by Leslie Jones
Thing must be twelve feet tall, he thought.
At the far end, an information desk sat near the front vestibule, maps and brochures ready and waiting for patrons to walk through the door. The simple round wall clock told him it neared—
The grandfather clock ticked once, then began to chime. Ding-dung ding-dong. Dong ding-ding-dung.
The sound echoed through the room, duplicated on the other side by a second, smaller grandfather clock. Six-thirty. His planned route to the stairwell in the far back corner should have taken him behind the double-curved staircases and along the left row of rooms. Instead, he headed straight for the vestibule, and, without hesitation, unlocked the solid wooden door and swung it open.
“I see three SUVs. That makes a maximum of fifteen people.”
“Roger. Entering clock room now,” Simon said.
“Understood.”
He clicked the door closed, hurrying into the open corridor that wrapped the outside of the great hall. He could hear faint voices, but they, too, echoed through the space, leaving him unable to tell from which direction they came. Entering the far corner stairwell, he took the stairs two at a time.
A sudden grunt through his radio receiver and the thump of something heavy hitting the ground told him Simon had made first contact.
“Target down.”
“Roger that. Entering whatever the hell this back room is.”
It was long, but narrower than the hallway he’d just left. A velvet rope separated the middle area from the dizzying array of cuckoo clocks mounted on the walls. One decorated with carved leaves and birds, another with a deer head and antlers. He looked at the black one lined with crosses above a pointed roof, and ducked under the velvet rope. Pushing the clock hands anticlockwise, he reset the time on five of them before he heard footsteps and voices outside the door arch.
“How many goddamned clocks can there be in the world?”
He darted into the corner next to the opening, dropping the Uzi. The strap held it in place across his body. The cuckoo clocks began to chime, some playing music and some jingling.
“Fucking noisy shits. I’m taking an axe to every last— Hey!”
The first man through the door carrying an MP5 casually in the crook of his arm startled when he saw Trevor. He tried to swing the submachine gun toward him. Trevor grabbed the barrel with both hands and yanked. The man stumbled forward and past him, losing his grip and dropping the weapon.
“Oh, shit,” the second man gasped, drawing his Browning 1911. Before he could raise it high enough to shoot, Trevor grabbed the barrel with his left hand, simultaneously slamming his forearm into the bend of the man’s elbow. Up, under, and into a figure four, he grabbed his own wrist, yanking down ruthlessly as he twisted the man’s arm sideways and to the floor. The man screamed as the tendons in his shoulder separated and dislocated.
Trevor leapt over his legs to the first man, who had scrabbled to the MP5. He grabbed the man by the collar and belt, and slammed him headfirst into the wall. Dizzy and disoriented, the man tried to get up, but stumbled to all fours. Trevor kicked him in the face. He went down and stayed there.
He took the time to grab the roll of duct tape and secure their hands and feet, putting a strip over each man’s mouth for good measure.
“Targets down in the northwest room. Moving south.”
“Roger. I’m in the hourglass and water clock room. What the hell is a water clock?”
Trevor grinned. “Water. In a clock?”
“Ha-ha. Funny man. Room’s clear. Moving on.”
He gripped the Uzi and left the cuckoo clocks behind. The hallway here opened into empty space, a balcony rail to his left and two rooms to his right. He cleared the first room—a quick peek told him it was empty—and headed to the second.
Footsteps on the stairs to his front left had him scrambling back the way he’d come, before the wearer of the squeaky shoe could climb high enough to see him. He ducked into the room he’d just cleared. The squeaky shoe turned left and headed away from him.
“Be advised tango is heading to the southwest room in the far back. I’m in pursuit,” he murmured.
“Understood. Keep your neck on a swivel.”
“Ditto.”
He heard voices ahead of him. Squeaky Shoe had linked up with someone else.
“There’s nothing downstairs. Mr. Smith says to keep looking.”
“Do you see me looking?” He recognized Nathan’s voice. “I’m looking. There’s nothing here.”
Trevor put his back against the wall and drew the karambit, flipping it open and settling it into his palm. The voices got louder as Nathan and Squeaky Shoe exited. As soon as he saw the flash of clothing, Trevor spun around the corner, clocking Squeaky Shoe in the temple with the hilt of his knife and shoving the slumping body toward Nathan. Who gave a shout of alarm, jumping back and firing a shotgun blindly. Trevor ducked, hands elevated around his head as he scrambled back into the hallway. The shooting stopped.
“Hey, there, Trevor, old buddy. How you doing?” Nathan called after a moment.
“Doing great. I’d be doing better if you came out with your hands up.” Trevor flipped the karambit up and gripped the Uzi as extra adrenaline spiked his system.
Nathan laughed. “Eric said you had a great sense of humor. Why don’t you come on in here, and we can talk about it?”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Something metal pinged off the balcony rail. Several other projectiles passed so closely he felt the air move. He dove to the floor, rolled into the wall, and found the shooter on the other side of the open air, firing from the opposite balcony. He returned fire blindly and leapt to his feet, knees bent, Uzi up and searching for a target.
Nathan ducked out of the room, racking a pump-action shotgun almost in his face.
All the lights went out.
Chapter Thirty-One
SHELBY CREPT THROUGH the gift shop, looking in wonder at the assortment of clocks. Mantel, wall, and floor clocks. Radio, alarm, and cuckoo, as well as wristwatches and pocket watches. Digital, analog, and some with no hands at all. Sun clocks, hourglasses, pendulum clocks, quartz clocks. A photo-frame clock and a braille clock. Books on the history of time and timepieces. Clock puzzles. Kits for building a Roman-style, or a water clock. Even a binary clock kit.
Only a few of the clocks ticked, but the noise felt ominous.
She forced herself past the rows and tables, tiptoeing to an open office door. Was somebody still here? A single lamp burned on the desk, and Brahms played in the background as though someone had simply gotten up and walked away.
She backed out and returned to the gift shop.
Now what?
As she got closer to the front of the shop, she heard voices, but they faded and grew stronger, echoing through the cavernous area beyond the shop so she couldn’t tell who or where it was coming from. She pushed back the security gate, wincing at the screeching noise. Holding her breath, she strained to hear. Were those footsteps coming closer?
Her heart, already thumping, knocked harder. Or maybe that was her knees. Where could she hide?
She saw the public restrooms ahead of her. Men to the left and women . . . she darted right, pushing open the door and forcing the springs shut again. Pressing her ear to the faint crack, she held her breath and prayed.
“See? There’s nothing here. Losing your nerve, are we?” A woman’s voice; probably Fay.
A man replied. “How can you tell anything in this place with all the noise?”
“Just tune it out, you twat. Anyway, I need to pee. Bugger off.”
Hand at her throat, Shelby backed away from the door, looking frantically around at the three stalls. Which one would Fay use? She darted into the last stall.
Leaving the door ajar, she climbed onto the
toilet and perched there so her feet wouldn’t give her away. The bathroom door opened. Shelby bit her lip, breathing as shallowly as possible. One of the stall doors banged shut, something hard and metallic hit the floor, then the sound of water splashing.
She’d set down her assault rifle. If Shelby could sneak out of her stall, she might be able to catch Fay unaware.
And then what? She had only Trevor’s brief instruction on how to hit. And kneeing Fay in the groin would not stop her.
The toilet flushed. Fay picked up her weapon and stepped out of the stall. The bathroom door opened and shut. Shelby let out the breath she’d been holding. She climbed off the toilet and went to the door, listening for several long minutes before cracking it open. No one seemed to be there. She snuck out, ducking back into the gift shop.
She saw another door in the gift shop, just to her left. Maybe a storage room? She tried the handle. It turned easily, so she pushed her way in.
For a moment, the bank of computer screens threw her. Then she understood.
She’d found the security room.
Closing and locking the door behind her, she looked around. Fire extinguisher, breaker box, wastebasket. And, of course, a wall clock above the monitors. She sat in the chair behind a curved table and two rows of monitors. Sixteen cameras. The labels didn’t help much. Room Two East? Room Six South?
Movement on the monitors had her catching her breath. Men walking along the corridors. Max and three men inside a room, dismantling the grandmother clock she recognized from the photo. She felt a rush of relief as she saw Trevor enter one of the empty rooms.
What should she do now? She speared both hands into her hair, dropping her head into her palms. The plan that had seemed plausible in her head now seemed crazy and stupid. She could stay here, or sneak back out and rejoin Lark.
Movement on the monitors caught her eye. She saw one of the Bedlamites, Nathan, with a second man near the exit of Room Four Southwest. In another, West Hallway Two, Trevor flipped open his curved knife. He disappeared from camera view, only to appear seconds later in the room with Nathan and the other man. Hands gripping the desk so tightly her knuckles whitened, Shelby watched as Trevor hit the man in the head.
In horror, she saw Nathan start firing and Trevor crouching as he jumped back into the hallway. And in East Hallway Two, another man opened fire, spraying bullets from his assault weapon. Trevor hit the floor.
“No!”
Had he been shot? Her hand pressed to her chest, she watched anxiously for Trevor to get up. There! He fired his rifle and got to his feet. With Nathan on one side and the guy on the balcony pinning him down, Shelby didn’t see how he could break free.
She needed to help somehow. He was a sitting duck out there in the open. In plain view. She rocketed out of the chair and ran to the breaker box. Wrenching it open, she grabbed the main circuit breaker bar and yanked it down.
Chapter Thirty-Two
WITH A ROAR, Trevor bent at the knees, pushing up and catching the barrel of the shotgun between his crossed wrists as it blasted over his head and into the ceiling. The hot metal seared his skin and the thunder nearly deafened him. He dropped his right hand, stabbing the karambit into the inside of Nathan’s thigh and slicing upward at an angle. Nathan screamed, grabbing at his leg with both hands. Blood gushed from the wound.
Trevor tossed the shotgun away. Nathan’s eyes were wide and frightened as he tried to apply pressure, but Trevor had severed his femoral artery. He would bleed out in minutes.
He turned back to the balcony, pocketing the karambit. He needed to find the other shooter. Firing two shots over the rail, he immediately ducked and moved to a new position. The shooter, predictably, returned fire to where Trevor had just been. Trevor saw the muzzle flash, fired a controlled burst from the Uzi, and heard a body fall.
Another tango down.
The pounding of feet from the other balcony had him ducking back. He heard cursing and recognized Eric’s voice. Any minute, the emergency lights would come on, exposing him.
A noise from behind him had him spinning and aiming, finger on the trigger. Simon appeared beside him. Trevor blew out a breath, dropping the muzzle away from him.
“A little warning next time.”
“Who turned out the lights?”
Both spoke at the same time.
“Radio got busted in a fight,” Simon said. “I got five. You?”
“Five as well.”
As one, they turned and headed back toward the room housing the grandmother clock. When they got there, the room was empty. The clock had been smashed apart and lay in pieces.
“Someone had a temper tantrum,” Simon said.
“Which means they’re downstairs. Let’s go.”
They took the side stairwell, which brought them out into the corridor they’d first come through. When they hit the great hall, they saw Max and Eric coming down the last few steps.
“Freeze!” Trevor shouted. “Weapons on the ground. Now!”
Instead of stopping, Eric fired a Browning Hi-Power, and kept pulling the trigger. Trevor and Simon ducked back behind a bearing wall. Chunks of plaster exploded as the rounds hit the wall. Simon stepped out to return fire. A bullet caught him just above his elbow. Cursing, he dodged back.
“That came from the left,” he said. “At least one more target.”
Trevor tore open Simon’s sleeve to check the wound. “Bullet’s in there. We need to stop the bleeding. Do you have your wallet?”
Simon winced in pain. “Right rear.”
Trevor fished out the leather billfold and took out the first card he saw.
“I don’t accept Visa,” Simon grunted, lips white. “Only American Express.”
“Put it on my tab, then,” Trevor said as he slapped the card over the wound. “Hold this.”
Simon obediently held the card in place while Trevor grabbed the roll of duct tape. He wrapped the heavy-duty tape around Simon’s upper arm, pressing the credit card on top of the wound. Simon clenched his jaw.
“Fast, expedient field dressing,” Trevor said.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Fay said from behind them.
Both of them froze.
“Put your weapons down and move out into the hall.”
Inwardly cursing himself for being every kind of fool, Trevor set the Uzi on the ground. Simon did the same with his weapon.
“The handguns, too. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re a dog licking Eric’s boots.” But he obeyed the order.
“Now move.” She shoved the muzzle of her rifle between his shoulder blades, prodding him forward. “Get your hands where I can see them.”
Hands raised, the two operators moved into the great hall.
“Well, well, well,” Max said. “Hello, Trevor. So good of you to come. Chasing you was becoming tiresome.”
“Funny, I was having such a good time.”
Max chuckled. “But all good things must come to an end.”
Fay cracked him on the shoulder with the rifle. “Keep moving.”
Trevor and Simon crossed the polished teak floor to the twelve-foot grandfather clock. Its face glowed golden, with Roman numerals instead of numbers. Inlays of cherubs climbed its reddish wood to the swirled, ornately carved crest. The huge base ended in clawed feet.
Max stood before it, arms hanging comfortably at his sides. A glaring Eric placed himself slightly behind his boss, the Browning Hi-Power steady.
The gold-plated pendulum made a guttural clang with each swing.
“He fucking betrayed me. Let me kill him,” Eric said.
“In a minute. First things first.” Max’s gaze slid to Simon. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“No.”
Max clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. �
�So rude. Then I’ll ask him directly. Who are you?”
“Just a concerned citizen.”
“Israeli Defense Force.” Max looked over Simon’s uniform. “You’re here about the janitor who got killed? Sorry about that.”
Simon’s hands tightened into fists, but his face remained expressionless.
“When did you get here, gentlemen?”
The question threw Trevor. “What difference does that make?”
Max’s pleasant façade slipped for a moment. His eyes became slits of rage, mouth contorting. “Did you get to the fucking clock before I did? Did you search it?”
Trevor forced a laugh. “Why should I tell you that?”
Eric’s fingertip brushed the trigger. “I can shoot you now and search your corpses.”
“Answer the goddamned question,” Max barked.
Goading Max would only cause him to order them killed. Trevor needed to stall him until his task force arrived. He lowered his hands and made a placating gesture. “I never got to that room.”
“I saw it,” Simon volunteered. “Both before and after you turned it into kindling.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “And?”
Simon shrugged. “Nada.”
Frustration and fury warred on Max’s face, and a desperation that caused a knot in Trevor’s gut. The man was coming unhinged. If he’d been dangerous before, he now approached lethal.
SHELBY PRESSED SHAKING fingers against her mouth, breath coming in panicked spurts. Trevor and Simon stood in the open, covered by Fay’s rifle and Eric’s handgun. Max would order them killed. Fay or Eric, or both, would shoot.
She had to do something. None of them knew she was here. She could take them by surprise, and . . . and . . .
She had to help. They would die if she didn’t go out there.
And she might die if she did.
She picked up the rifle Trevor had left in the sewer a lifetime ago. It seemed to have buttons and levers everywhere. She pushed a couple. No red dot appeared, but the long, curved magazine fell out and hit the floor with a clang.
