The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

“Stay back,” he croaked, overcome. “You don’t want to see this, believe me.”

  Thea, ignoring the warning, stepped around him, and stood there, staring in horror at the bodies.

  “Was it them, do you think? The men in the Mustang?”

  “Who else?”

  Time seemed to stand still for a moment, and then she cried out, “Oh my God! Where’s my grandfather!”

  Before he could react, she was sprinting toward the stairs. He took off after her, but by the time he reached the landing, she was nowhere to be seen.

  At the top, the long hallway was pitch-black. He knew there must be doors, but he couldn’t see any. He felt his way along, knocking pictures askew as he went. He could hear her frantic footsteps and her pulling open doors. He was afraid for her. And for himself. What was she thinking? The Arabs were probably lying in wait.

  “Thea,” he called out, his voice no more than a rasp. “Where are you?”

  No response.

  He found a door, felt for the handle, pushed it open. There was a window on the far wall. Moonlight was breaking through the lace, casting spidery shadows across the walls. He limped over and looked out. Everything was black. Mineshaft-black. He cast around, straining to see something, anything. Shapes. Outlines. Silhouettes. There was a cottage, he saw after a moment, behind the house at the bottom of the knoll. He could only just make out a porch. The windows were dark, but he thought he saw something. The faintest whisper of movement. Had he imagined it? And, if not, was it Thea, the professor, or the gunmen?

  Panic besieged his brain, shutting it down. He lumbered down the hall, blind in the darkness, hands out in front of him, groping for obstacles. Finally, he found the stairs again and, clutching the rail for dear life, half-stumbled down.

  He fast-limped to the front door, down the steps, and to the edge of the house. Cautiously, he stole a peek around the corner, but saw nothing but night. He heard something then. Looking toward the sound, he saw movement. A figure. Thea, running down the hill toward the cottage.

  “Thea,” he yelled, “come back!”

  He heard a click. It took his mind a second to register the sound as a silenced gun. He searched the darkness. Where the devil did she go? He didn’t dare call out to her again. Their only hope now was to keep out of sight.

  Footsteps in the grass. Someone was coming up behind him. Heart in throat, he spun around, raising his gun. His hands were trembling, his finger twitching on the trigger.

  “Stop,” he bellowed into the blackness, “or I’ll shoot.”

  “Don’t,” she returned, “it’s me.”

  “Jesus wept, woman,” he whispered, heart pounding as he lowered his gun. “I nearly shot you.”

  “There are two of them,” she said. “On the porch.”

  With fear-sharpened senses, he homed in on the cottage. He could make out dark shapes, could hear them moving around and speaking fast and low in a foreign tongue. His mind raced around the possibilities: take cover in the house, praying they didn’t wind up like the family inside; try to make a run for it, knowing they wouldn’t get far; call the police and risk going to prison; or, attempt an ambush like he’d seen them do in Kuwait. He glanced around, mapping the course in his mind. The only cover between here and there was a small stand of trees. It was several yards away. Could they make it?

  “How good are you with that gun?” he asked.

  “Not half bad. At the firing range.”

  “We need to get to those trees,” he said, pointing. “Can you soldier crawl?”

  “Tell me how.”

  “Lay flat on your belly, stay low to the ground, and use your elbows and knees,” he explained. “I’ll act as the buffer.”

  They got down together and started moving. He could feel the grass, cold and wet, seeping through the front of his shirt, could smell the chlorophyll leaking from the crushed and broken blades. He paused every few seconds, listening to be sure the men were still on the porch. They made it to the trees and took cover behind a couple of thick trunks.

  “Now what?” she said between heaving breaths.

  “Now you stay here,” he told her, “while I creep down the hill and try to get a clear shot.”

  “What! Have you lost your mind? They’ll kill you.”

  “Not if I kill them first,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

  There was a pause before she said, voice shaky, “Buchanan, do you think there’s any chance my grandfather’s still alive?”

  “I couldn’t really say.”

  What he could say, but chose not to, was that it didn’t look good for Frank Aslan. And if the professor was dead, he might never learn who had killed his editors (and was still after him) and, more importantly, why.

  He told her what to do as he got down on his belly. When he was midway down the knoll, she started shooting, as he’d instructed, and, as he’d hoped, the men on the porch returned her fire. He crawled faster, reached the outer corner of the house, and scrambled behind it. He was breathing hard, sweat stung his eyes, and his heart felt ready to burst. He sat up, pressed his back against the clapboards, and checked his weapon.

  He took a couple of breaths to steady himself, knowing that, once he fired, they would know where he was. He needed, therefore, to make every shot count. Craning to see around the corner, he took a good look. The porch was screened in, but he could see them both. They wore black, but no masks. Other than that, the details were a blur.

  Thea fired again. The assassins ducked behind the frame. He had a clear shot. He raised his Glock, squinted down the sight, taking careful aim. Sucking in a breath, he squeezed the trigger. The gun cracked, kicking hard. From the porch, he heard a yelp of pain. He fired again. The loud thump of a body falling told him he’d hit one of them.

  Thea shot off another round. Her fire was returned. He held back, waiting for his chance. As soon as he heard the guy reloading, he started shooting. When he ran out of bullets, he dug in his pocket for another clip and reloaded. Just as he was taking aim, he heard a shot crack sharply. It came from the direction of the trees, only closer. He looked out, but saw nothing.

  He hung back. More shots from behind him, which were matched by the man on the porch. He threw a glance back, praying it was Thea, but saw nothing.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  The remaining gunman cried out.

  “Did I get him?”

  He jumped. She was beside him now.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, “you scared the shite out of me.”

  “Did I get him?” she asked again.

  “You grazed him, I think,” he said, taking aim.

  Bam, bam.

  They waited, bodies pressed together against the clapboards.

  “How do we know if they’re dead?” she whispered.

  “We won’t know until we go up there.”

  She coughed. “Go up there? But—what if they’re faking it, to draw us out?”

  He peered around the corner. One of the men was on his back, soles presenting. He raised his Glock, aiming right between the man’s legs. He thought about his slaughtered staff. Kelsey. Stan, his crotchety political editor. Jeremy, the kid who took care of the server. Fury engulfed him, a blazing fury that burned all the way down to his bowels.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  The body jerked, but not in the way it would have if it still contained life. Satisfied, he told her to stay put while he went around back to look for a way in.

  Chapter 9

  Buchanan, gripping his Glock with both hands, slipped in through the kitchen. It was dark, but he could see enough to know the place had been turned upside down. Cupboards were open, drawers hung out, and spilled packages of foodstuffs littered the floor.

  Stealthily, he moved into the next room. It, too, was in shambles. Furniture overturned, broken glass and china everywhere, holes in the plaster, even some of the floorboards had been pulled up. Off to the right, he could see a small bedroom, also ransacked.

  He picked hi
s way through the mess toward the front door, pistol leading the way. Holding his breath, he nudged it open with his toe. He stepped onto the porch, turning his gun both ways. Both assassins were sprawled on their backs, motionless. He walked over and put a bullet into each of their foreheads—just to be sure. Neither flinched.

  Behind him, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He spun around, finger on the trigger. Relief rushed through him when he saw Thea.

  “I heard shots,” she said, looking worried.

  “That was me,” he said, licking his lips. “Just making sure.”

  “So, they’re dead?”

  “They are.”

  “Did you find my grandfather?”

  He shook his head and motioned toward the front door. “Lapdog said he had some kind of proof. And judging from the state of the place, I’d say they were looking for whatever it is.”

  She looked shaken and a little bewildered. “What could it be?”

  He shrugged. “Why don’t you have a look around while I search the bodies?”

  “How will I know what I’m looking for?”

  He shrugged again, having no bloody idea. He waited until the screen door slammed behind her before walking over to the corpses. Squatting beside them, he sparked his lighter to get a better look. Their complexions were swarthy; their coal-black eyes stared at nothing. They definitely looked Arabic, which, although noteworthy, didn’t help much.

  He shut their eyelids and went through their pockets, finding nothing but their cell phones and a couple of spare clips. He examined their guns—a pair of semi-automatic Rugers affixed with silencers—using the tail of his shirt to avoid leaving fingerprints.

  He checked both phones for pre-programmed numbers and missed calls, hoping to find a clue, any clue, to their identities or who might have sent them. There was nothing helpful. Shaking his head, he got to his feet and stuffed the phones in his pockets, thinking that maybe, at some point, a call might come in from whoever had hired them.

  Next, he went looking for the Mustang, finding it parked behind the barn, unlocked. He opened the driver’s door, got in, and hunted around for the registration, which told him it belonged to one of his neighbors back in New York. From the glove box, he pulled out the owner’s manual. The Mustang was a 2003, which was good, since it would be easier to jack—provided he could locate a pair of wire strippers in a house without electricity.

  * * * *

  “Find anything?” Thea asked as Buchanan pushed through the door. She was sitting on the sofa, looking as if she’d been chewing on something bitter.

  “Afraid not,” he replied, righting an overturned chair.

  He set it down across from her and sat. He studied her for several moments with a swelling feeling that might have been awe. She had lit some candles and the soft light on her face was extremely becoming. Desire sparked, surprising him again.

  “I think we should stay here tonight,” she said, lifting her gaze to his, “in case my grandfather comes back.”

  “Fine,” he said, too tired to think about going anywhere else. There was only one bed, he’d noticed when he checked the house. A double.

  “You want a cup of tea or something?” she asked.

  “I’d rather have something stronger,” he returned, “if it’s all the same to you.”

  “My grandfather doesn’t drink, so I doubt there’s any alcohol around.”

  He wasn’t bothered, having brought his own. Getting up, he walked stiffly to the couch, and sat beside her, reaching into the pocket of his tweed sports coat, which she still wore. As his hand brushed her hip, something deep in his abdomen fluttered. She leaned in, bringing her face close. And then, without warning, she pressed her lips against his. When he didn’t pull away, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was close-mouthed, but intense enough to heat his blood. He thought about putting a stop to it, unsure he should do this when he didn’t know what he could give her. Or wanted for himself.

  His fingers closed around the flask. He pulled it out and let it fall. She pressed her body against his chest, pushing him back against the couch. The kiss deepened. It felt good. Unbelievably good. He had been starving for this without knowing it. It had been months since he’d felt anything like passion. His hands found her back and began moving down. As he squeezed her buttocks, yearning blazed, burning away all reason.

  Breaking free of the kiss, he began unbuttoning her blouse. He wanted to see behind the veil. He could feel her trembling, hear her breathing growing heavy and ragged, as he moved from button to button, pushing the silk away. Even in the flickering light, he could see that her bra was black lace. He slipped a hand inside and softly rubbed a nipple. As it responded, she emitted a breathless moan, making him shudder.

  “Where shall I sleep?” he rasped, brushing her cheek.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  Guilt gripped him, tightening like a noose. The fire in his groin flickered and began to die.

  “Are you sure we should do this?”

  “Yes,” she said, dark-chocolate eyes shimmering with passion. “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” he whispered, looking away.

  She set a hand on his chest, endeavoring to meet his gaze. “Is there some danger of that?”

  He swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, even if he could keep it up, which was unlikely, she’d be shagging an empty shell.

  “Only if you want it to mean something,” he managed at last, his voice cracking.

  She pulled away, glaring at him. “How do you expect me to respond to a statement like that?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “With honesty, I suppose.”

  “Fuck you,” she hissed, shooting to her feet. “Is that honest enough?”

  Without another word, she stalked off toward the bedroom. When he heard the door slam, he heaved a sigh and sat back, feeling around the cushions for his flask. Finding it, he raised it to his lips, tipped it back, and took a long, deep swallow.

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday

  Lancaster County, Pennsylvania

  Thea lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, gnawing her lower lip the same way regret gnawed her insides. Bright sunlight filtered through the lace at the window, but her thoughts were dark. From the living room, she could hear Buchanan snoring like a bear. Regret stabbed again. Why had she kissed him? He’d tried to warn her he wasn’t emotionally available, but, as usual, she hadn’t listened.

  She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she had feelings for him—feelings she’d been harboring ever since that night they went out for a drink. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that he was there with her, holding, kissing, touching.

  With a sigh, she blew away the fantasy like dandelion down. Though she’d slept with her share of men over the years, she’d had few serious relationships. Just Mark Watkins back in high school; Spencer Conway, her history professor at Georgia State; and Steve Armstrong, a guy she met while out nightclubbing with friends.

  Steve was a welcome relief from the professor, who at first seemed brilliant and intense, but turned out to be a narcissistic mess. Ten years her junior, Steve worked in an envelope factory, played in a band called “Weeds,” and liked to stay out all night partying with his friends. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, but they also quarreled bitterly about his laid-back lifestyle and lack of ambition. One day, she came home from work to find a note on the table beside a single red rose.

  I think we both know this isn’t working.

  That was all it said. The note shook her to the core, and not just because he’d left her, which was devastating. Even more shattering was the fact that the message echoed the one left twenty years earlier by her father.

  A muffled version of Come as You Are started playing somewhere in the room. She sprang up and glanced around. Where the hell had
she left her phone? Realizing it was in the pocket of her slacks, now draped over a nearby chair, she bounced off the bed and fished it out. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number.

  Apprehensively, she answered.

  “Miss Hamilton, you probably don’t remember me…you were, after all, just a child the last time we met…but my name is Riley Witherspoon. I’m a curator at Independence Hall in Philadelphia…and a friend of your grandfather’s.”

  “Have you seen my grandfather?” she blurted excitedly. “Do you know where he is?”

  There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the line before he said, “I have reason to suspect that he may be in peril. Better not to discuss it on the phone, though, I daresay. Would it be possible for you to come to Philadelphia?”

  “Of course,” she said without hesitation. “I can be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again. I only wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances. My office is in the Merchant’s Exchange.”

  “What was all that about?”

  Buchanan’s deep brogue startled her. He was standing in the doorway, wearing only his slacks. Her eyes swept across his bare chest, which was broad, defined, and carpeted with dark hair from which his nipples stood out like rosy buttons.

  “We’re going to Philadelphia,” she told him, annoyed by the tingling in her loins. Damn him for having this effect on her. Especially after last night.

  “I need a shower,” he said, rubbing his chin, which was shaded with dark stubble. “And a shave. But I guess, since I’ve got no razor, that I’m out of luck on that score, eh?”

  “You can use one of mine,” she said, moving toward her bag to fetch him one of her disposables. “But don’t go rusting yourself.”

  “Sorry?”

  She felt a surge of resentment born of wounded pride. “You’re the Tin Man, remember?”

  “Oh, right,” he muttered, coloring a little.

  “And I need a shower, too,” she said, glowering as she held out the pink plastic razor, “so have the decency to leave some hot water, okay?”