Ratka released him and, unhurt, sprang to his feet. He slugged Simon in the stomach, striking him inches below the wound. The pain was excruciating. Simon tried to swing but could not. Ratka struck him again and again, vicious jabs to the sternum, the chest. Simon felt the staples inside him tear. Unable to deflect the blows, he fell back, retreating down the hall. He was utterly powerless. His back struck the railing and he could retreat no farther. He looked over his shoulder. It was a twenty-foot drop to the flagstone floor. Ratka regarded him from five steps away, bloodlust in his eyes.
“Riske,” he said. “Enough of you.”
He came at Simon rapidly, arms extended, looking to throw him over the railing. Simon timed his approach and at the last instant spun, taking hold of Ratka’s jacket in one hand, thrusting his hip into the Serb’s waist, and using all that was left of his strength and the other man’s momentum to flip him over the railing.
There was a sickening crunch and an agonizing scream. Ratka lay impaled on the antlers of the stuffed stag, a sharp, curved horn protruding from his neck and another from his belly. He stared at Simon, eyes wide. The stag’s head sagged beneath his weight, coming loose from its mount.
From a far corner of the house came a blast of gunfire. Simon staggered down the hall, picking up Ratka’s pistol. “Vika!” he shouted. “Hold on.”
“We’re all right,” she replied as he neared the shooting room.
Simon saw a woman’s body extending from the doorway, blond hair obscuring her face. “His daughter?” he asked.
“I shot her,” said a thin, pale boy with blond hair. “She was going to hurt us.”
“Are you Robert?”
The boy nodded.
“I’m Simon. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
“Pleased to meet you, Simon.” The two shook hands.
“Brave man.”
“You’re bleeding,” said Robby.
Simon looked down at his shirt. “I’ll be all right.”
Vika touched Simon’s arm. “Where is he?”
Simon shook his head. “We have to get out of the house,” he said. “I can smell the gas more strongly now. Anything might set it off.”
“What about Toby?”
Simon looked at the prostrate figure. He knelt beside Toby and slapped his cheek. Toby made no sign of regaining consciousness. “I can’t carry him out.”
“Leave him,” said Robby. “He’s evil.”
“Yes,” said Simon. “To the core.”
“Just a minute.” Vika went to Toby and searched his pockets. She held up the ring, then slipped it on her finger.
Simon put his arm around Vika.
Together, the three left the house.
Chapter 75
Toby Stonewood came to.
His jaw was broken. He knew that. His head throbbed terribly where Victoria had struck him. He pushed himself to his knees and managed to stand. He staggered into the hall, nearly tripping over Elisabeth’s body. He stared at her for a moment, feeling nothing, then stepped over her and walked toward the front of the house. The sweet-sour odor of natural gas was overwhelming. More than anything, he felt nauseated. He had to get outside.
Suddenly, he stopped.
The money. It was in the master bedroom. How much had there been? Sixteen million euros? Seventeen? Far too much to leave behind. He turned back and navigated the warren of corridors until he reached the bedroom and saw the satchel where he’d left it.
He picked it up and looked inside. The money was all there.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
He made his way to the front of the house and down the grand staircase into the great room. With shock, he saw Ratka draped across the stag’s head, impaled on its antlers. A terrible keening noise came from his lips. The man was alive.
Ratka noted some movement from the corner of his eye. He shifted his gaze and saw a man walking down the stairs. It was the Englishman. It was Toby!
Ratka raised an arm. He tried to speak. He might even have moved.
The motion was enough to sever the century-old wall mount.
The stag’s head dropped ten feet to the flagstone floor. One of its points sliced through Ratka’s back, angled off his pelvis, and struck the metallic box in his pocket. The electronic detonator sent a signal to the expertly placed explosives in all four corners of the house. The half-kilogram packets of plastique exploded simultaneously, igniting the invisible cloud of natural gas that by now filled the Chesa Madrun.
Toby Stonewood felt a blast of hot air, a fire hotter than imaginable. He was flying inside a cloud of flame.
And then he wasn’t.
Chapter 76
So this is your schloss?” said Simon.
“I prefer to think of it as home,” said Vika.
It was a cool, sunny autumn afternoon. The leaves in the vast forest surrounding the Schloss Brandenburg were colored every shade of red, orange, and yellow. Simon gazed at the imposing gray stone fortress.
“You don’t ever feel funny living in a castle?”
“Of course not. I was born here. And actually, it’s a palace.”
“You have a moat. That makes it a castle.”
“If you say so.”
“I don’t suppose you have to do the windows?”
“No.”
“Or the floors?”
Vika shook her head. “The floors will be your job.”
“Don’t forget,” said Simon. “I’m recovering from life-threatening injuries.”
“When you’re better, then.”
“I plan on a long convalescence.”
“Do you?” Vika looked at him, smiling. “Then it will give me time to teach you German.”
Simon stopped and took her in his arms. “Are you sure you’re ready for a commoner?”
“Are you sure you’re ready for a princess?”
Simon kissed her. “I’m going to need to think about that.”
Acknowledgments
At Mulholland Books / Little, Brown, my thanks to Reagan Arthur, Pam Brown, Anna Goodlett, Karen Landry, and, of course, my editor nonpareil, Josh Kendall.
At InkWell Management, thank you to Eliza Rothstein, Lyndsey Blessing, Jenny Witherell, Michael Carlisle, and, last but not least, my agent of twenty years and counting, Richard Pine.
And finally, a special hello, hug, and thank you to my daughters, Noelle and Katja, neither of whom was born when I ditched my corporate career and set off on this crazy adventure way back in May 1995. When I wrote the last page of Crown Jewel, both (for the first time) were thousands of miles away at college. Over these years, they have grown into smart, beautiful, caring human beings who have enriched and brightened my life in ways I could never have imagined. I am proud beyond measure to call myself their father.
About the Author
CHRISTOPHER REICH is the New York Times bestselling author of The Take, Numbered Account, Rules of Deception, Rules of Vengeance, Rules of Betrayal, and many other thrillers. His novel The Patriots Club won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best Novel in 2006. He is currently traveling the world and writing the next Simon Riske adventure.
christopherreich.com
twitter.com/chreichauthor
facebook.com/christopherreichauthor
Also by Christopher Reich
Numbered Account
The Runner
The First Billion
The Devil’s Banker
The Patriots Club
Rules of Deception
Rules of Vengeance
Rules of Betrayal
The Prince of Risk
Invasion of Privacy
The Take
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