Retirement, baby… Should’ve packed some sunscreen in the bug-out bag. The thought made him grin, even with the pain in his ear. Can’t carry lotions of any size on airlines, remember? Don’t want to be doing anything illegal now, do you?
He swapped out the magazine on his Smith and Wesson for a fresh one as his shredded ear throbbed in time with his heart, then slipped it in the belt at the small of his back and double-checked the Remington, making sure the shotgun was ready to fire.
A shame all around, and all Keller’s fault. He’d been planning on accruing another million before he got himself lost in Costa Rica. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and goddamn if Keller hadn’t made him a beggar.
He pressed on through the trees, shotgun at the ready.
Maybe he could make Keller beg a little, too, before he put a bullet between her eyes.
***
The Palace’s stable dwarfed the one on Keller’s land, running a couple of hundred metres lengthwise. She jogged along the east side of the structure, looking for the best way in, and heard movement and low murmurs from the horses inside. Dim light revealed a dozen or so double-wide Dutch doors, all closed. Each one must facilitate entry to one of the stalls from the outside, but opening any of them seemed sure to cause some commotion from the horse occupying that particular stall.
Around the edge of the barn she found shelter from the wind, not that it allayed her shivering much. The light here was all but non-existent but she was able to grope along the wall until she found a man door. It was latched but not locked, and she did her best to tamp down her shivering, then lifted the hasp as quietly as she could.
The door creaked open and she felt the heavenly play of warm air move over her body.
“God, yes…” She eased in and slid the door closed, securing the hasp behind her.
Dim night lights were placed every few metres down the central passage between the north and south banks of stalls. Sounds of movement and snorting around her told her most of the stalls were occupied. To her right she saw an empty stall, the door open and floor swept clean. She stumbled inside and slid to the floor, her back against the wall, and placed the shotgun within easy reach. She was a mess, mud and blood plastered all over her.
“How about it, you bunch of Black Beauties,” she whispered, a trace of giddiness washing through her. “You got shower facilities here?”
The huff from the next stall sounded like an indignant no, but after a few minutes her shivering was lessening in the relative warmth and the pain was receding from her arms and even her raw bleeding wrists, which meant that the narcs were intruding again. She had to deal with that before she could do anything else.
She did her best to wipe her hands clean and then tapped at her thigh pocket. One vial of Narcan left. She dug it out along with the used syringe. Still trembling and clumsy, she nevertheless managed to draw up the drug and pull her jacket and hoodie down over her shoulders. With her cracked rib and the muscles in her arms protesting, she fired the drug into her left shoulder, recapped the syringe, and slid it back into her pocket.
Now, a phone.
The website had said something about vet facilities on-site. Maybe there was an office of some kind at one end or another of the barn. Time was short. Sooner or later Ressler would find Taylor’s body and come looking for her, if he wasn’t already.
She looked down at the handcuffs circling her bloody wrists, wishing there was something she could do about them. As a teen—heck, even before that—she’d played with her father’s cuffs a hundred times. It’d been years since she’d used a hairpin to unlock cuffs, but it was like riding a bike, muscle memory.
Except you don’t have a bike or a hairpin. She swore under her breath. The fire in her shoulder from the injection only added to her irritation.
Injection. The thought blazed in her brain. You don’t have a hairpin.
She drew the syringe back out of her pocket and unsheathed the barb on the end of it… an inch-long, 21-gauge needle. Thin and more fragile than any hairpin, but it would be designed to bend rather than break under pressure. Hopefully. She’d have only one shot at it.
A soft thump echoed through the barn from the opposite end of the structure. She’d been hearing the movement and breathing and gentle huffing sounds of the horses all this while, but this was different.
A door closing.
She bit at her lip and checked that the shotgun was close enough to snatch up should she need it. Firing it while restrained by cuffs would be problematic, but her arms had ceased their spastic trembling at least, and at a reasonable distance a shotgun didn’t require great accuracy.
Right. Keep telling yourself that. The other guy’s a cop.
Back to business. In her youth, she’d always attacked the lock on the cuff attached to her left hand—easier for a righty, after all—and she saw no reason to change tactics now. She tried to calm her breathing and tamp down on the random shivers still coursing through her, but it still took two tries just to thread the needle into the keyhole.
Footfalls coming from the other end of the barn, over the growing sounds of restless horses. Her own entry had disturbed the animal in the stall beside her, but it seemed that this new intrusion was waking every horse in the barn. Good. Their restless movements might serve to cover any metallic noises she made trying to free herself.
As long as you don’t scream.
Her efforts to pick the cuffs were moving the steel back and forth over flesh scraped raw as well as several deep cuts that were still bleeding. The horse in the stall beside her was snorting more often now and moving constantly about, and Keller wondered if it was disturbed by the scent of her blood.
The footfalls were clearer now, a man limping. Had Decker managed to wound Ressler?
Never mind. Focus.
The handcuffs were standard double lock, so she bent the needle in the lock, first one way, then the other, shaping her makeshift key so she could rotate it anticlockwise. It slipped the first two times, but on her third try she heard a small click as the double lock bar moved upward and out of the way of the ratchet lock bar.
Now she had to work the needle around the other way, under the lip of the far end of the lock bar, and lever it up. A few tries and she was rewarded with another click and the lock bar sprung free of the ratchet, and her left hand was free. The cuff fell away but Keller fumbled with it and there was a sharp steely clink as steel impacted steel.
The footsteps paused and she held her breath. Fuck fuckity fuck. Time to leave.
Still holding her breath, she cradled the handcuffs as best she could to avoid more noise and eased upward into a crouch, bringing the shotgun with her. She edged to the exterior wall of the paddock, hoping to slip through the outer door. The latch was wider and heavier than on the man door and despite her best efforts, the wood gave a dull squeak as she eased it upward.
“Not so fast, Keller.”
She froze, but it wasn’t the voice she’d expected.
Decker leaned against the stall door, face pained and deathly pale, covered in a sheen of sweat. Like Keller, he was soaked to the skin. He held his pistol in his left hand, pointed right at her, but swung it down to press the hand against the makeshift bandage tied around his upper right leg. From the hip down the leg was painted thick and red with blood.
“Don’t run off just yet.” He looked down at the bandage, at the blood running out from under it. “Think I might need your services.”
Eighty-Two
Keller found Decker’s skin cool and slick with a mix of sweat and blood as she eased him to the floor. “How many times were you hit?”
“Just once. Leg.”
In the movies, Decker would’ve shrugged it off, limping around with gun blazing despite the wound, killing bad guys left and right and wise-cracking all the while. The movies, of course, were bullshit. Any gunshot wound was severely traumatizing, and the pain and blood loss were inevitably debilitating and often fatal.
Hols
tering his pistol, Decker eyed the shotgun Keller had taken from Taylor. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“Long story.”
She helped Decker lean back against the stall divider and grabbed at his wrist, seeking his radial pulse. Decker licked his lips, dry with shock, and swallowed hard as Keller’s horsey friend in the adjacent stall snorted again, more fear in it this time.
Definitely smells blood now.
Decker’s pulse was weak and tachycardic, well over a hundred beats per minute. He was in the throes of profound shock, his body frantically shunting blood from his limbs and gut into his core. Were he in the back of Keller’s ambulance, she would have had quick-clot gauze pressed over the wound and two large-bore IVs running fluid into him within minutes, with a gram of tranexamic acid to slow the bleeding.
“I need to check your wound.” She bent to examine the blood-soaked bandage circling his leg—what had been Decker’s dress shirt, she guessed.
“Might want to finish getting your handcuffs off.” He looked at the restraints still dangling from her right hand.
“You have a key?”
“In my car.” He took a second look at the cuffs as she probed at the bandage. “He was going to kill you.”
She nodded. “He had me locked up before I realized who he was, what he was. That night at Oakes’s, I thought he got there fast, but that wasn’t it. He was there already.”
She tore at the hole in Decker’s pants to expose the wound. From what she could see the bullet had entered his right leg just below his hip, missing the femur or he would not have been walking around. There was no exit wound and no large arterial strike or he would already be dead, but one of the tributaries of the femoral artery was likely torn up, and that was more than bad enough. The wound was still bleeding under the bandage and Keller undid the crude knot Decker had tied and pulled the whole thing tighter.
Decker hissed in pain. “You’re getting kind of fresh down there. Mind?”
“I don’t tell you how to shoot people. Don’t tell me how to fix them.” She checked pulses in Decker’s ankles. Both were gone. If only she had a CAT tourniquet. “You sure this is the only wound?” Normally she would’ve stripped a patient down, checking for other injuries. Strangely enough, people didn’t always realize they’d been shot more than once.
“Yes. How bad is it?”
“Pretty good job with the bandage, but when we get out of this you’ll be kicking ass left-legged for a while.”
Decker smiled through the pain. “‘When we get out of this.’ That’s not bad, Keller.” He looked back and forth. “Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Not since his buddy dragged me away.” She sat back against the wall with him. “We gotta get you help soon, though.”
“No kidding.” Decker frowned at her. “What buddy?”
“Like I said, long story. Ressler took my phone. You have one?”
Decker cursed under his breath. “On the front seat of my car. Rookie fucking mistake.”
“I guess we can’t order pizza, then.” She looked back and forth. “I need to take a look around.”
“Sure, maybe there’s a land line.” He winced as he tried to get comfortable. “Shot in the leg… Why’s my belly fucking hurt?”
Keller’s blood ran cold. “Let me look.” She pulled Decker’s T-shirt out of his belt.
“Hey.”
He moved to stop her but she batted his hands away.
Shitfire. She pressed her own hands, one overtop of the other, gently into Decker’s lower right belly.
“Shit, that fucking hurts,” he said.
Bullets did crazy things. They bounced off bones or split apart and went in unpredictable directions. Like up into the abdomen. Decker was in serious trouble.
He was watching her face. “You want to revise your ‘how bad is it’ estimate?”
Keller thought furiously. The website for the Palace had said there were vet services on-site. If she could find some supplies... But that train of thought only worked if someone wasn’t trying to kill them.
“We can’t stay here,” she said. “Think we could get to the house?”
“Don’t think I don’t notice you’re not answering my question,” Decker said. “He’d probably cut us down on the way. Car might be better. We could pick up pizza.”
“If Ressler’s smart, he took the keys. Your phone too.”
“I have an extra set in a magnetic holder. Driver’s side, rear tire well.”
Keller realized Decker was making sure she knew where the keys were, something she might need to know when he was no longer around. “Be kind of exposed getting there, just like if we went for the house. Solid Plan B.”
“Okay. You notice any nearby neighbours? Could make a run for it.”
She looked him up and down. “You’re not in any shape to be running anywhere.”
“Bullshit.” He tried to lever himself to his feet. “I’m ready—” He faltered, his eyes going glassy, but she was ready for it and caught him, easing him back onto the floor.
She smiled. “Like I said, no running for a while.”
“Okay.” He gritted his teeth. “Sanders will know something’s up. She’ll come after me.”
“How soon?”
He looked at his watch and shook his head. “Soon. So we lay low and wait. Blow Ressler’s ass to hell if he sticks his nose in.”
“Not really a great plan either,” Keller said, “for you or me. Sechev tried to poison me with fentanyl. I’m riding a shitload of Narcan right now, but I took the last dose just before you got here and it’ll wear off in a half-hour or so. Maybe the narcotic’s out of my system by now, maybe not. How we find out is, I keep breathing or I don’t. You want to give me mouth-to-mouth?”
He crooked an eyebrow and gave her a lopsided grin. “Not on a first date.” He winced. “How about you go out the back of the barn, head north, then cut around to the road? Try to flag a car down or go through the ditch, try to get back to mine.”
“Hold on a minute. I—”
“Don’t interrupt. Remember, the keys are in the rear tire well on the driver’s side… I’ll make some noise in here, draw him in. Keep him thinking about me.”
“And when he finds you?”
“I shoot him through the heart.”
He smiled as he said it but she wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t so much seated against the stall divider now as slumped against it. And his skin had gone waxy, almost translucent, with shock. She cradled his wrist, palpating the pulse again, not at all happy with the thready feeling beneath her fingers.
“You could pass out any minute.”
Decker shook his head and licked his lips again. Classic hemorrhagic shock. “Don’t worry about me. You know how to use the shotgun?” When Keller nodded, he patted his holstered pistol. “I’ll still have this.”
Keller’s turn to shake her head. “If I’m running, you ought to have the more powerful weapon.”
He looked sideways at her and she was impressed at the depth of indignation he managed to muster. “I am not giving you my sidearm.”
She understood. Likely, he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of her having a shotgun, but no cop would willingly give up their pistol. And his plan was a decent one, except for getting Ressler to come after him. That part was shit on a stick, but if they didn’t do something soon Ressler would find them anyway—or Keller would pass out or Decker would die. Eventually, all of these things would occur. Inaction killed as surely as the wrong action.
“I have a better idea, but it involves you doing a little walking.”
Decker said nothing. Keller could see his eyes were getting a faraway look and wondered if he’d even be able to help her.
She prodded him in the shoulder. “And hey—good news. With my idea, you get to keep your pistol.”
Eighty-Three
Ressler had crisscrossed back and forth in the treeline between the barn and the road, hoping to pick up Decker trying to circ
le back to his vehicle. But Decker was either dead, too hurt to move, or had decided to try something else.
The house seemed a good bet. Wouldn’t a wounded man instinctively seek warm lights and the possibility of a working phone?
He made a slow reconnoitre around the periphery of the house, looking for any signs of a break in. Taylor had left the place locked up and there were no wet footprints, no signs of blood, no indication of forced entry.
So… in the woods or in one of the other buildings? Judging by the amount of blood by his car, Ressler doubted Decker could go far. If he fled into the fields, he’d find himself lost in vast acres of nothingness, which was part of the reason Hunt had chosen this place. Decker would die in isolation if he’d chosen the fields, so Ressler needed to check the stable and other buildings first.
He could feel time being used up as surely as the rain was washing away the snow. Should he cut and run? No… the Shoghi jammer would’ve prevented both Keller and Decker from calling for help. He had time. And killing them both would seal the trail behind him long enough for him to be sure of getting out of the country before anyone began wondering about him.
He shifted his gaze to the dimly lit buildings set back from the house. Taylor would be in the supply shack by now, in the underground dungeon, no doubt enjoying Keller while the other four captives set for Hunt’s next visit looked on. But no one was getting in there without the passcode. That left the stable and the tool shed.
He began criss-crossing the field again, heading in the general direction of the stable. Halfway across, he caught sight of a shape in the grass. A body lying supine on the ground, unmoving and indistinct in the periphery of the barn’s lights.
Fucking A. Decker, collapsed and dead.
Ressler laughed. Twenty minutes and he’d be out of here. Inside the house to bandage his ear, clean up, and change clothes—some of Hunt’s would no doubt fit him—and he’d be ripping down the highway toward the airport and a life where he’d never see snow again.
The Beast in the Bone Page 36
