Payne laughed as he read the text. “Petr is rarely subtle, which is one of the things I love about the guy. He wears his emotions on his sleeve.”
“He does indeed.”
“So, you know nothing about our current project?”
“Nope. Only what you just read.”
“But you’re interested in helping?”
She pointed at her clothes. “I got dressed up and everything.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Oh yes, I did,” she assured him. “I had no idea who I was going to meet. It could’ve been royalty, or an author, or someone actually important.”
“Ouch,” Payne said.
“Double ouch,” Jones echoed.
She smiled at them. “Had I known it was going to be two guys in T-shirts with matching gym bags, I would have stayed in yoga pants. Seriously, was there a sale or something?”
Jarkko grinned. “Don’t complain. Earlier today, they use trash bags for belongings.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” he assured her. “Jarkko thought they were homeless!”
She broke into a wide grin. “And now I get the inside joke.”
Jones tried to explain. “We didn’t want to bring our luggage, so—”
Payne grabbed his arm. “Let it go. You’ll only make things worse.”
Jones took a deep breath and conceded the point.
“Guys,” she said, laughing. “Don’t worry. I’m glad you’re not perfect. After listening to Petr’s stories, I assumed you were immortal. It’s good to know you’re flawed like me.”
“Like I,” Jones teased. “But what’s grammar amongst friends?”
“See! We’re all messed up in our own special ways. The key is we recognize our flaws, and we’re able to laugh about them. Of course, some of our flaws are funnier than others. I mean, garbage bags. Seriously? What are you, ten?”
Payne was certainly capable of defending himself in a verbal sparring match, but at this point in time, he was far more concerned with evaluating Marissa as a potential team member than he was with protecting his dignity.
As the former leader of the MANIACs, he had been forced to make split-second decisions in the field about the validity of assets and information—decisions that would potentially risk the lives of his men and their missions. Whether it came from his training or his natural instincts, Payne was known for the tuning-fork accuracy of his gut feelings.
Sometimes they defied all logic, but they always proved right.
Every single time.
And this was one of those times.
For whatever reason, he sensed that something was off.
Whether it was Marissa, or the library, or their isolation, he felt his stomach tightening, his heart racing, and the hair standing up on the back of his neck.
Something bad was about to happen.
He just didn’t know what.
“Time to go,” Payne announced out of the blue.
Jones glanced at him, concerned.
“What do you mean?” she blurted, confused.
“It was great meeting you. It really was, but my team has to roll.”
“To where?” she asked.
“Jon,” Jones said as his eyes darted around the room. “What is it?”
“Gut,” Payne answered, which is all that he needed to say. A second later, his best friend was in combat mode, looking to secure all personnel.
Jones immediately grabbed Jarkko’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “Time to go.”
“Go where?” Jarkko demanded.
“Don’t question it. Just do it.”
Jarkko nodded. He didn’t have to be told thrice. Instead, he reached under his puffy shirt and pulled out his gun as he rushed toward the exit.
Marissa spotted his weapon and screamed in panic.
A split second before Jarkko was shot.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Russian didn’t have a choice.
The instant he breeched the reading room, he saw an armed man charging toward him like an angry bull, so he raised his gun and fired. His first shot missed Jarkko and hit a display case, shattering glass and sending razor-sharp fragments into the air. Jarkko lifted his gun and tried to return fire, but the Russian got off shot number two before Jarkko could pull his trigger.
The second bullet struck Jarkko in the middle of his chest, stopping his forward momentum and dropping him to his knees as he lost his ability to breathe. Liquid gushed from the hole in his shirt as he slumped to the floor, desperately gasping for air.
In that moment, he didn’t care about treasure.
Or soup.
Or beautiful, bouncy women.
All he wanted was one more breath…and then possibly another.
Thankfully, Jones was there to save the day, with his weapon raised and his aim true. He pulled his trigger and shot the first Russian right in his face.
One moment, he had a nose.
The next he didn’t.
Just like that, the guy was dead.
Unfortunately, many more were to come.
◊ ◊ ◊
In the background, Payne rushed toward Marissa and tackled her to the floor as the booming gunshots echoed in the chamber. Based on her initial scream and the panic on her face, he sensed she wasn’t part of the problem, but he wasn’t willing to bet his life on it.
“Are you armed?” he demanded as he patted her down for weapons.
“No!”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Of course not!”
Temporarily satisfied, he grabbed a wooden table and threw it on its side. Then he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her behind the barrier. As he did, a chunk of glass sliced the back of her leg, but she felt no pain as blood oozed from her wound and stained her dress.
“Look at me!” he shouted as he grabbed her face.
She blinked a few times, trying to focus.
“Marissa! Stay here until I come back for you!”
“What about Jarkko?”
He ignored her question. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m serious. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand!”
Payne nodded and forced a smile to try to calm her down. “Don’t worry. This shit happens all the time. Everything will be fine.”
But deep inside he had his doubts.
Not because of a lack of training.
But because of the lay of the land.
Unlike most libraries that had row after row of tall shelves that would have provided him with options, this facility kept all of its books on the walls of the perimeter. What was left in the middle was a manmade canyon with wooden tables and chairs, reading lamps, card catalogs, glass display cases, and an ancient globe that might work as temporary cover but would be quickly overrun if they were facing superior numbers.
And he sensed those numbers were on their way.
Which meant they had to act quickly.
Without even looking, Payne had a mental image of the entire space. His brain had absorbed it when he had walked into the room, the same way a mechanic could identify a car by the sound of an engine or a chef could list twenty ingredients with a single taste. It was simply the way he viewed his environment, his window into the world. It allowed him to see all the angles and possible barriers long before his opposition.
It allowed him to stay one step ahead.
In the blink of an eye, Payne knew what they needed to do. With Jarkko down and ammo limited, they needed to secure higher ground.
And Jones was the man for the job.
Whereas Payne was built like a rhino, Jones was like a gazelle. He was agile, and sleek, and could run all day without even breaking a sweat. And when it came to climbing, he could scurry up walls with a heavy field pack, Yoda on his back, or a garbage bag full of stuff.
To him, it didn’t matter.
He was like a ninja without a mask.
“DJ!” Pa
yne shouted across the room. “Go high!”
◊ ◊ ◊
Jones heard the command and actually grinned as he sprinted toward the closest ladder.
Tactically speaking it was a brilliant move because it would give them the high ground in a shooting gallery of wide-open space, but almost as importantly to Jones, it would give him a chance to climb the twenty-foot wooden ladder that he had been eyeing ever since he had stepped into the room. It had been calling to him like a jungle gym when he was a kid.
Some children liked to play on the swings.
But Little DJ always wanted to climb.
There was something about it that made him feel alive.
Or in this case, keep him alive.
The instant he reached the ladder, he tucked his gun in his shorts and climbed with the speed of an elevator. Hand over hand, legs pumping fast, like a master of parkour.
Earlier he had noticed that the last rung of the ladder stopped underneath the lip of the second level, but for someone like Jones, it was barely an obstacle to overcome. He simply sprang from the ladder with a death-defying leap and grabbed the metal railing that lined the upper ledge.
Then he flipped onto the balcony with a flourish.
Just like he had done on the playground.
All told, the entire process had taken less than ten seconds.
It was a good thing, too, because more Russians were on their way.
◊ ◊ ◊
In the grand scheme of things, henchmen knew they were henchmen.
They knew what they were signing up for.
Yet they did it anyway.
Whether by birth or by girth, they had applied for a job to protect a local criminal, shady businessmen, or coked-out oligarch, all in hopes of making enough money for a better life—one in which they might possibly hire some henchmen of their own someday.
It was the circle of life in the criminal underworld.
One that kept on spinning and spinning and spinning.
Like a giant game of Russian roulette.
Only in this particular version, several Russians would die.
To the confusion of the men in the stairwell, the first henchman had decided to abandon their plan and had started firing the moment he had entered the door. Perhaps he thought he would look heroic or movie-star cool and be honored for a job well done. Or maybe the idiot forgot their mission and just decided to wing it. Whatever his rationale, he had paid for it with his life.
All of which put the second henchman in an interesting position.
He was standing near the doorway, ready to charge into the room to question a group of supposedly unarmed historians, when he saw his comrade get shot in the face. Back where he came from, guns and bullets were a part of his life, but it didn’t mean he wanted to die in the middle of a Maltese library for a boss he didn’t actually like, so he did something that the first guy had stupidly failed to do.
He appointed himself as team leader.
“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled in Russian while the rest of the henchmen stormed past him into the reading room with their weapons raised and their blood running hot.
Meanwhile, he stayed in the stairwell where it was safe.
Because the truth was he didn’t want to be a henchman.
He wanted to be a plumber.
◊ ◊ ◊
With Jones heading skyward, Payne sprinted toward Jarkko.
Despite his height, Payne stayed low as he scooted across the floor. Glass crunched underfoot as he made his way between the rows of display cases. Although their tops were transparent, their bottoms were made of paneled wood, giving him some cover as he scrambled toward his fallen friend. He put his left hand down for balance while keeping his gun hand free, all the while checking the door for incoming threats.
Jarkko was sprawled on the floor up ahead, lying on his side.
From his distance, Payne couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive.
A second later, it hardly mattered.
Because the floodgates opened and the Russians came in.
CHAPTER TWENTY
To the surprise of no one, Jarkko had seen his fair share of violence during his colorful life. In the last year alone, he had been stabbed by a saber, hit over the head with a watermelon, bitten by a horny zebra, and zapped in the balls with a cattle prod—although it should be noted that he had asked a leather-bound dominatrix to do that last one. Yet through it all, despite several close calls in barroom brawls around the globe, he had never, ever been shot.
So when he saw the gun flash and felt the impact of the bullet in his chest, he did what most people tended to do: he fell to the floor in agony. But while he was down there, struggling to breathe, he noticed something that made him think he had left reality.
The hole in his puffy shirt wasn’t bleeding blood.
It was bleeding vodka.
Jarkko laid on his side and waited for the angels to take him.
And he waited. And he waited.
He waited so long he was tempted to drink the vodka that he was leaking.
Eventually it dawned on him that his chest wasn’t throbbing that much anymore and he had miraculously caught his breath, so he decided to sit up and take a closer look at his wound.
And that’s when he realized what had happened.
The bullet hadn’t hit flesh.
It had hit the flask in his shirt pocket.
Sure, the impact had stung like hell.
But his drinking problem had saved his life.
◊ ◊ ◊
Out of the corner of his eye, Payne saw Jarkko sit up and laugh.
Although he wouldn’t know the specifics until later, Payne was thrilled to see his friend alive. But he realized his status would be short-lived if he didn’t address the problem pouring through the door to the reading room. One after another they charged forward, as if they had been made on an assembly line, five nearly identical men, each as deadly as the last.
Payne rose from his crouch behind the display case and aimed his weapon. He fired two quick shots, hitting the lead henchman in center mass. The Russian stumbled forward while wildly firing a shot of his own before he crashed to the floor. His shot sailed high and wide and struck one of the shelves along the wall, just above Marissa’s head.
But this time she didn’t scream.
Instead, it pissed her off.
She had seen her fair share of violence in her life, most of it inflicted on her mother when Marissa was just a kid, so her first instinct had been to cower in fear. But over the years, she had learned how to turn that fear into fuel, which was what she hoped to do now. With trembling hands, she grabbed the table that she was hiding behind and carefully peeked over the top.
Up ahead she saw Payne, coolly standing in the line of fire, willing to take on the entire Russian force that was streaming through the door. As impressive as it was, she knew it wouldn’t last for long if he ran out of ammo or was surrounded by superior numbers, so she did the one thing he had told her not to do: she left her hiding place.
Summoning all of her courage, she sprinted across the width of the library and dove over the circulation desk along the opposite wall. Shaped like a parenthesis, it sat on a raised wooden platform above the tiled floor and gave her more options than before, back when she had been trapped on the glass-covered floor behind the overturned table.
Unfortunately for her, her frantic dash to freedom actually had an inverse effect on her safety, because it attracted the attention of one of the goons, who charged toward her with his gun raised and violence on his mind.
◊ ◊ ◊
A moment later, his mind was splattered on the wall—thanks to a well-placed shot from Jones, who had watched Marissa’s sprint from his perch on the second level. He wasn’t sure whether to praise her courage or curse her stupidity, but her brave and reckless act had actually helped Payne on the frontline, giving him a brief respite from the constant barrage of gunfire that he had endured once they had spotted
his position near the display cases.
Unlike the floor below—which was wide open but dotted with obstacles—the space up high was quite narrow and virtually free of hiding spots. The only camouflage was a series of framed paintings that hung at regular intervals on the decorative railing that lined the upper floor. The gap between the railing and the bookshelves along the walls was barely a few feet wide, meaning Jones had very little space to maneuver while providing cover from above.
Ultimately he decided to crouch down behind a painting of a Maltese knight that hung diagonally above the main entrance to the reading room. From there, he had eyes on his team and could pick off anyone coming or going through the door, but most importantly of all, he could guide his personnel like a coach from the press box.
With a series of hand signals, he let Payne know where everyone was.
Six henchmen had entered, and three of them were dead.
The other three had scattered around the room.
Jarkko was back in the game after an initial scare. He was tucked safely in the front corner between a display case and a bookshelf, ready to reenter the fray.
Marissa was behind the circulation desk, without a weapon.
If she had stayed where Payne had told her to stay, she would’ve been directly behind him and well protected along the wall, but she had gotten bold and decided to make a move. Although it had temporarily helped his cause at the time, it now put him at a disadvantage.
To protect her, he had to cross the field of fire.
“Jarkko,” Payne whispered as he dashed behind the display case where his friend was crouching. “Are you hurt?”
Jarkko shook his head. “Jarkko is wet, but Jarkko is fine.”
“You pissed yourself?”
“No!” Jarkko insisted before he looked at his damp shirt and pants. “Well, maybe. Jarkko’s piss and vodka smell the same.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Yes! Who should Jarkko kill?”
“The bad guys.”
“Where are they?”
Payne pointed. “Out there. But so is Marissa.”
The Malta Escape Page 11