Lazlo’s Last Stand

by Kathleen Creighton

  The voice, now risen to clearly audible levels, was French accented, harsh and strident, almost as deep as a man’s but somehow unmistakably female. It bulldozed right over the attendant’s murmured response. “I want to see him. Now! He’s here-I know he’s here!”

  “Whoa, someone’s not a happy camper.” Adam tweaked aside the curtain to have a look, but the speakers weren’t visible from where he stood. He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe I should go-” He broke off, due to the fact that the man he was speaking to appeared about to take a header off the gurney.

  “Laz? Here, mate, what-” He managed to get to him just before he toppled over, while out in the lobby the woman, whoever she was, ranted on.

  “Tell me how he is, damn you! Don’t tell me you cannot! I am telling you, I am his family. I am his mother!”

  “Are you all right, man? Crikey, you’ve gone as white as a sheet. Here-lie down.” Bloody hell, Adam thought. If it was his heart after all…“I’ll get the nurse.”

  “Help…me up, dammit. Got to see…” Corbett’s grip on Adam’s arm would have done a croc proud.

  I know that voice.

  It couldn’t be. Just wasn’t possible. But there was no mistaking it, even after almost twenty years. Corbett could hear its echoes resounding through the halls of the emergency wing, strident, raw, crackling with emotion.

  Her voice.

  “You will pay for this, Corbett Lazlo! Everything you care about, whatever means the most to you, I will destroy. If it takes the rest of my life, I swear I will…make…you…pay!”

  He told himself it wasn’t her, but he had to see with his own eyes.

  With one arm across Adam’s shoulders and the other across his ribs, he managed to stand erect. Dark splotches were floating through his field of vision. He shook his head to clear it…concentrated on breathing deeply. Evenly. Relax…tensing up only makes the pain worse.

  Bloody hell. He’d never felt so feeble and woozy. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Adam swearing at him, but he couldn’t spare the energy it would take to tell him to can it. He needed every ounce of strength just to take those first steps.

  Out in the emergency entrance, the woman’s voice had quieted to a raspy, throaty sound, like a lioness purring. And Corbett remembered that one, too, as clearly as if it had been yesterday…

  Murmuring words of love to me in a tangle of sweaty sheets on a stolen afternoon in the hot little room in Montmarte…Saying my name in a way no one else ever has, before or since, giving it the French pronunciation: Cor-bay…

  Speaking of betrayal, as we sat together on a rooftop in London, watching the fog swirl around the chimney pots, with that particular intensity in her voice and in her eyes, that hint of violence and danger that made me wonder sometimes whether she was not quite sane. “I give you fair warning, mon cher. I love with passion and I hate the same way. Do not ever make me hate you…”

  He’d been young then, and had laughed off both of them-the words of love and the warnings-and he’d known in his heart it was the danger that made her so irresistible.

  Just as he knew in his heart now that it was not only possible, it was true. The voice was hers. He knew it even before he heard the words that erased all possibility of doubt.

  “Yes, that is right. I am Cassandra DuMont. His name is Troy DuMont. He is my son. Now will you tell me where…Yes, yes, I understand he is in surgery…”

  Corbett didn’t hear the rest. The initial shock of hearing her voice, recognizing it, had blocked the significance of her words from registering on his consciousness. Now, as he pushed through the double automatic doors into the triage area, he found himself face-to-face with the woman he’d tried so hard to expunge from his memory. He’d even thought he’d succeeded. Hoped he had. Now he knew how foolish he’d been to even try. Knew he should have paid more attention to the things she’d said to him, both the love words and the warnings.

  Because suddenly, as if a curtain had been torn down, he saw everything clearly. All at once he knew. All the months of watching mission after mission end in near disaster, of trying to track down moles and trace vicious threats delivered via e-mail, of seeing his agents picked off one by one-even that mess years ago that had gotten him branded a traitor and booted out of British SIS, and would have seen him locked up in prison for the rest of his life-he knew who was responsible for it all.

  Cassandra.

  And there was worse than that. Much, much worse than he could ever have imagined.

  “He’s my son!”

  Cassandra DuMont had a son. A son who had tried three times to kill him and, but for Lucia and a state-of-the-art Kevlar vest, would have succeeded. A son now fighting for his life only a few floors away. A son who appeared to be at least nineteen or twenty-certainly no younger. And that could only mean…

  He’s my son.

  Corbett stood frozen while the doors to the E.R. area swished shut behind him, still dazed, caught in a nightmarish web of shock and disbelief. And it was in that moment that she turned and saw him.

  It was odd, but with everything that had come crashing down on him in the past few minutes, his brain still managed to register the fact that she was beautiful. Odd, too, that he could notice how much she had changed, and yet was so much the same. The same tall, voluptuous body, the same golden curls, the same big-slightly protuberant-blue eyes. But the years and the thirst for vengeance had taken their toll, too, and in that instant just before she recognized him, he felt a flash of sorrow for the loss of the passionate but somehow naive young girl he had known.

  “You!” She shrieked the word and lunged at him, as if she meant to kill him on the spot, with only her bare hands. Adam managed to intercept her before she could reach him, and she stared wild-eyed past the restraining barricade of his arm like a crazed animal through the bars of a cage. “You did this, Corbett Lazlo! You shot him-just like you shot my brother. If you’ve killed him, too…”

  “Here, now,” Adam said, panting a little as he tightened his hold on her increasing struggles, “I think you’ve got things a bit backward, haven’t you? Your boy was the one doin’ the shooting. Tried his best to kill Mr. Lazlo, here.”

  “Yes!” She hissed it like an enraged cat. “And should have, if he’d only waited for the right moment, as I taught him. If he’d had more patience.” Her mouth stretched in a terrible travesty of a smile. “He would have killed you, Cor-bey-his own father. Yes, that is right. As you have already guessed, the man you shot is your own son!” Her voice broke, before it erupted in a shrill crescendo. “If you have killed him, I will make you wish he’d killed you instead. I will make you pay-”

  Behind Corbett the door whooshed open. In the sudden silence, a voice spoke calmly…quietly. Another voice he knew well.

  “Madam DuMont, Corbett didn’t shoot your son,” Lucia said. “I did.”

  Chapter 3

  Corbett felt himself go cold from his scalp to the pit of his stomach. There was a moment when he was literally frozen in place, unable to move, unable to think. Unable even to decide how to feel. On the one hand, he could have throttled Lucia himself if it could have prevented her from uttering those words-words that amounted to her death warrant.

  But then again…what was this strange shimmering, vibrating warmth now beginning deep inside his chest and spreading slowly through him? Was it admiration?

  Because, by God, he had to admit she was magnificent. She put him in mind of an avenging goddess, wrapped in an EMT’s blanket, barefooted, the torn remnants of her golden gown swirling around her scraped and dirty legs, red-brown curls gone wild as if they had life and energy of their own.

  Or was it something else that made his heart quiver so oddly? Something else entirely-perhaps the fear in her deep blue eyes contrasting so poignantly with the determined set of her mouth and the smudges of dried blood on her smooth, soft cheeks…

  The frozen moment-and that’s all it was, a moment-passed. Movement resumed with an explosio
n of sound and fury. And after that things happened the way they do during times of disaster-quickly but at the same time seeming to move in slow motion: Cassandra shrieking like a wounded leopard and lunging toward Lucia; Adam brushing past Corbett to intercept her once more; Corbett moving in the opposite direction, moving through the breath-stopping pain in his ribs to grab Lucia and shove her behind him.

  Before the echoes of Cassandra’s initial scream had died, while she was still drawing breath for a new assault, the elevator doors swished open. A doctor in surgical scrubs, face mask dangling from its neck straps, stepped out. Confronted with the strange tableau in the foyer, he halted as if he’d hit a wall.

  Four faces turned toward him, and then once more, all motion, all sound, stopped.

  The doctor’s uncertain gaze traveled from one emotion-wracked face to another. Paused at Cassandra…focused on Corbett.

  “Are you the parents of Troy DuMont?”

  And time resumed its normal cadence.

  Too dazed to do otherwise, Corbett simply shook his head, while Cassandra DuMont whirled, tearing herself out of Adam’s grasp.

  “I am! I am his mother. Tell me-my son-is he…” Her voice was the terrible croaking of a mother in terror.

  “He’s still in surgery at the moment,” the doctor said in calm, British-accented English. “He’s come through quite well, thus far. If you’d care to come along with me, there’s a place upstairs where you can wait more comfortably.”

  Cassandra threw a look back at Lucia. Corbett waited with muscles tense as she hesitated, the battle between a madwoman’s thirst for vengeance and a mother’s love for her child played itself out, the struggle written in anguish across her face. Then she gasped and bent forward as if she’d taken a blow to her stomach, and began to move backward toward the elevator as if pulled against her will by an irresistible force. In the doorway she paused, made a V-sign with two fingers like the forked tongue of a snake and stabbed them at Lucia.

  “Chienne! Tu es fichue…”

  The words were in French, but the venom in them was unmistakable in any language. Bitch! You are dead.

  For several seconds after the elevator doors had closed there was utter silence.

  Adam broke it first with an explosive laugh. “Always was a charming wench. Did I understand her correctly? Did she say-”

  “Later.” Corbett’s face was grim as he jerked his head toward Lucia. “We’ve got to get her out of here. Cassandra won’t wait for the outcome of the boy’s surgery to make good on that threat. How’d you get here?”

  “Caught a cab, actually, since the other lads weren’t inclined to wait around to give me a lift.”

  “That’ll have to do. See to it, will you?” The grip on Lucia’s arm tightened.

  As she allowed herself to be steered toward the exit doors, she watched in a kind of numb bemusement as Adam turned up the wattage of his smile and swooped in upon the poor desk nurse, who’d been hovering behind her counter like a mouse behind a leaf, and was looking more confused than alarmed. She stammered a bit as she announced that she’d already summoned security, and blushed when Adam told her cheerfully to cancel that and summon a taxi instead.

  Lucia thought it interesting that the girl who’d been steadfast in facing down a wildly distraught mother’s demands, seemed completely flustered in the presence of Adam’s Aussie charm.

  As for her own feelings, they were in such turmoil she felt all but paralyzed. Though oddly, not with fear. It was anger she felt, and an irrational sense of betrayal. Irrational, because what right did she have to be jealous of anyone Corbett chose to involve himself with? But jealous she was. And this was even more odd because she’d never minded-well, not terribly-the parade of nubile beauties he’d “dated” briefly on and off over the years.

  But this? A son?

  For there to be such passionate hatred now, she knew, there must once have been an equally passionate love.

  The automatic doors whisked open to admit a gust of cold misty air. Its effect on Lucia was like a slap in the face, and while it did nothing to lessen her misery, it did serve to snap her out of her sleepwalking state.

  “It is December,” she said in a voice that matched the weather, and gazed pointedly at Corbett’s chest, which was quite bare and still trailing an assortment of tubes and wires. “You might want to put on some clothes.”

  She didn’t mention her own state of undress, but drew some satisfaction when his startled look took in the thin blanket she was clutching around her. Noting the fact that it didn’t come close to covering her legs, and that those legs were clad only in torn nylon stockings.

  His mouth hardened and his brows drew inward. Still dragging her with him like a recalcitrant child, he made a swift U-turn and headed back to the E.R. Doctors and nurses immediately surrounded them, scolding and warning in two languages of the irresponsibility and dire consequences of their actions. Which Corbett, of course, ignored, and instead demanded his clothes. A nurse, looking troubled, nevertheless scurried to fetch them. With equal imperiousness, since Lucia’s clothes were unavailable, Corbett demanded she be provided with something to wear in their stead. Another nurse hurried to obey.

  None of this surprised Lucia in the slightest. It was simply the way things were done with Corbett Lazlo.

  A short time later, still clutching the blanket but now dressed in nurses’ scrubs and squeezed between Corbett and Adam in the backseat of a cab driven by an apparently suicidal Haitian, Lucia listened to a conversation in which her immediate future was being planned. It was a two-way dialogue, without any input at all from its subject.

  “We’ll need a chopper,” Corbett began as soon as they were seated, destination given and the taxi in motion.

  Adam’s response was brisk. “Already on it, boss. It’s warming up as we speak.” There was a brief pause before he added, “I’m assuming a safe house?”

  “I don’t trust any of our ‘safe’ houses. There’s only one place I know of where I can be certain Cassandra can’t get to her.”

  Tempted to thrust her hand in the air like a first-grader, Lucia cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me?”

  “Ah-the old homeland?” This was Adam, as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Corbett nodded. “It’s the only place I can think of that’s not on anybody’s radar.”

  “Even mine.” Adam again, wryly. “So you’ll be wanting the Citation, as well, I presume?”

  “Excuse me!” Lucia said, more loudly. “I presume I’m the one you’re talking about whisking away to parts unknown. Do I get any say in this?”

  “No!” Corbett and Adam responded together.

  Lucia did a slow, silent five-count during which she managed to swallow her anger and remind herself it was she these two insufferable alpha males were bent on protecting. Though she wasn’t entirely clear as to why that was. The revelation that Corbett Lazlo had a son-one evidently bent on killing his own father-had driven all other intelligent thought from her mind.

  “Forgive me,” she said, when both men seemed to be waiting for her to speak, “I’m trying to understand what just happened. And what it is about this particular woman that has you both turning tail and running for cover like…like-”

  “Yeah, mate, I wouldn’t mind a bit of explanation, myself.” Adam’s tone was semiserious, for once. “This is the same Cassandra DuMont we know from our old SIS days, right? Daughter of Maximilian DuMont, late and unlamented head of the dastardly organization we call S.N.A.K.E.?”

  “Snake?” Lucia said, incredulous. “The organization Dani pretended to work for as the Sparrow?” Dani Moore, a former SIS agent, had recently married a Lazlo Group man, Mitchell Lama. The two had uncovered a disloyal Lazlo Group employee, Chloe Winchester, while on a mission together for Corbett. Chloe had thought Lucia had gotten the job she should have had and had been selling Lazlo Group inside information to the SIS in a twisted revenge scheme.

  “Yes,” Corbett said. “We got into the habi
t of calling them that back in those ‘old SIS days,’ mainly, I suppose, because that’s what the bastards were like. Silent and deadly.”

  “Right-O,” said Adam. “You never knew what rock you were going to find the blighters hiding under, coiled up and just waiting for the moment to strike.”

  “We used to try and outdo each other coming up with clever things for the letters to stand for,” Adam said with a chuckle. “‘Sinister Network of A-holes, Killers and Extortionists’-that was one of me own, I believe.”

  “My personal favorite was ‘Society of Nasty Auld Knaves and Evildoers,’” Corbett added dryly. “I believe the current SIS meaning is ‘Syndicate of Nasties, Assassins, Killers and Evildoers.’”

  “I know they’re killers for hire. Tell me what your connection is to them.”

  “They started out as mercenaries. Their leader was Maximilian DuMont. He was a French mercenary in Southeast Asia during the early days of the Vietnam conflict, before he got a taste of the drug trade and decided it was a bit more lucrative than fighting other people’s wars for them. Made a mint of money, and when the Soviet Union fell, he was in a perfect position to expand into the arms business. Recruited a lot of ex-KGB agents who had an inside track to where the surplus weapons were stockpiled. There was a major war going on at the time among all the weapons dealers over who’d garner the lion’s share of the spoils. Max and his thugs came out on top, mainly because there wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do to eliminate the competition, and those competitors knew it. If they valued their homes and families, they got out of Max’s way. If they didn’t…well, then they probably died along with their wives, mothers and children.”

  Lucia, though warm enough snuggled between the bodies of two big men, nevertheless felt a chill. “My God. And Cassandra DuMont is this monster’s daughter. No wonder-”

  “Oh, that’s not the half of it,” Adam said with gossipy glee. He leaned forward to speak to Corbett around Lucia. “You want to tell her the rest, mate, or shall I?”