Rendezvous in Rio

by Danielle Bourdon

  He didn’t dare look behind him to see if Westrich was hit. Rising above the chair, gun extended again, Cole fired at a fast-moving shape retreating into the hallway. All he caught sight of was a glimpse of dark clothing, maybe a shoulder.

  A gun boomed somewhere else in the house, followed by several female screams. Cole understood then that the entire house was under attack by some unknown enemy, an enemy whose identity resolved itself moments later as his mind frantically sorted details and probabilities: the only logical assailants were the men who had gone rogue on Westrich. There were more men in on the ruse than the ones in Brazil, and this particular batch had clearly come back to confront Westrich and had been surprised to find him in the mix.

  “Put the gun down or we’ll shoot the maid!” a voice shouted from the area outside the chamber doors. Cole couldn’t see anything, couldn’t tell whether the man who’d been shooting at them had a hostage or not. Judging by the earlier screams, however, he could not discount that another member of the team had gathered up employees with the intent of using them as bait.

  He cursed quietly under his breath. His cell phone was in the middle of the floor where he’d dropped it, too exposed to risk retrieving. He would have to go into the open, with nothing to hide behind or protect himself with, and if the gunman leaned around the doorframe at the wrong time, he would have an unimpeded shot. Calling for backup, at least at this particular moment, was out of the question. Unless Westrich wasn’t bleeding out or dead behind his desk and could get to the landline.

  Cole risked a glance back. He couldn’t see Westrich at all, thanks to the tables and the heavy desk beyond that. The man was down, though alive or dead, he couldn’t tell.

  “Do you hear me?” the man in the hall shouted. “I will kill the girl!”

  Cole considered the situation. If he complied he might save the life of the maid and lose his own life in the process. And if he didn’t comply, the maid would certainly die.

  What he needed was a distraction.

  Picking up the pillow off the chair, he readied himself and threw it across the room, making sure the trajectory took it past the open doorway. He rose on his haunches even as the pillow arced through the air, putting all his faith in the reactions of the shooter to go after the pillow and not his own head.

  An arm and shoulder appeared past the doorframe, gun in hand. A shot went off. The pillow continued to arc through the room, unhit.

  Even as he depressed the trigger on his own weapon, Cole knew that these men were not as well trained as they could be, not sniper shots at least, and that he had the upper hand in actual combat.

  A masculine scream ripped through the corridor as the assailant flew back and down, the gun skidding across the floor.

  Cole had hit him in the shoulder.

  Amid a woman’s screams, Cole took advantage of the distraction and darted around the chair, rushing up to the door and out into the hall, full speed forward, adrenaline making the back of his head tingle. Another assailant, dressed in khakis with a gun in his hand, went down when Cole shot him in the thigh. The maid, a young woman with short blonde hair, cowered against the wall, knees shaking, hands up.

  Cole kicked the weapon away from the downed assailant and hurried the stunned maid through the hall. “How many more?” he whispered.

  “Two more at least,” she whispered back.

  Cole guided her into an empty upstairs room. “Close and lock the door. Hide.”

  He left her there, backtracking through the hall, moving on swift feet toward the staircase. The foyer below was vacant of gunmen. Silence reigned where there had once been chaos, indicating to Cole that the other gunmen were stationary and listening, probably working out their next move. He decided to see just how loyal the men were to the leader of the group. Decided to turn their tricks back on themselves.

  “Put your weapons down and walk into the foyer with your hands up. Do it now, or I’ll finish off the two I’ve already shot up here.” Cole didn’t shout but spoke in a loud, authoritative voice.

  He wouldn’t kill the men, but the bastards downstairs didn’t have to know that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Madalina said good-bye to Brazil with a strangely conflicted heart. She would forever remember the sweet nostalgia of her grandfather’s letters, but the lingering poignancy had been overshadowed by a gut-wrenching fear for Cole’s life. Despite her resolution to be optimistic, an ugly knot of angst persisted. Of course, it did. Anyone in her shoes would feel the same, she told herself, up to and including Damon and Sam. She’d seen their reactions during the call, recognized the fear and the inner turmoil. They’d simply recovered faster and better, hiding their concern behind a professional veneer.

  During the departure from her grandfather’s house, she’d seen Damon check his phone twice for messages. Probably hoping to hear word from Cole or Thaddeus. Madalina’s hopes surged every time he did it, only to come crashing down when Damon pushed the phone away without new information.

  As each street took them farther from the beach and closer to the airstrip, Madalina recalled how she’d wanted so badly to experience this part of Cole’s life. The part where he dashed off to places unknown to unravel puzzles and mysteries, and to sometimes “collect” things that needed collecting. The reality was a lot more stark and visceral than she could have imagined, even though this trip hadn’t technically been one of his missions. There had still been information to gather and a dragon to find, and far more danger than she’d bargained for. This was what it was like for Cole every time he left their Tudor-style house in Whittier. Never knowing what threat might lie around every corner or what new development awaited at each destination. It shed new light on her perspective of Cole’s job, and, she decided, it wouldn’t have been so bad if people hadn’t been kidnapped or died. She could handle unraveling mysteries and figuring out puzzles.

  The shootouts she could do without.

  For now she stared pensively out the window of the car, pressed snug against the seat with her head tilted back. That was in case gunfire erupted on the drive to the jet. Sam sat in the back with her, a gun lying across his lap, eyes darting at the passing scenery on all sides. He was vigilant and alert, body tense with the expectation of violence.

  Once or twice she caught Damon’s gaze in the rearview mirror, but couldn’t decipher what he was thinking or feeling. He was as alert as his brother, driving aggressively through the backstreets until he hit a straightaway toward the airstrip.

  They were almost there.

  She could see the long runway with cresting foothills in the distance, and couldn’t wait to feel the acceleration of the jet as it raced down the tarmac.

  Damon turned into the small terminal, consisting of only a few one-story buildings adjacent to a row of hangars. He sped straight to the front entrance, stopped the car, and after stashing his weapon, opened her door.

  She climbed out, blinking against the glare of the sun, and followed Damon and Samuel inside.

  So far, so good. No shots, no sign of trouble.

  The only obstacle left was a customs check and boarding the jet.

  Cole got nothing. No response. Not even a whisper of movement. He waited ten seconds before retracing his steps to the landing, where he’d shot the man in the thigh. Dressed in dark colors, with dark hair and dark eyes, the man writhed on the floor in pain, one hand clutching the top of his leg. Cole pointed the gun straight down at his chest.

  “Tell your men to release all the hostages and slide their weapons into the foyer. Do it now,” Cole said.

  The man groaned and, at first, looked like he might defy the order. Perhaps it was something in his own eyes that convinced the assailant to change his mind. Cole stared down at the man with calculating coldness, a necessary attribute in this business.

  “I won’t hesitate,” Cole said in a quieter voice.

 
; “Let the staff go! Let them go! Slide your weapons into the foyer.” The assailant shouted the words much louder than was necessary.

  Cole tightened his grip on the gun as added incentive for the man to hurry his men along.

  “Do it now!” the man added, the whites of his eyes showing around the iris.

  Cole didn’t hear the telltale sound of metal sliding across marble, which he should have easily heard if the other assailants had complied. They were holding out, probably whispering urgently among themselves, trying to decide what to do. Trying to decide if he would really shoot this man or not. Trying to figure out if they could become ringleader, sacrifice their comrade, and keep the game alive. Maybe one of the men downstairs was the ringleader, and his silence meant he didn’t care if his underling died or not.

  It was a hell of a business sometimes, these awkward standoffs. One side attempting to out-strategize the other. Cole wouldn’t shoot to kill unless he was actively being fired upon. While some might say this situation warranted it, that it was kill or be killed, Cole wasn’t to the critical point, not yet.

  Any second that factor could change.

  Movement in periphery nearly caused him to swivel and pull the trigger. Only years of honed fighting skills stayed his hand. He turned, ready to do what he needed to. It wasn’t one of the intruders coming up on his flank, but Westrich. Pale and shaken, Westrich made gestures to the other downed man, the one Cole had shot in the shoulder, and the gun against the wall.

  Cole understood Westrich’s intent. He nodded his head toward the gun. Westrich retrieved it and, after a fumbling moment or two, aimed toward the men on the ground.

  Because he wasn’t convinced that Westrich knew how to shoot a gun at all, or even whether the safety was on or off, Cole took four steps to his left and gave Westrich a short, silent lesson on the handgun. He pointed to the safety, to the trigger, and showed Westrich a sturdy shooter’s stance.

  Westrich nodded once, jaw clenched tight.

  Downstairs a girl screamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Madalina sank into a seat on the jet and plopped her bag on the floor in front of her. This was not like any other airplane seat she’d been in before. Made of butter-soft leather, with cushioned armrests and headrests and the ability to tilt into a recline, it made her feel more like she was at an upscale spa than on an airplane. The entire interior catered to luxury, with a sofa behind the initial six seats, a spacious lavatory, and a small kitchenette, where a flight attendant hastily fixed the last touches on her navy-and-cream-colored suit.

  “You going to be okay?” Samuel asked, pausing by her seat.

  Madalina glanced up. “Sure, yes. Why?”

  Samuel glanced at her hands. Only then did Madalina realize that she’d been wringing them nervously, pulling the skin tight across her knuckles. “I guess I’m a little more tense than I thought.”

  “It’s understandable. The drive here could have gone a lot differently than it did, and we still haven’t heard about Cole.” Samuel grasped her shoulder and squeezed.

  “Thanks, Samuel.” Once again Cole’s youngest brother surprised her. He was observant, compassionate, and willing to comfort her any way he could.

  The sudden chime of Damon’s cell phone commanded the attention of all of them. Madalina sat forward in her seat, expectant and anxious in the hope it might be Cole.

  Please, God, let it be Cole.

  “Hey, Thaddeus, what have you heard?” Damon said after a glance at the caller ID.

  Madalina fought off disappointment, refused to let her hope sink. Sam followed Damon behind the seats to the sofa area, and because she didn’t want to miss anything, she stood and followed as well. Maybe Cole had called Thaddeus first.

  “All right. Well, let us know.” Damon ended the call and glanced first to Sam, then to Madalina. “The cops are on the scene. They went in silent and have been in a standoff near the front gate. No news on Cole or Westrich yet.”

  “How long are they going to wait? I mean, we heard shots. Cole could be injured. What if he’s still alive but needs urgent care?” Madalina paced a few steps in front of the sofa and lifted a nail to nibble on. She wasn’t a nail-biter at all, hated the habit, and finally swung her hand away from her mouth. Back to hand-wringing, gaze on Damon.

  “I don’t know, Madalina. Maybe they’re sending another team in the back. From what I understand, Westrich has a lot of property, and the front is the easiest access point. I’m sure the cops are doing all they can, as fast as they can,” Damon said. He stepped close and set a hand on her shoulder like Sam had.

  She could read the unease in his eyes, the same concern that was starting to eat her alive inside. Knowing the police were there and that Cole still wasn’t found or safe unnerved her as much as hearing the gunshots had. She quirked a solemn smile for Damon’s effort to soothe her fears.

  He went to sit in a seat, as did Sam, and Madalina had no choice but to backtrack to her own. Once they were in the air and at cruising altitude, she would be up again. Pacing. Knowing the cops were on the scene, that news of Cole could come anytime, would make it impossible for her to rest.

  Sitting still wasn’t an option until she had definitive news.

  Is there another way downstairs? Cole mouthed to Westrich after the scream. With a shaking hand, Westrich gestured to a room adjacent to his office. On the floor, one of the men who’d been watching the interaction opened his mouth, probably to alert his brethren. Cole aimed his weapon down and shook his head.

  “Don’t,” he said quietly. Cole hoped Westrich would learn from this and follow suit.

  Westrich stepped up and took over where Cole left off.

  Assured that Westrich would keep the men quiet, Cole jogged to the side room, which was as brightly lit as the rest of the manor. Daylight had arrived at some indeterminate time, adding to the glow. Cole discovered the room was an upstairs butler’s pantry, of a sort, and had a circular staircase leading to the lower floors. Gun aimed in front of him, he made his way down, one shoulder brushing the wall for support.

  The staircase ended in another long pantry, filled with wine, dishes, and serving equipment. An extension of the one on the top level, this room led out onto the main floor, into a hallway that parted off two different directions: one toward the kitchen, the other toward the foyer. Another hallway or two broke off from the main artery. The remaining assailants were somewhere ahead rather than behind, or he wouldn’t have heard the scream as clearly as he had.

  Creeping down the corridor, staying close to the right wall, Cole came to the first juncture and peered around the corner. This hall cut a path around the foyer, with direct access to the foyer itself. Cole made another fast judgment call: this was where the men would have made a stand. It wasn’t in plain sight of the balcony to the upper floors, yet allowed the men to shout and be heard—and to step out of hiding and shoot at anyone coming down the staircase.

  Arriving at the corner of that final hall, he held his breath and listened. A rustle of material and feminine whimpers indicated that the group was right there, less than twenty feet away. Cole mentally calculated how many rounds he had left in his weapon and hoped there weren’t more than two or three men to deal with. He wouldn’t have time to reload if he came face-to-face with a crowd.

  Checking his back to make sure no one was sneaking up from behind, he counted to three and rushed around the corner, gun level, elbows locked.

  Not two or three, but four men and two hostages stood at the other end, bodies tense, weapons in the open. Each of the intruders faced the foyer, not Cole, which was the first piece of good luck. But Cole faced a dilemma that he had perhaps a half second to figure out: the first shot would warn the other three of his presence, and they would turn to fire on him. He thought he could take out one more before being shot, maybe two. Even if he got three, that still left one marksman w
ho had time to blow his head off and perhaps kill one or both of the hostages.

  If he was really lucky, the hostages would hinder one or more of the men from shooting in the seconds he needed to take them all out.

  He had no choice but to act, no other course of action available except to disable the men any way he could. They had hostages, and his first priority was to see those people safe.

  Pausing against the wall, he aimed and took his first shot.

  Boom. Boom. He got a second round away before one startled man glanced back, eyes wild with shock. He began to lift his gun. The other remaining intruder yanked a hostage closer against his chest—a struggling hostage, which would make a kill shot nearly impossible.

  The situation was deteriorating rapidly.

  Forced to act or risk getting shot himself, Cole squeezed off two successive shots, hitting one man high in the chest. He dropped into a crouch, legs braced for the best balance, and took a shot at the final assailant’s leg. If he missed, thanks to the struggling hostage, and hit the hostage instead, at least the person had a chance to survive. Cole needed one of the men alive, preferably the ringleader, though he couldn’t discern as yet who that might be.

  Screaming in pain, the final man reeled backward from the shot, the gun arching high. Cole knew the man might regain his senses enough to lower the gun and shoot; he charged like a linebacker into the man’s legs. Thankfully, both of the hostages ran for their lives, making the takedown easier.

  Suffering a knock to his head from the butt of the intruder’s gun, Cole threw a left-handed punch, knocking the man unconscious. Breathing hard he spun to check the other three men of the group, ready to shoot again, this time for a more permanent solution should he find that one of the assailants had recovered a weapon.