by Leslie Jones
Muttering curses, she picked it up and wrestled it back in.
Now or never.
It took more nerve than she knew she had to step back into the gift shop. As much as she wanted to stop, to listen, she instead walked steadily past the restrooms and into the shadow of the staircase. Before she could think too much about it, she jumped out into the main room, pointing the assault gun at Max.
“Anyone moves a hair, and you’re the first to die,” she shouted.
Five faces turned toward her with incredulity. She forced herself to keep her eyes on Max, when what she really wanted to do was run to Trevor.
Max snorted with laughter. “Saved by a girl. That’s fitting, eh, Trevor?”
Trevor sounded strangled. “Shel, what in the hell are you doing here?”
“Well . . . helping.”
Fay took a step toward her, and she swung the muzzle around, taking the step to press it into Fay’s chest.
“Do you think I can miss at this range?” she said in her best Clint Eastwood voice. “Drop it!”
Fay let the rifle clatter to the floor. “Bitch.”
Trevor moved forward fast, scooping up Fay’s rifle and tossing it to Simon, who caught it one-handed. When he turned back to Max, several things happened at once.
Fay drew a sap from her pocket and swung it at Trevor as hard as she could. He moved his head a fraction, and the blow landed harmlessly on his shoulder.
Eric, face a mask of hostility, ran at him, knife in his hand.
Crawley appeared at Shelby’s shoulder, reaching around and plucking the rifle from her hands. She grabbed for it, then felt cold metal against her throat. The madman had his fingers in the holes of his enormous blade as he stroked it gently under her jaw.
“Let’s watch the fun,” Crawley murmured into her ear, slipping an arm around her waist and snugging her into the curve of his body.
Trevor jumped back to avoid Eric’s knife thrust. Eric came at him from the side. Trevor parried his arm away, coming up with the karambit in his hand and slashing at Eric, forcing him back. He flipped it several times. Eric flickered a glance in that direction as Trevor eased one leg back and brought both hands up into a fighting position. Eric raised the knife over his head and struck at Trevor, who faded back and slapped his arm away. Eric whirled, swinging backhand. Trevor caught his arm, slicing his triceps and chopping at his elbow. Eric twined his arm free and slugged Trevor in the ribs. After that, all Shelby saw was a flurry of arms and legs. Right hand to right hand, crossed hands, lightning-fast attacks and counterattacks. Strikes, thrusts, slashes, and parries. A blur of motion so fast she could barely tell what was happening.
Eric came in low, slicing up diagonally. Trevor staggered back, the left side of his shirt torn and soaking up blood. Shelby cried out, instinctively trying to go to him, but Crawley pulled her back.
“Uh-uh,” he said, giggling. “No fairsies.”
The two combatants closed. Trevor looped his left arm under Eric’s blade hand and brought his right on top of it, pushing his whole body into Eric’s and forcing the knifepoint into his chest. For a moment, the two strained together, using brute force. Eric slammed his forearm down, breaking the hold and pushing Trevor off to the right. A circle of blood seeped through his shirt. Trevor came back with a right cross, then used his arm to sweep Eric’s knife away from him. Quick as a snake, he reversed the direction of his arm sweep, twisting Eric’s wrist with both of his hands. Eric tried pulling away from him, but Trevor threw his arm across both of Eric’s and tried to trap his knife. For a moment, both held each other’s hands, fighting to disarm the other.
“You’ve got to stop this,” Shelby cried. “Max, please.”
“Why?” Max shrugged. “No matter who wins, one of my problems is taken care of.”
Trevor reversed directions, lifting Eric’s knife hand up and over his head. Eric swung low, kicking Trevor’s knee. Trevor spun, rolling his back along Eric’s arm until he was behind him. Slapping a palm across his knife hand for extra leverage, he brought the karambit up, and buried it to the hilt in the base of Eric’s skull.
Chapter Thirty-Three
TREVOR STRAIGHTENED UP, breathing heavily, and let Eric slide to the floor. His knee felt on fire where Eric had kicked him, and the stings from multiple defensive wounds on his arms annoyed him. He flexed his chest, trying to gauge how deep the slash was. Everything seemed to work fine. His gaze shot to Shelby, needing to make sure she was all right. His jaws snapped together and a growl started low in his throat when he saw Crawley cradling her body to his.
Max clapped his hands together lazily. “Well done,” he said mockingly. “Very impressive.”
“Let her go, Crawley,” he gritted out. A red haze clouded his sight, but Trevor didn’t try to stem the homicidal rage roaring through him.
Simon locked his gun sights on Crawley.
“Now we have a standoff,” Max said. “If either of you gallant saviors try anything heroic, Crawley will cut her up, a piece at a time. Now, none of us wants that.”
“I know I don’t want that,” Shelby said, sounding remarkably calm. “I am curious, though. Did you find what you were looking for in the grandmother clock?”
Max’s face boiled with rage. “None of your business.”
Shelby angled herself more fully toward him. “Kinda is, considering your psychopath here has a knife to my throat. You’re pissed, which means you didn’t find anything. Do any of your Bedlamites know what you’re really up to with these museum bombings? Or what you’re doing here tonight?”
Crawley stroked the thirteen-inch trench knife down to Shelby’s breastbone. “I could shove this into your heart right now.”
“You could do that. Or you can ask your boss what he plans to do with you once he finds the account number and password to the Swiss bank.”
Fay’s eyes narrowed. “What’s she talking about?”
“Nothing,” Max snapped.
“Oh, it’s something,” Shelby said, voice amused.
Trevor wanted to shout at her to stop talking. She was deliberately antagonizing Max. Didn’t she realize if she pushed him to far, he would let Crawley stab her, as he had Floyd?
“Twelve wealthy British families sent valuables to Switzerland during the latter stages of World War Two,” she said, “in the form of gold and works of art. Max’s grandfather organized the whole thing. Coordinated shipping the items out of England. Arranged for the cargo to be delivered at the other end.”
Who was she talking to? Fay? Because Max already knew all this. Trevor fought the urge to shut her up. Her training as a political officer, she’d told him, taught her to convince people of things. Right now, he needed to trust she knew what she was doing, even if he didn’t understand what she hoped to accomplish.
“I did some rough calculations, Max. If the families sent only a hundred thousand pounds each, that gold bullion is worth close to sixteen billion at today’s exchange rate. More than enough to put your company back in the black, and set you up for life.”
“What the fuck?” Fay said. “You said we’d bring down the corrupt government. That we could make our own decisions, free from laws that keep us prisoner. No more price fixing, no more greedy oil corporations and big pharma. Putting the power into the hands of the people, where it belongs. And now it turns out this is all about money? You lying sack of shit!”
Trevor almost felt sorry for her. Of all of the Bedlamites, she seemed to be the only one who truly believed their anarchist philosophy.
Max started walking toward the front door. “Unless one of you intends to shoot me in the back, I’m leaving. You can have this lot, though. They’re of no more use to me.”
“You fucking son of a bitch,” Fay spat. “No way you leave us to take the fall.”
Max shrugged and kept walking.
Crawley spun Shelby and punched her in the face. As she staggered, dazed, an unholy gleam lit his eyes. He slid his hand to the small of her back as he tucked his pelvis to hers. “Goody. Now we can have some fun.”
Trevor started toward him.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Crawley said, knifepoint at Shelby’s jugular. “One more step, and you can kissy-kissy her goodbye.”
Shelby gulped in some air, hands on his chest, trying to push him away.
“Squirming makes me happy.” He gave a high, giggly laugh.
She stilled. Trevor wasn’t sure she even breathed.
Sweat popped out of Trevor’s pores. Maybe he could rush the man before he . . . no. No way would he risk Shelby. But nor could he stand here and watch Crawly cut her. Simon maneuvered away from him to get a better angle. Crawley backed up, dragging Shelby with him, keeping both operators in sight.
Trevor glanced at Simon, who gave a single shake of the head. He didn’t have the shot.
“You don’t really want to hurt me,” Shelby said. “If you do, you’ll die. I’m not worth it. Just let me go.”
Trevor wasn’t the only one who heard the pleading in her voice. He gripped the karambit so tightly the bottom of the blade cut his palm. He barely noticed.
Crawley sneered down at her. “Women always beg. You’re weak. Only good for fucking.”
Fury tightened her body. She struck at his face, fingers hooked into claws as she tried to gouge out his eyes. Crawley yanked his head away. Blood began to leak from the deep furrows.
“You fucking cunt!” he howled. He grabbed her by the throat and began to squeeze. Shelby gripped his wrists, trying to pull his hands away, the whites of her eyes showing as air eluded her. Crawley’s eyes were bright. The man was getting off on this. He eased up the pressure, thumbs stroking along the pulse thundering in her neck.
“You’re deranged,” she whispered, clearly shaken.
Crawley bent his head and inhaled mightily just below Shelby’s ear. “I smell your fear. I want to taste it.”
Simon eased left, rifle trained on him.
“Drop it,” Crawley said.
“Let her go.” Trevor’s strong voice belied the terror coursing through him. He slid to the right, trying to keep Crawley’s eyes on him. As soon as Simon had a clear shot, he knew the other man would take it.
“Or I gut her like a trout.”
Primal rage swept through him. “You hurt a hair on her head, and I swear to God I’ll make you bleed.”
“I want to see her bleed.” Crawley pressed the point of the knife against her collarbone, slicing down to the swell of her breast. Blood welled up and coated her skin. Shelby cried out. He bent his head and licked the blood. “Mmm.”
“You sick son of a bitch!”
Shelby dropped her hand to her jacket pocket, fumbling and twisting to pull something free. “You got your taste of blood, Crawley. Fun’s over.”
She spat in his face. As he raised a hand to punch her, she depressed the button on the canister in her hand and flicked the spark wheel on the lighter. Flame shot from the canister straight into Crawley’s stomach.
He howled, backing away, slapping at the fire licking its way up his body as she mashed the button down with both hands. His hands blackened as his skin seared and his shirt ignited. Howls turned to shrieks when his hair caught fire and his scorched clothing started to melt onto his skin. The flames engulfed him as he tried to run. He made it only a few steps before he stumbled and thudded to his hands and knees. The screaming stopped. He toppled over and lay still.
Shelby scuttled back, pushing frantically with hands and feet to put distance between herself and Crawley. Trevor saw embers on her jacket and shirt start to ignite. She rolled onto her stomach. Trevor threw himself to the floor beside her and tore the jacket from her arms. Simon helped him turn her over. She flailed, gasping and sobbing, hands battling the air.
“Shel. Shelby, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Trevor pulled her roughly into his arms, muscles shaking. “It’s over.”
She made frantic noises, twisting away from him and bending over to vomit onto the floor. Head hanging, she stayed on her hands and knees as she spasmed and puked. Trevor held her hair and murmured nonsense, lungs constricted, so damned glad she was alive it physically hurt.
She sat back, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “We need to go outside.”
He made soothing motions with his hands. “Take your time.”
She tried to get up, but her limbs were shaking so badly Trevor had to help her. The blood from the knife wound stained her shirt. A pained noise burst from him.
“It’s fine,” Shelby murmured. “But I did good, right?”
“You did great,” he told her, heart in his throat. Examining the wound carefully, he was relieved to see the cut was long but shallow. She would need stitches, but she was in no danger. “Except for ignoring me and coming here. What on earth could you possibly have been thinking?”
“We need to go outside,” she repeated. “I need to know if it worked.”
On unsteady legs, she bent and picked up her jacket. A tiny black box fell to the floor. She scooped it up.
“If what worked?” Had she hit her head when she fell? “What’s that?”
“Come on.” Her sly smile flummoxed him.
Right now, she could ask him to swim to the bottom of the ocean and find her a unicorn, and he would do it. He wrapped an arm around her waist, both to support her and because he wasn’t prepared to let her get two feet from his side. Simon prodded Fay in the right direction with her own weapon. Shelby turned to him.
“Leave it here.”
Eyes curious, Simon flicked a look at Trevor, who shrugged. Whatever was happening, Shelby seemed to know what she was doing. Simon set the rifle against the wall, keeping Fay in front of him as the four of them walked through the vestibule and out the front door.
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE FRONT LAWN was chaos. A military Humvee hunkered near the door, six or seven soldiers penning Max in nearby. News vans and police cars crammed the car park and the grass. The crush of reporters made movement almost impossible. Microphones and cameras thrust as close as the police allowed. Questions flew at Max from every direction.
“Have you been funding Bedlamite terrorists?”
“Are you responsible for the museum bombings?”
“What were you looking for in this museum?”
“How do explain your presence here today?”
The soldiers opened ranks to allow the police inside their perimeter. Max stared straight ahead while the cops cuffed him. “I have no comment.”
“You do not have to say anything,” a police officer barked, trying to be heard above the clamor. “However, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned—” The rest of it was lost as the reporters noticed Shelby and the others surged forward.
“Officer,” Simon called, “please take this woman into custody. She’s a member of the Philosophy of Bedlam.”
Fay glowered as she was handcuffed.
“Clear a path,” someone roared. The police pushed the reporters back far enough to let them wrestle Max and Fay through to a patrol car. Shelby darted behind them, trying to find a head of purple hair in the crowd.
“Shelby!”
Lark stood near the turret, holding her laptop up with one hand and waving with the other. Half a dozen cameras had trained their lenses on her computer screen. Shelby started in that direction. Trevor and Simon eased ahead of her, somehow clearing a path simply with their presence. When she reached Lark, she threw her arms around the younger woman and hugged her hard.
“Hey, watch the laptop,” Lark squeaked, hugging her back. “These guys didn’t get the chance to see the footage.”
“We did it,” Shelby said in wonder, looking around at the activi
ty.
Trevor cleared his throat pointedly. “Would one of you care to explain all this?” He waved a hand around him. Simon propped his hands on his hips, eyeing Lark like she was some sort of dangerous wildebeest.
Shelby and Lark grinned like a couple of truant teenagers.
“What did you do?” he asked again.
“Body-worn spy camera,” Shelby said, showing him the inch-long black box she still held. “Two hundred seventy-nine pounds at Maplin’s.”
“Hooked into my laptop through Wi-Fi. I recorded the feed onto my hard drive. Got every word. God, Shel, I was so scared for you. That man . . . he burned . . .”
Shelby shut her eyes, but it didn’t help. She was going to be haunted by that image for a long time to come.
“We called a bunch of television and radio stations on the drive up here,” she explained, since Trevor and Simon still looked confused. “High-profile philanthropist secretly an anarchist. Story of the century, blah-blah-blah. I’m not sure they believed me, but I guess they didn’t want to chance missing out.”
She looked at the chaos, then looked at Lark. They high-fived.
“Extremely well done, ladies.”
Trevor sounded sincere, but Shelby knew him too well. “But we were stupid to put ourselves in danger?”
“Well,” he started, but then just shook his head. “Never scare me like that again.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
A tall, spare figure in an Army uniform pushed his way to Trevor, who snapped to attention. The man’s receding hairline did nothing to soften his authority. Shelby dealt with enough senior military officers to recognize the three diamonds topped by a crown as a brigadier general.
“Trev, my good man,” he said. “I’m pleased you were able to resolve things here satisfactorily.”
The magnitude of the understatement astonished her.
Trevor gave a sharp nod. “Brigadier, may I present Shelby Gibson and Hadley Larkspur, both of whom were critical in bringing Max Whitcomb and the Philosophy of Bedlam to justice. Ladies, Brigadier Lord Patrick Danby.”
