throat and forced words out. “Team’s been mobilised, but they won’t be here for about forty-five minutes, an hour at most.”
“Stewart’s going to kill Caselli.”
“We have to stop him.” She made a fist with her free hand.
“Agreed.”
“Whose handiwork are the dead guys at the gate?”
“Not mine. I assume Stewart killed them. When I got here, they’d already decorated the snow red.”
“Perfect,” Lee spat. She looked up at the massive house. Even rows of windows stacked on top of each other suggested there were at least five floors. “Ever had a look at the inside?”
“No.”
“Shit. So we’re going into a humungous building blind, after a guy who shot his partner and killed a witness. He’s got FBI training and an AK-47. We have no idea how many thugs are in there. Annnnnnd we need to stop him from killing a bastard dead wouldn’t look that bad on. Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“That about sums it up, partner.”
Lee arched a brow. “Something funny, Downs?”
“Nah. Just not often you think before you leap.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wanna wait for backup?”
“I don’t think we can. No idea how long I was out. Stewart’s already inside with a nice head start. We need to get him before he kills Caselli. Hopefully he’s as unfamiliar with the venue as we are.”
“Hmmm, wouldn’t that be reckless, Special Agent Clinton Downs?”
Clint chuckled. “I guess I deserved that.”
Echoing gunshots shattered their banter.
Lee’s gaze darted to the house then back to her partner. All traces of amusement were gone from his expression.
“Let’s go,” Downs barked.
She raised her Glock and nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The guy went ass over tincups down the stairwell without so much as a holler. His mug shattered, brown liquid that had to be coffee splattering far and wide as much as the blood that had exploded from his chest.
Jeremy watched him tumble, a mess of blood and arms and legs. He bounced off the small landing then continued downward. The rustle of fine fabric and the thud and thump of his body faded the farther he went.
He landed hard on the balcony, neck at an awkward angle, one leg bent backwards.
If the bullets hadn’t killed him, the fall had.
Jeremy lowered the AK, waiting to feel something as he looked at his handiwork. Body number three for the day. Camera Guy and Downs could’ve made it five, but he didn’t regret not killing them.
Was it some sort of redemption?
“Hell no.” He snorted.
Numbness and desperation were the only emotions he could sense about himself. Well, determination to kill Caselli, too. That was something, wasn’t it?
Still won’t make Evan be okay.
Shaking his head, Jeremy turned away from his latest disaster and shut down what was left of his conscience. No place for it here, and certainly not now.
He held the rifle high, slinking close to the wall as he traversed the wide corridor. The naked women on both sides of the corrid
or taunted him, their sombre eyes following his path. Jeremy tried not to look at the paintings.
They weren’t classics or anything he could remember from what little art history he’d been exposed to. Each woman—girl really—was on display, posed on a bed or a chaise or standing. Nude, for the world to see, but with yards of fabric draped around her. Covering nothing. The opposite of modest.
Where they real girls? Caselli’s trophies?
Guido One had said Caselli had thrown a birthday party for his favourite girl the night before. The paintings were probably all Caselli’s victims.
“Sick fucker.”
At the end of the hallway, Jeremy ran into a set of mahogany double doors. They were oversized and as opulent as the rest of the place.
Lending to the theme of the blood-red walls and naked women, there were carvings on the four panels of each door. But unlike the taste level of the paintings, sex acts were displayed before his eyes. Graphic. Resembling something that would’ve been painted on the bath-house walls of ancient Pompeii.
Jeremy had seen a documentary about it once. Sex everywhere. And phallic symbols etched into the sidewalks to lead men to the whores.
Caselli might as well have put a sign up.
Definitely his private quarters.
“Fucker really does have a den of sin.”
Two chairs sat up against the wall on either side of the doors. Like the asshole usually had twenty-four seven guards.
Was the guy Jeremy had just killed supposed to be on bodyguard duty? He’d left to get some coffee.
Poor bastard.
Then again, it didn’t matter. He still would have killed him had he been at his post. Too bad the bodyguard hadn’t had a chance to drink his coffee, though.
Jeremy backed up and sucked in a fortifying breath.
This is it. Hope his sheets are red, too. Blood will blend in.
He rushed the doors, using his foot as a battering ram. First kick didn’t do jack shit, so he tried again.
Crack splintered through the air. The door on the left protested when he kicked it again. Pieces of one of the lewd acts went flying but the rest of the wood held together.
One more kick.
Jeremy threw his shoulder into the door. Pain shot back, but the door opened. The decorative handle glared up at him as if it was pissed he’d broken through.