The rag doll was Neville Alcott.
“Help me!” Elizabeth Austin wailed, but it was already too late. Lazarus was forty feet from her and the sheet metal orb was less than ten. There were shooters running along on either side of the orb, the gunmen attempting to use it as cover.
It didn’t work. Lazarus took aim and cut them both down. A moment later the fleeing artist whirled to face her impending death. One moment Elizabeth Austin’s sleeveless purple jumpsuit was silhouetted against the glinting silver orb. The next Elizabeth Austin was revolving with the metal orb, the vicious spikes having impaled her and making her once and for all one with her art.
Lazarus stepped aside as the sheet metal orb rumbled by, the artist affixed to it like a purple butterfly smashed on a tractor wheel.
The group of men, Lazarus realized, had stopped firing. He thought for a moment they’d been mesmerized by the sight of the dead artist on her sheet metal orb. Then he understood it was so Lazarus could hear one of the men speak.
“Nice job with the samurai sword,” the man holding Neville Alcott at gunpoint said.
“Katana,” Lazarus corrected.
Lazarus moved between the two prone gunmen he’d shot just before Elizabeth Austin got run over by her orb, and as he did, one of them groaned, rolled over like he was half-asleep, and extended an arm toward him. A gun swayed in the man’s bloody fingers.
Lazarus whipped the sword sideways, severing the man’s hand. The gun and the hand clumped to the floor. The gunman, sans gun and hand, stared at the jetting stump of his wrist. He looked fully awake now.
“I see why they call you Bloodshot,” the man holding Neville hostage said.
A few of the armed men near the speaker chuckled.
“You gotta help me,” the guy with the severed hand moaned. “Someone, please. Get a doctor, get—”
One of the gunmen fired on the moaning man. There was a pillip sound as the bullet nailed the man in the side of the head. He slumped on the floor, dead.
“Thanks, Rainey,” Neville’s captor said.
Rainey nodded like he’d just performed a civic duty.
“You guys take care of your own really well,” Lazarus said. “That’s touching.”
The one named Rainey raised his Beretta. “Take care of you too, you don’t shut your mouth.”
Lazarus said nothing. Rainey was a blowhard, and he deserved to be killed. But he was also a lethal shot. He’d nailed the guy with the severed hand like he was five feet away rather than fifty. Lazarus eyed Rainey a moment longer. Light brown hair, decently built. Not old, but old enough to know about Lazarus’s past.
Lazarus shifted his gaze to Neville and his captor. The guy holding Neville at gunpoint wore a suit similar to the others, but this suit was nicer. Expensive. He probably wasn’t a made man yet, but he was likely close to reaching that status.
If he lived.
“How long you work for Carboni?” Lazarus asked.
The guy in the expensive suit beamed, showing teeth so big and white they must’ve been capped. With his big teeth and his mane of black hair, he looked to Lazarus like a horse someone had dressed up.
“Ah, Bloodshot, I wondered if you’d made the connection yet,” Horse Face said.
“It wasn’t a tough one to make. Carboni’s thugs are always gutless.”
Rainey showed his teeth. “Let me shoot him. Please boss, just let me shoot him.”
Horse Face didn’t seem fazed. “Relax, Rainey. We need him to spend some time with us, remember.”
“Bastard,” Rainey muttered under his breath.
“You’ll get it soon,” Lazarus promised and tipped him a wink.
Rainey showed more teeth. The Beretta was pointed at Lazarus’s chest.
“You saved those twins’ life,” Horse Face said. “That was quite a humanitarian act for a former hitman.”
Lazarus didn’t answer right away. Something was bothering him, and it wasn’t Horse Face’s reference to his former life. Nor was it the guns Rainey and the other thugs had pointed at him. Nor was it the beet-red color of Neville’s face, though that wasn’t helping. The poor man was a paraplegic; obviously unable to support his own weight, he hung there in his captor’s steely grip struggling for air. But as much as it hurt Lazarus to see Neville’s sweating, straining face peeking over the crook of Horse Face’s arm, there was something really worrying him now, something to do with what Horse Face said earlier …
We need him to spend some time with us.
Lazarus’s face went tight. “Where’s Jillian Alcott?” he asked.
A singularly vile grin stretched Horse Face’s features. “Now he gets it.”
“What did you do with her?” Lazarus demanded.
“Now, boss?” Rainey asked.
Rainey’s eyes shifted to something to Lazarus’s left. But there was nothing over there, Lazarus thought. Just empty space leading down to the …
Lazarus sucked in breath.
… leading down to the lobby.
Lazarus whipped his head around and stared down at a small phalanx of men forcing a red-haired woman across the lobby.
Jillian.
It all clicked together, though Lazarus knew it had taken much too long for him to figure it out. But with the commotion around the stage, the barrage of bullets, the bystanders in danger, all those crazy rolling orbs …
Lazarus took a deep, steadying breath.
They’d wanted Jillian all along—Carboni and his men had wanted Jillian all along. They created this elaborate diversion involving Neville and the zipline and the orbs so they could move Lazarus far enough away from the lobby so when they did try to abscond with Jillian, he’d be in no position to help her. Had Jillian been smuggled into one of the side rooms off the lobby and held at gunpoint the entire time? Lazarus was certain she had.
Okay, he thought. Help Neville. It’s what Jillian would want.
Then go after Jillian.
“Now, boss?” Rainey asked.
“Sure,” Horse Face replied, his voice making plain how much he relished giving the execution order.
Lazarus leapt onto the four-foot-high wall and dashed toward the thugs. Rainey started shooting right away, though Lazarus was so fast he only got hit once, and that one was in the right hip. He was only grazed.
Lazarus had closed to within ten feet of the men when they finally came to their senses and decided to cut down on him. But by that time he was leaping through the air at them, Desert Eagle extended. As he bore down on them he squeezed off two shots, both of them aimed at Rainey’s face.
Both connected.
Rainey crumpled at the same moment Lazarus slammed into two of the thugs. One man was merely knocked sideways. The other Lazarus cracked with his right fist so hard that his neck snapped. The man was dead before he fell.
That left three of them: Horse Face, the one who’d been knocked sideways by Lazarus’s impact, and one other.
The one other opened up on Lazarus with his Uzi from close range.
Lazarus cried out, the bullets shredding the flesh of his left arm. The .357 tumbled out of his hand. With his right hand, Lazarus unsheathed the katana and slashed down at the man with the Uzi. A bright red line appeared from the man’s left shoulder to the man’s right hip. The Uzi plunked to the floor. Blood gushed. The man’s mouth was a surprised O. He faceplanted in a puddle of his own blood.
The one Lazarus had knocked sideways recovered his equilibrium, retrieved his fallen shotgun, and leveled it at Lazarus. Lazarus swung the katana, lopped off the man’s shooting arm at the elbow, but not before the shotgun crashed and sent dozens of black pellets spraying to the left of Lazarus’s face. Several pellets caught him in the cheek. He growled, dropping the katana to slap a hand over his face, which felt as if it had been set on fire. Lazarus was on his knees, his right hand clamped to his bleeding face, his left arm rendered temporarily useless because of the four Uzi rounds it had absorbed.
Lazarus heard laughter, re
alized it came from Horse Face. Still supporting Neville and holding the old man hostage by one iron arm, Horse Face took a step forward, kicked the katana out of the way. It clattered against the white curving wall.
“They said to give them a head start,” Horse Face said. “They said I’d be rewarded handsomely if I occupied you until they were safely out of the building.” Horse Face stepped closer, Neville whimpering against his viselike elbow. “Well they’re out of the building now, Lazarus, and you’re still on your hands and knees. I think I’ll go ahead and kill both of you now, so I can really get paid.” He smiled at Neville’s head. “Say goodbye, Mr. Alcott.”
Quicker than a cobra strike, Lazarus’s long arm darted out, snagged Neville’s pant leg. He jerked Neville toward him just as Horse Face fired into Neville’s temple.
Only Neville’s head wasn’t there anymore.
The bullet put a huge, smoking hole in Horse Face’s own bicep.
Neville’s head had cracked the floor hard, but there had been no other way to save him. Wincing, Lazarus climbed over the prone scientist, seized the screaming Horse Face by the lapels of his suit, and flung him over the white wall.
Horse Face screamed all the way down from the fifth floor. When he smacked the atrium below, the wet splashing sound reminded Lazarus of a kid’s boot stomping in a mud puddle.
Panting, streaming blood from his arm and his cheek, Lazarus knelt next to Neville and put his good hand on the side of the man’s face. Neville was lying on his back, blinking and hacking out a string of wet, painful-sounding coughs. His face was red, his clothes were soaked with sweat, his white hair stood up in a dozen directions; but he looked otherwise alive and intact. After another volley of coughs, the scientist pushed up to his elbows, stared sightlessly at Lazarus.
Lazarus heard raised voices, men shouting and barking questions. There were answering voices too, telling the men that everyone was there, up there.
The cops, Lazarus thought. Hurrying up the ramp to find out what all the commotion was about. He glanced around, deliberating. It would take too long to sort things out for them. They’d want to disarm him, take him and Neville in for questioning.
And where was Malcolm?
The moment the shooting had begun, it seemed to Lazarus that Malcolm had simply disappeared. Just where had his friend gone, and why hadn’t Malcolm helped him when he’d needed it?
No matter. The police were coming. Almost there now. They’d neglected Jillian and the three guys holding her hostage.
And focused instead on Lazarus.
“Up there!” a man shouted. “They’re right over there!”
Lazarus scowled down at Neville’s sweaty face. “Tell me you’ll be okay,” Lazarus said.
Neville cringed, but he was returning Lazarus’s gaze.
“Tell me,” Lazarus growled, “so I can let Jillian know. It’s the first thing she’ll ask me.”
For the first time, rational thought seemed to return to Neville’s intelligent face. His eyes snapped wide. “They haven’t taken Jillian?”
“Let me see your hands!” one of the cops shouted. From the thunder of their footsteps, Lazarus guessed there were at least four of them.
Lazarus said, “They have taken her, Neville. That’s why I have to go.”
“Then go, for God’s sakes!” Neville said in a strained voice. His face went a deeper shade of red. “Go before those monsters can hurt her!”
“I’m not gonna say it again,” the same cop shouted. “Put your hands in the freakin’ air before I blow that flattop off your head!”
“Go,” Neville implored in a harsh whisper. “Please save my daughter.”
Lazarus rose slowly to his full height. As he straightened he performed a quick survey of the carpeted floor around him. The katana was close, only six feet away. The .357 was eight feet or so beyond that.
“Holy crap,” one of the cops said, his voice high and awestruck. “Look at him. Look at the size o’ that guy.”
“Hands up!” the leader of the cops demanded. “Don’t even think of goin’ for that samurai sword.”
Lazarus could indeed go for the katana, he thought. He could get there, too. But then the cops would be firing at him, and he’d have to defend himself. Whether with the katana or the Desert Eagle, he’d have to fight back. He’d have to kill them. And he didn’t want to do that.
Lazarus put his hands up and slowly turned to face the cops.
There were five of them. That was good. Neville would be safe in case any of Carboni’s thugs were still lurking. Neville would receive the care he needed. He’d be resting comfortably by tonight.
As for Lazarus, his body was in the process of healing. The nanites had expelled the superficial buckshot pellets. He could feel them congealed on his cheek along with the moist tissue they’d scraped out of his body. Many of the bullets were still inside him, but he could feel them moving closer to the surface too. He felt decent again. Not great, but good enough.
Too bad his body would have to perform an even more drastic healing in a few moments.
The lead cop—he was a Hispanic-looking guy who had a goatee and looked relatively young—was badly frightened by Lazarus’s appearance but was doing his best not to show it. His four cohorts were having a more difficult time concealing their apprehension.
The lead cop said, “Okay. Now just keep your hands where they are. I see you standin’ there, I see an old man lying at your feet, and I see a whole lotta bodies laid out in this museum like someone went postal in here.”
Lazarus’s gaze flitted over the white curving wall, down the five stories to the lobby, beyond that to the double front doors out of which Carboni’s men had smuggled Jillian. They’d been gone for at least a minute already.
“Now until I figure out just what the hell went down here that turned this place into a morgue, I’m gonna assume you had something to do with it, understand? And if it wasn’t you—if you were the one who saved this old guy’s life—I’ll gladly tell you I’m sorry and buy you a beer. Is that a deal?”
Lazarus nodded slowly. “It’s a deal.”
The cop nodded, said, “Good to hear. Monge, you radio in, make sure we got ambulances on the way for the folks who need it. Brown, you help the old man. Jordan, you, Forrest, and Thorne guard our giant here, make sure he—”
Lazarus leapt onto the wall. He heard the lead cop shout in surprise, but whatever he’d said, it didn’t matter. Another second and they’d be shooting.
The lead cop bellowed, “Hey, what are you—”
Lazarus crouched and leapt. He spread his arms and kept his head up so he’d sail across the lobby as far as possible. He heard the cops behind him—now above him—yelling in surprised voices, heard other onlookers scream and gasp in horror. Lazarus kept his eyes riveted to a spot far below him, now closer to him, now racing toward him. A place where there were no bystanders and no sharp objects. The splotch of carpeted floor grew and grew until he could see the pattern on the navy blue and burnt orange material, circles intersecting with circles, the shapes they made reminded him of crescent moons.
The moons raced toward him.
Lazarus tucked his head, let his legs continue until they’d swung around, his body curling into a ball.
Lazarus’s shoulder blades struck first. His body, though curled, still smacked the floor with a bone-rattling thump. The impact and his momentum sent Lazarus flailing forward in a senseless heap. He somersaulted three more times before sprawling out on the floor, barely conscious.
Through a gauzy gray curtain, Lazarus squinted at the glass double-doors through which the kidnappers had taken Jillian. Lazarus listened to the voices of the cops far above, the pounding footsteps of bystanders rushing to get a better look at the body that had just swan-dived five stories. He heard a little girl weeping at the sight of a man she no doubt thought was dying.
But Lazarus wasn’t dying.
He closed his eyes and did his best to blot out the pain. He bre
athed through splintered ribs and punctured lungs. He thought of Jillian and her candid stare, the way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. He thought of the monsters who’d abducted her.
Lazarus gritted his teeth.
And waited for his body to heal.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
There was a limousine driver whose face Jillian hadn’t seen. There was a man sitting next to the driver who seemed to be the boss of the outfit. There were two others sitting across from Jillian and Philip Wheatley in the back of the black limo. One of those was a handsome but vicious-looking man in a suit. The boss, whose name was Lou, kept calling the handsome man in the suit Eddie. The man next to Eddie was named Frankie, though the boss had only called him Frankie once.
Jillian stored the names away for later reference.
Lou. Eddie. Frankie.
Though the one named Eddie spooked her, Jillian hated the one named Frankie the most.
The one with the curly hair and the goatee.
The big one. He looked familiar, though she had no idea why.
They kept calling him by another name, but the other name scared her, so she focused on thinking of him as Frankie. Frankie, she told herself. Frankie, Frankie, Fran—
“Hey, Snip,” one of them said, as if trying to foil her attempts at self-deception. “Make that pretty boy back there stop his blubberin’.”
The man they called Frankie the Snip looked at Philip Wheatley with his crazy eyes and said, “What do you think, Pretty Boy? You want me to shut your trap for you? I got a billion ways to do it.”
Jillian felt her throat constrict. Whatever terrible methods Frankie the Snip had for bending his hostages to his will, he looked all too eager to employ them. Philip must’ve detected the same eagerness in Frankie’s eyes because he stopped crying right away.
If she only had her purse, she thought, she could use what was inside to fight back or at the very least, contact someone who could help her. She’d been foolish to set it on the counter next to her as she washed her hands at the Guggenheim restroom. One moment she was lathering her hands; the next Frankie and Lou were marching toward her with their pistols drawn.
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