Tom fired his last shot. Another Stang dropped. There were still seven left.
Joan drew in a breath and tried to center herself. Fear would kill her if she didn’t keep cool. She held up her weapon and let them come to her.
The first came at her, howling madly, arms outstretched. She jammed the baton into his solar plexus, and when he doubled over she smacked him in the back of the neck. Before he hit the floor she had spun around, connecting with the forehead of another clone, her weapon breaking the skin and blinding him with blood. Someone grabbed her waist. She crunched her heel down on his instep, then jerked her head backward, cracking it against his jaw. The impact made her dizzy, but he released her.
Next to her, she watched Tom swing a clone into the wall, then use the gun like a hammer and smash him across the face. Two more leapt at him, but before she could come to his aid she was lifted up in a horrible bear hug.
Joan’s arms were pinned at her sides, and she couldn’t throw a punch or swing a baton. Her legs dangled uselessly almost a foot above the ground. The smell—body odor and piss—choked her. She tried to twist, tried to pull away, but the clone’s grip was too strong. Then she felt his mouth press against her neck.
Joan screamed, shaking her head from side to side, dropping her weapon and making her fingers into claws. She scratched at his side, her right hand finding a bandage, and stitches. This was Stang’s recent kidney donor. She tore at the sutures, opening the wound, sticking her fingers in deep.
The clone howled, releasing her and dropping to his knees. Joan used the heel of her hand to break his nose, then looked for Tom. He was buried under three clones, while another advanced on him, wielding her baton. He raised it up to strike Tom’s head, but Joan was on him in two steps, launching herself into the air and snapping his knee like a two-by-four.
Taking the baton away from him was child’s play, and she made easy work of the three clones atop Tom, each getting a vicious crack in the head. She spun to face the final attacker, flipping the weapon in her hand like a six-shooter.
The clone blinked, then turned and ran out the door.
“Are you okay?” Joan helped Tom up. His nose was bleeding and he had a large scratch across his chin, but otherwise seemed intact.
“Yeah. Thanks. Let’s grab the files and get the hell out of here.”
They went back to the file cabinets and took what they could carry. It would take a few more trips to get them all, but Roy and Bert could help. Joan led the way through the hall, up the stairs. She tried not to look at Stang’s body, but curiosity made her look anyway. He’d been torn to pieces—an arm missing, a leg missing—and in some places the flesh was ripped down to the bone. Joan also noted that several of his organs seemed to be missing. The clones had taken them back.
“Do you smell smoke?”
They hurried through the mansion, the hallway getting brighter with every step. When they reached the foyer, the blaze already descended half of the staircase. It was a huge wall of flame, roaring and out of control. Joan had never witnessed anything that provoked such a primal fear in her. She looked up and saw the fire was actually crawling across the ceiling, sparks and flaming bits of wood and plaster falling down like rain and igniting the carpeting.
“Roy!”
At the bottom of the staircase were two figures, lying on the ground. Tom and Joan ran to them, the heat increasing with every step. Through the thickening smoke, Joan could see Tom kneel down next to Roy. She looked at the other man. It was one of the clones, neck bent in a funny position.
The fire crept slowly down the stairs, engulfing paintings and wallpaper, kicking up the temperature with every step down. A cinder flew onto the files and they caught and began to burn. Joan dropped them all and kicked them away.
“Where’s Bert?”
Joan heard a horn. She spun around and noticed one of the front doors was open. In the driveway was a black Cadillac. The window rolled down and Bert waved frantically from the driver’s seat.
“Come on!”
Joan noticed that one of the manila folders she’d dropped had the word CLASSIFIED stamped on it. On impulse, she bent down and shoved it into her vest. Then she hurried to Tom and helped him drag Roy toward the front door, the fire close behind them.
A section of ceiling collapsed to their right, and when it hit the floor they were showered in sparks. Joan batted out flames in her hair, on her pants, and on Roy’s chest. When she looked up, she almost wet herself.
Standing in front of the doorway was Jerome. In one hand he held a shotgun, and in the other, an ax. His muscular upper body was bare, and his chest and face were covered with streaks of something. It took Joan a moment to realize what it was—war paint. Fire flanked him on both sides, shadow and light flickering across his stone-like features, smoke rising behind him. He looked like a demon risen from hell.
Jerome leveled the gun at the trio and fired just as Tom yanked her to the side. She felt a tug in her leg, as if someone had slapped her, and then the pain came.
Tom pulled her and Roy behind a leather couch. The shotgun boomed again, and more flaming plaster fell from the ceiling, causing the sofa to catch fire. Joan took a quick look at her leg, and the blood appeared black in the orange glow. She tried to stand up, but it couldn’t support her weight.
Tom grabbed an end table, which was partially engulfed in flame, and tossed it at Jerome. He dodged it, running to their left. Joan noticed he had a strap over his shoulder, and on his back was a machine gun.
Joan looked at Roy, semi-conscious on the floor, and then turned to Tom. He was tying his shirt around his bloody arm, and she realized that he’d also been shot. The doorway was less than twenty feet away, but it might as well have been twenty miles.
Joan knew, with startling clarity, that they were all going to die.
The sound rose above the cracking of the flames, and it made Tom’s blood freeze. He recognized it from old Westerns—an Apache war cry. He chanced a look over the couch and watched Jerome pump the shotgun and aim. Tom ducked, realizing it was futile; the pellets would rip through the sofa easily. He wrapped his arms around Joan, hoping his body would shield her from the blast, and braced himself.
There was a gunshot, but not in their direction. Tom looked down the hall and saw a Stang clone do a bloody pirouette and collapse in a pile. Two more clones hopped over their fallen brother and bee-lined for Jerome.
Buoyed by the thought of living a few more seconds, Tom scanned around him for a weapon. There, in Roy’s pocket. The taser. He grasped it, checking the battery and the CO2 cartridge. It seemed functional.
Another shotgun blast. And then another. Tom peered over the couch and saw Jerome was now wrestling with a clone for the gun. He let go, shoving the clone away, and took the tomahawk from his holster, swinging it wildly and emitting another war cry.
Tom crawled around the sofa, his bleeding arm shaking badly because it was supporting most of his weight. His other hand gripped the taser, pointing it at Jerome. He got within twenty feet. Fifteen feet.
Jerome finished mauling the clone and stared impassively at Tom. He dropped the bloody ax and unslung the M-16 hanging on his back.
Tom wasn’t sure if he was within the range of the taser, but he didn’t have a choice. He aimed. Fired.
Missed.
Jerome brought the rifle around, his finger seeking the trigger. Tom knew there was nothing he could do, no place he could run. The M-16 would chew him into hamburger before he even had a chance to blink.
Then Bert came rushing through the front door, and swatted Jerome alongside the head with the step ladder. Jerome released the gun and fell to his knees. Bert raised the ladder to hit him again, but Jerome blocked the blow with his forearm. Tom dropped the taser and crawled like mad for the shotgun, lying next to the hacked-up clone. He pulled it away from the mangled body and racked a shell into the chamber.
“Bert! Duck!”
Bert ducked. Tom fired.
Th
is time he didn’t miss.
The blast knocked Jerome backward, leaving a mist of blood where he previously stood.
“Behind you!” Bert shrieked.
Tom rolled onto his back and aimed at another Stang clone, running straight at him. He pumped, and fired, and the clone went down. Tom squinted through the smoke and saw Joan, slowly dragging Roy toward the front door. Bert ran to her, helping out. Tom went to join them, then was forced to dive to the side when the grand staircase collapsed, causing a giant wave of fire to wash over the room.
Tom smelled burning hair, realized it was his, and dropped the gun to pat it out. He searched for Joan but visibility was near zero. Tom couldn’t even see the front door.
“Joan!”
“Tom! Here!”
Tom crawled toward the voice, through the smoke, around pockets of burning floor. Soot stung his eyes, burned his throat. Was this even the right direction? The fire was roaring now, loud as a thunderstorm, and he wasn’t even sure if…
Someone touched his hand through the haze. Joan?
No. Jerome.
The man’s fingers locked around Tom’s wrist like a bear trap. Tom tried to pull back but this was his wounded arm and the motion brought agony. He pried at Jerome’s iron fingers, but they wouldn’t budge. Tom’s legs also became ridiculously hot, and he swiveled his head around and saw his pants had caught on fire. He twisted, trying to pat them out, but couldn’t reach with Jerome’s death grip on his wrist.
Tom panicked, frantically feeling the floor around him for some sort of weapon. His fingers brushed something wet. The ax. Tom cried out in pain and fury and brought the blade down on Jerome’s wrist, severing their bond. Then he sat up and tried to beat out the flames on his legs. When that didn’t work, he stretched out lengthwise and rolled for all he was worth. He kept rolling until he hit something hard—a wall or a piece of furniture—but he was still on fire, and it was getting bigger. The heat had begun to burn.
Tom felt behind him, hoping to find drapes, but instead his hand met cool glass. He noticed the faint blue light through the smoke and realized he’d bumped into the aquarium. The ax still in hand, Tom crashed it against the glass, showering himself in salt water and tropical fish. The tank was huge enough to forge a path through the fire, which Tom crawled through.
“Tom!”
Joan. And this time, Tom was sure the sound came from his left. He followed it, felt someone grab his leg, raised the ax…
It was Bert. He tugged Tom the rest of the way, through the front door, out into the cool night air. There were sirens in the distance, approaching fast.
“We have to go.” Bert helped Tom into the back seat of the Cadillac, next to Joan. Then he hopped into the driver’s seat, made sure Roy had his belt on, petted the cat in his lap, and punched the gas.
Tom turned around in the back seat, to look at the house one last time. He was surprised at how large the fire had gotten. The whole house had become an inferno. Flames had broken through the roofing, sharp fingers tearing at the night sky, blocking out the stars with black smoke.
He felt pressure on his bad arm. Joan’s hand, trying to stop the bleeding.
“How’s Roy?” Tom asked no one in particular.
“I think both legs are broken,” Bert answered. “But he’s breathing okay. How about you two?”
Joan gave Tom a squeeze. “We’ll live. But a hospital might be a good idea.”
Tom nodded. “But not in Springfield, Bert. Go east on 72 to Decatur. We don’t want to be connected to this.”
Bert glanced in the rearview, his eyes locked on Tom’s.
“What happened to Stang Senior?”
“If you wanted to be technical, I guess you could say he killed himself.”
Three big fire engines passed them on the road, racing towards the mansion. Tom closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. It was over. They had won.
“Hey.” Joan shook him lightly. “One more thing.”
“What?”
Joan moved closer. Her face was covered in soot, and one eyebrow was singed off, and she had some blood on her cheek. But her blue eyes were clear and wide and focused. Tom could feel her breath, and her hand on the back of his head. She was, no doubt, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
Tom didn’t know if she kissed him, or if he kissed her. But he did know that, when their lips met, every ache and pain in his body disappeared.
Tom switched off the news on TV and turned to look at his partner in the hospital bed.
“They think it was some kind of slavery operation.” Roy’s words were dulled by the pain medication. Both of his legs were in casts, and his right arm was in a sling. This was the first time in almost a full day that he was well enough to talk.
“It’s a good guess. Lots of burned bodies, but only four who had dental work. Plus a dungeon in the basement.”
Roy smiled, sleepily. “Be interesting to see what happens if they run DNA tests.”
“It sure will.”
“We cool here?”
Tom nodded. “Told the doctors it was a hunting accident. Pretty dramatic one. Campfire out of control, falling trees, shooting at a bear. If you were awake, you would have enjoyed the story.”
“Joan okay?”
“She came out of surgery after me. She’s fine.”
“Bert?”
Tom laughed. “Completely unscathed. He saved all of our lives, coming back for us.”
“I’m starting to like that guy. Reminds me of my little brother.”
Tom crossed his legs, wincing at the pain. The burns were only first degree, but stretched from his butt to the souls of his feet. His butt actually got the worst of it. The hospital had actually given Tom an inflatable donut. His arm wound wasn’t serious—he’d caught a few pellets and would be sore for a while, same as Joan. Roy had taken the brunt of the damage. Tom didn’t bother to tell him that his dislocated shoulder probably had nothing to do with the fall, but rather their attempt to drag him out of the burning house.
“How about the FBI?” Roy asked.
“I talked to the Special Agent in Charge in Chicago. He’s driving here tomorrow. I figure we tell him the truth. There should be enough evidence still intact at Stang’s house to back it up.”
“Five bucks says the government keeps it hush-hush.”
“I won’t take that bet.”
“Is this a private party, or can anyone attend?”
Roy and Tom smiled at Bert as he walked into the hospital room. Tom was especially pleased to see who Bert had brought with him. The face. The eyes. The beard. All perfect. He felt like he was in the presence of a celebrity. Tom extended his hand.
“Mr. Lincoln.”
“Mr. Jefferson.” Abe winked at Roy. “Mr. Hendrix.”
Roy shook his head and grinned. “Hi, Abe. How was jail?”
“Good. I made some friends, caught up on my reading, got all that free publicity. Best thing I ever did.”
Tom nodded. “I saw the morning paper. Something about Congress suppressing free speech in the Capitol Building. You’ve become a poster boy for the First Amendment.”
Abe winked. “I just landed a talent agent. We’re considering commercial work. Starting small. Coke. McDonalds. Chevrolet. I told Bernie to try and land me a porno, but he didn’t think it was good for the image.”
“What brings you out this way?” Roy asked.
“I had something to give to Bert.”
Bert beamed. “Monthly Lincoln Police Department auction. They raise money by auctioning off things they’ve confiscated. You know; stolen cars, bikes, antique lures found at a murder scene…”
“I actually thought forty bucks was kind of high,” Abe said, “but since I was there I felt obliged to buy something.”
Roy laughed. “Why, Abe, how honest of you.”
“Least I could do. If it wasn’t for you guys, I’d still be selling cars instead of making the big Hollywood bucks.”
“So you’re back in business?” Tom asked Bert.
“Actually, no. I sold the rest of my lures and bought some property in New Mexico.”
“You didn’t…”
“It’s going to take a few weeks to get my new ostrich farm up and running, but I expect all of you to visit when I do. Especially at Thanksgiving.”
Roy smiled wide. “Good for you, buddy. I’m proud of you.”
The List - A Thriller Page 29
