It took agonizing minutes—time they didn’t have—before Axel’s feet kicked into view. With difficulty, the older boy wrestled clear of the chimney at last, scarlet wig askew, his face sweaty behind his makeup. The second their eyes met, relief bubbled up like champagne, and they started to giggle.
As quietly as possible, they took the bags and ran, heading for the garage.
* * *
From three stories up, hitting the water was like jumping through a pane of glass, and Margo felt the impact in every joint; a second later, she felt it again when she slammed to the bottom of the pool, her teeth clicking together and the air rushing from her lungs in a turbulent gust.
For a moment, she couldn’t move, so stunned by the landing that her vision crossed and her limbs felt disconnected. Her chest hurt, her body demanding another helping of oxygen, and it took all that was left of her self-control to keep from surfacing immediately. Slowly, she pushed forward through the water with disciplined strokes, the submerged lights guiding her toward the underwater passage into the pool house.
Once on the other side, she finally burst to the surface, sucking down a great, ragged gasp of air as she dragged herself from the water with trembling arms. Collapsing on the edge, she flopped onto her back, coughing and sobbing with latent fear and the relief of survival. Light and shadow chased each other across the ceiling in rippling patterns cast up by the pool, and Margo focused on them while she pulled herself together. “Get up,” she whispered aloud, her voice echoing softly. “Get up. Feel it later.”
There was no light but for the underwater bulbs, and the effect was eerie, like she’d washed up in a lost cavern. Struggling to her feet, muscles stiff from the shock of impact, Margo rolled her neck. She was familiar with the pool house and its changing rooms that exited onto the lawns, and she also knew that she was on her own now; the water had shorted out her comm, and protocol required the team to scatter in the event of a member being compromised or captured. She needed to assume the boys had fled the second that steel door slammed down with her on the wrong side.
It was possible they’d left one of the prepped cars behind, in case she got away … but was it worth the risk of checking, and maybe find herself at a dead end? She needed to come up with an alternative, and she needed to do it fast; her dive from the parapet had not been stealthy, and she had to assume the splashdown would be investigated. She couldn’t even risk turning on the lights in the nearly pitch-black changing room as she limped into it, calculating an escape in her head, wondering how she’d get back home without her keys or her money or her cell phone.
She didn’t even hear the footfall until it was too late—until something cracked against the back of her skull, sending up a shower of white sparks behind her eyes, throwing her forward to the floor.
* * *
Four drag queens gathered in the shadows of the garage, huddled between a gunmetal-gray coupe and a cherry-red convertible, their voices pitched in urgent whispers. The conference was short and tense.
“What should we do?”
“You know the rules.”
“Fuck the rules! They’re stupid rules.”
“If Margo were here, she’d tell us to go.”
“She’s not here. That’s the whole point!”
“We can’t just leave her behind, guys. It isn’t right.”
“Okay, so what’s your proposal? We steal a gun, shoot everybody dead? Maybe smash through the turret with one of the cars?”
“That could work!”
“It couldn’t. You know how thick those walls are? These princessy rides would fold up like deck chairs, and we’d die inside ’em.”
“We can’t just leave!”
“We’re supposed to. Her words—her rule.”
“It’s a stupid rule.”
“So we put it to a vote. All in favor of leaving, say aye; those opposed, say nay.”
Two said aye and one said nay—and, after an agonized beat, the fourth queen cast the deciding vote.
Sixty seconds later, the garage doors were rumbling up, and the coupe surged forward with the convertible right behind it. Their tires whined as they picked up speed, hugging the curve of the drive, streaking for the steel-reinforced front gate.
A button in the Aston Martin’s console sent a direct signal to the massive barrier, causing it to slide open, and the men standing guard scrambled to react. Unable to override the gate’s response, they barely had time to dive clear as the two vehicles shot past, rocketing out onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Wheels shrieked as they made the sharp turn, and their engines roared in triumph, careening up the twisting hillside.
* * *
Luckily, Margo had just enough wits left to keep moving when she hit the ground. Rolling to the side, she heard the whistle and clang of metal smashing the floor inches to her left. A shaft of moonlight spilling through a high window caught the gleam of a pool hook as it swung and came down again, seeking her in the dark; a pale flash of white-blond hair, and a savage Russian expletive, finally revealed to Margo who her opponent was.
The hook came down a third time, even closer, and she grabbed for it; rolling onto one knee, she lashed out and felt her foot connect with Valentina’s body. The other girl yelped and staggered back, dropping the metal pole—but a second later, she launched herself forward again, diving atop Margo with an enraged snarl.
Their bodies close, their breathing hot and fast, the situation was dizzyingly familiar. Margo had never been entirely clear on the nature of their relationship when they were still close—trading barbs and insults one minute and making out the next, their chemistry a volatile seesaw between hate and lust. Margo hadn’t even told anyone she was bi before the first time she had Valentina’s tongue down her throat.
But the Russian girl had always been more cruel than kind, the passion between them tangled up with resentment. Even with one hand working between Margo’s legs, Valentina had mocked the girl for her expressions, for the noises she made. Hand-to-hand combat almost felt like a relief—an interaction less charged and more honest than sex.
They grappled on the floor, too close for anything but brute-force blows, knuckles hammering soft tissue—while Margo expended half her energy trying to stay in the shadows so she wouldn’t be recognized. Finally, Valentina managed to flip the girl onto her stomach, ripping off her nylon hood, and exposing the bedraggled, platinum wig. Simultaneously, Margo arched up and twisted back, slamming her elbow into the girl’s face. Valentina toppled over … and stopped moving.
For a moment, Margo just lay on the floor, panting for air. Her skull still throbbed from the blow with the hook, and her body felt like it had been run through a mangle. When an electronic trill split the silence, she straightened up with a jolt. Valentina’s cell phone.
Freeing it from its charger, Margo activated the phone’s flashlight and swept the room. At a glance, there was little she could use: the pool hook, some fluffy towels, Valentina’s handbag—knocked over in the fight, surrendering the girl’s keys, makeup, and pepper spray—and Valentina herself. Sprawled on her back in a short, terry cloth robe, her pale blond hair tangled across her face, she wasn’t going to be much help, either.
Or maybe she would.
* * *
A few minutes later, a guard standing by the four-car garage—staring helplessly at the two empty bays belonging to the missing vehicles—was startled by a figure rushing toward him across the east lawn. He had his gun out, safety off, before he recognized the long legs, pale hair, and terry cloth robe of his boss’s daughter. She was wearing sunglasses in the dead of night, but so many strange things had already happened that he barely noted this as he called out, “Ms. Petrenko! You shouldn’t be outside, it’s not safe—”
“There’s someone in the pool house!” The girl shrieked hysterically, pointing behind her as she sprinted for the garage. Her voice sounded odd, but the guard attributed this to stress. “I barely got out alive!”
“I’ll call it
in, but right now you—” the guard cut himself off. Valentina was still running right at him, closing the distance like she didn’t mean to stop, and there was something strange about her face … “Hold it! Halt right where you are!”
He swung the pistol up, but he was too late; the girl—definitely not Valentina Petrenko—slammed her foot into his gun hand and sent the weapon flying into the night. He threw a hasty punch, but she feinted back and then stepped in, delivering a quick jab to his nose and then a round kick to his jaw. Lights flashed and went out, and he fell to the ground.
Moments later, Valentina’s white BMW revved to life, headlamps springing on. The car leaped from the garage at a touch of the pedal, and sped down the drive for the front gate. The barrier rumbled aside, and the guards leaped for cover a second time as the vehicle zoomed past, cornering sharply and disappearing up the hill.
One by one, the outbuildings that dotted the Petrenko property lit up, guards combing every inch of the estate, desperately hunting for signs of the intruders. It would take an hour or more to confirm what already seemed obvious: the women who’d stolen their employer’s priceless collection out from under their very noses were long gone.
20
Pulse racing, Margo screeched into the outlook and killed the Beemer’s engine a heartbeat before a fleet of wailing police cruisers crested the hill, zipping around the bend in the other direction. The coupe and convertible were already parked in the tiny lot—and to her immense relief, the stolen delivery van was there as well. The boys had waited.
Davon put the getaway vehicle in gear the second Margo set foot inside it, pulling out of the lot before the side door was completely closed. Yanking off her matted wig and dark glasses, she joined a chorus of exuberant and breathless congratulations as they rolled down into the Valley at a respectable speed, just another car on the road. They took the 101 to Las Virgenes, wending all the way back down into Malibu.
By the time they were at her front gate again, Margo was back in her regular clothes. Her body ached all over, but no pain could overcome the high she felt from what they’d just pulled off. She waved goodbye to the boys and started up the sloping driveway, her limbs growing heavier the closer she got to bed.
When she reached the courtyard, however, she paused uncertainly, the bag full of priceless jewelry almost slipping from her hand. Something was wrong. Every light in the mansion was ablaze, the front rooms glowing like Christmas displays behind floor-to-ceiling windows. But Harland was never up this late, and rarely left his room …
She broke into a sprint, shoving through the front door and shouting, “Dad? Dad!”
“Margo.” Dead ahead, rising up from a hideously modern sofa in the living room, were two people. The one who’d spoken was Irina, and Margo’s vision went fuzzy when she took in the woman’s blotchy face and swollen eyes. “Please … you should sit.”
“Is it…” Margo’s head spun, the floor suddenly two miles away. “What’s happened? Where’s Dad?”
“Your father’s in the hospital.” This came from the man beside Irina, and it took Margo several long seconds to process that it was Addison Brand—her father’s second-in-command at Manning. “I’m sorry, but he collapsed earlier this evening.”
“Collapsed? Is he—”
“We don’t know anything just yet.” Brand came toward her, putting his arms around her shoulders, guiding her to the sofa. The flask in his pocket clanked against Margo’s hip, and she felt a burst of strangling rage that disintegrated instantly, destroyed by panic. “It’s likely there won’t be any news until the morning.”
She looked at both of them, eyes wild. “What hospital? Where?”
“There’s nothing you can do right now, myshka,” Irina said morosely. She was pale and drawn, wrung out by emotion. “The doctors are with him now, and you won’t be able to see him until tomorrow anyway.”
“But what if he—” Margo’s throat caught, and her voice wavered. “What if—?”
“Harland is a fighter.” Addison Brand put something in her hands, and with a start she realized it was a tumbler of whiskey. She didn’t think she wanted it, but the man guided the glass to her lips, and she swallowed it in two stinging gulps. “I called for an ambulance the second I realized something was wrong, and they got here right away. He has a better chance of beating … whatever this is than anybody I know.”
It was a meaningless statement, but Margo found herself nodding in agreement anyway. “He shouldn’t be alone.”
“He’s not alone. He’s with the best medical team that money can buy.”
“It’s late, myshka,” Irina added, taking one of Margo’s hands. “They would just make you sit in the lobby. I’m sorry. I know how … You’re scared, you want to do something. But best you can do right now is rest. Be ready in the morning.”
“She’s right.” Brand upended his flask, emptying it into Margo’s glass. “If there’s any news, the hospital will call. And in the meantime, Harland wouldn’t want you sleeping on some bench in a waiting room.”
She allowed herself to be led from the living room and up the stairs, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a bagful of stolen jewelry in the other; but even after Irina closed the door behind her, promising to stay the night so Margo wouldn’t be alone, the girl could feel nothing but the intense, terrifying vacancy in the bedroom at the end of the hall.
* * *
When she woke up, it was five in the morning, and she felt like she’d been run over more times than a speed bump. Taking a painkiller, Margo dressed, left a note for Irina in the kitchen, and slipped outside. Two phone calls was all she needed to figure out where they’d taken her father, and she had to use the Manning name as currency once she reached the hospital, but eventually she was curled up in a chair in Harland’s private room. He was gray and frail, and she was almost afraid to touch him. Closing her eyes, she doubted she’d ever fall asleep again.
An hour later, she was roused awake. “Margo? What on earth are you doing here?”
“Dad?” Margo straightened up, groggy and disoriented. “You’re awake.”
“Yes. Thank you for the observation.” The grouchy comeback dissolved into a wet cough, and Margo stilled in her chair. She’d been so consumed with the Petrenko job that she hadn’t set eyes on her father in more than a week, and she was shocked by how much weaker he seemed, how gaunt and withered.
“What happened last night? Mr. Brand said you … collapsed?”
“He was being dramatic.” Harland waved off this account, but the denial lacked enthusiasm. “I experienced some pains and lost consciousness for a short while. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Margo repeated the words in disbelief. “What did they tell you? What does this mean? Did they figure out how to fix it?”
“Margo…” Harland expelled a breath, his eyes moving away from his daughter. “Margo. They’re not going to ‘fix it.’ It’s time we both face the facts.”
“Don’t say that,” she snapped, angered and alarmed by his complacency. “They managed to do something, right? You’re awake again, and you’re obviously not still in pain, so they must have figured out—”
“Pain management is not the same thing as treatment.” The way he issued this declaration made it clear he’d been thinking it for a while. Blinking tiredly, he added, “Margo … I haven’t wanted to tell you this, because … well, quite frankly, I haven’t known how. I’m not good at admitting to my vulnerabilities.”
He was silent for a long moment, and something cold gripped at Margo’s throat. She could barely speak. “Dad? What are you saying?”
“I’ve not been receiving any treatments for a while. A few weeks.”
Margo stared at him. “What are you talking about? That’s not even true—your doctors have been out to the house!”
“And they have helped me manage my pain levels,” Harland stated serenely. “And, to their credit, they also agreed with me when I said I saw no point continuing invasive proced
ures that take up time and money and yield no results.”
“Money?” Margo was on her feet in an instant, her face burning with rage. “We’ve got so much money it practically rolls down the canyon when you cough, and you’re just … you’re giving up because it’s expensive?”
“It isn’t about money.” Harland placated. “It’s about the fact that, for all the things we’ve tried, I just keep … losing, Margo. These treatments haven’t been pleasant, and when they’re done, I can’t even stand being inside my own skin. I’m groggy and nauseous for hours, sometimes days, and when the misery finally passes, I’ve got nothing to show for it. I’m just weaker, and down precious hours that I’ll never have the chance to live over.”
“Dad—”
“I’m not giving up. I’m admitting that I’ve been fighting the wrong battle from the beginning. There’s no beating this thing.”
“What are you trying to say?” She didn’t know why she was asking the question. She knew exactly what he was saying, and she didn’t want to hear it. Any of it.
“I’m saying that … Margo, I’m saying I’m sorry.” For the first time in his entire life, Harland Manning sounded uncertain of his power position.
Margo opened her mouth and then shut it again. “You’re sorry?”
“I’ve been hard on you, because being hard on people comes easily. I see so much potential in you, Margo, and the only means by which I’ve ever known how to cultivate potential is by challenging it. It’s a principle that has always worked at the company; but I know now it was a mistake to apply it at home.”
“Dad…?” She couldn’t say anything more, didn’t have the voice. He saw potential in her? “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time troubling you about your public antics—the partying, the fights—because I hoped I could shame that behavior out of you. That’s time I won’t get back. Time I could have spent…” He trailed off and blinked, and with shock Margo realized his eyes were wet. “Time I could have spent telling you how proud I am of all you’ve accomplished. Your grades, your athletic achievements, and … I’ve observed more than you think, Margo. I’m aware of how clever you are. I’m aware of your leadership skills.”
Death Prefers Blondes Page 17
