The door handle rotates, and the door opens. “Peter, you are...” Orloff says, before his eyes take in that it's not Peter DeLaCoeur standing in front of him.
“Surprise,” I say even as I pull the trigger on my pistol, the first round catching Orloff in his upper chest with the way he's bent over. I fire again and again, seven shots in total, all of them in his upper body. He staggers, falling out of the motorhome, but doesn't go all the way down, instead going to a knee.
“Ouch,” Orloff says, and I swear in his voice he's laughing. “That hurt, American.”
I notice that he's wearing something that looks like a warm-up jacket, and I belatedly realize he's got on some sort of body armor. I adjust my aim for his head, but he's moving already, rolling toward me, a knife in his hand and I jump, diving over him and rolling along the grass and dirt for my life.
“Stupid American,” Orloff says as he turns, quick as a snake, but I've got a few feet on him. “Did you think I trusted the son of a bitch Peter? Not a lot of padding, too heavy, but the plates are just fine.”
Orloff charges in just as I fire again, my round going harmlessly over his shoulder, and he tackles me to the dirt. I see his knife coming for my face, and I grab blindly, just trying to stop the fall of the executioner's blade.
I'm lucky, my left hand grabs his wrist and I push him to the side, the knife burying itself in the dirt a fraction of an inch from my ear. “That's it, Yankee,” Orloff says, his left hand cracking me blindly in the right eye and making my head ring again. Any more days like this and I'm going to end up punchy. “Make it fun.”
I'm bucking my hips, trying to throw this son of a bitch off of me, but he's got balance and position. Desperate, I think of my pistol, and jam the barrel against his left thigh, pulling the trigger twice. His jacket may be armored, but his leg sure as fuck isn't, and he screams, giving me enough space to buck him off. Still, he's fast, and before I can get to my feet he's already tackled me again, his weight driving me into the dirt.
“No more games, now you die,” Orloff says, but suddenly I hear a musical crash and explosion, and pieces of glass fall on the ground around me. Orloff's weight is off my back, and I scramble up, seeing Andrea standing there, the handle of what looks like a drinking pitcher in her hand.
“You son of a bitch!” Andrea screams, lashing out at the groaning Orloff with her right leg. It's a mistake as soon as she does it, I know it but I don't have time to say anything. Orloff's played possum before, he's too good at it, and as Andrea's foot makes contact with his ribs he rolls with it, grabbing her leg and pulling her down onto the ground with her.
I don't have a shot, but at least he’s dropped his knife as he rolls, Andrea trying to fight, and I look for a way to hit him, to do something. His leg comes toward me and I stomp him in the calf, trying to grab Andrea. I get her arm, but Orloff holds on, my pull bringing both of them up and sending me staggering when my grip on her fingers slip. I turn around, bringing my Glock up, but he's got her in a choke hold again, a straight razor somehow in his hands and at her throat.
“Don't move, American. Or else she dies now.”
Andrea's eyes are wide with terror as he strokes the razor down her cheek, not cutting but still scaring the hell out of her. “Carson?”
“It's okay, Andrea. Don't move,” I say, feeling a sense of icy calm drop over me. “What do you want, Orloff?”
“Peter will be here soon. In the meantime, why not play a little game?”
Chapter 21
Andrea
A game. This sociopathic fucker wants to play a game? I'm too terrified to move though, and I can feel the edge of Orloff's razor pressed against my throat, not enough to cut, but I can feel the scrape with every heaving breath.
“What sort of game are you talking about?” Carson asks, his pistol not moving at all. Looking at it, I mentally kick myself. Orloff left my pistol on the kitchenette counter, and I should have grabbed it. Instead, I grabbed the empty water pitcher by the sink and charged like a damn fool, panicked when I saw him on top of Carson, the knife that he had in his hand most likely poisoned like he'd done to Nathan.
Well, at least I got one good shot in, although how I didn't knock him out I have no damn clue. Guess I can console myself with that thought after this asshole slices my throat from side to side.
“I love to have talking games,” Orloff says, and I can hear the smile in this asshole's voice. “In prison, we didn't have a lot of things to entertain ourselves. We worked, and for entertainment we talked. The guards didn’t allow us to have radios or other distractions, so we talked when we could.”
“Should have spent the time educating yourself,” Carson replies, his voice level and calm. It's reassuring, and I believe him when he says that he's got it under control. “Could have made something of yourself.”
“But I have. Prison taught me a very lucrative job skill,” Orloff replies with a laugh. “I've made millions of dollars plying my trade, and even before the chump change I get from this job, I will have enough to be a very, very rich man.”
“You could have been more than this though,” Carson says, and Orloff laughs. “What?”
“I like who I am, Yankee. By the way, what is your name?”
“Carson Sands. It's my house that you fucked up earlier today.”
Orloff takes a step, and we're circling, every step Orloff takes to his left mirrored by Carson. “I could have done worse. However, that artist... your sister?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t want to leave her homeless. I limited the damage. A fresh coat of paint, a new window and some wall patch, and you’ll be able to live there again,” Orloff replies. “So tell me, Carson Sands, what is it that makes you tick?”
“I don't know what you mean,” Carson says, and Orloff chuckles.
“Andrea, is this the man you were telling me about earlier, the one you didn't have a chance to say something important to. It seems that fate has delivered that chance to you. As I said, you fought with passion and honor, and I still appreciate your verbal castration of Peter. So... here is your chance,” Orloff says, teasing us both. “I suggest you take the opportunity.”
“Andrea?” Carson says, and for the first time the barrel of his pistol wavers slightly. “What's this asshole talking about?”
“He asked me if I had any regrets about dying,” I explain, letting my arms drop. “I told him I had one. I regret not knowing if we had a future.”
“Andrea,” Carson says, his gun barrel steadying. “Now, my dove, I want you to live. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I immediately reply. I can see it in his eyes, the knowledge that I trust him with my life, now and forever. He understands, oh thank God, he understands!
Orloff, on the other hand, doesn't. “You're both going to die, Carson Sands. It’s a shame Peter will not give me more money for your corpse as well.”
“Too bad,” Carson says. His eyes find mine, and I can see what he wants to tell me. Am I ready? He doesn't even need to ask, I trust him with my life already, and he nods slightly before his eyes fix on Orloff again. “Now!”
There's advantages to being only a few inches over five feet tall. Right now, the only thing I'm happy for is that as I twist my head away from Orloff's razor, is that the man is about eight inches taller than me. With his hurt leg bleeding, he's not squatting down as deep behind me, and there's just enough relaxation in his arm that while his razor cuts, it's not deep.
I hear two pops, a lot less than I thought there'd be after the echoing crashes of the pistol shots inside the house earlier today or even when Carson shot him a few minutes ago. Still, a red rain splatters down on me and Orloff's body goes limp, falling backward as Carson fires again. I tumble to the dirt, and Carson's there, helping me up. “Andrea... are you all right?”
He stands me up, his eyes going to my neck. “We've got to stop...”
“I'm okay,” I reply, holding my hand to my neck. “It's not deep.”
“Let me see,” Carson says, taking my hand away. He looks, then pulls off his t-shirt, holding it to my neck. “For now. Go inside, I need to get rid of the body.”
I look down at Orloff's corpse, and for the first time see just how deadly Carson's shooting can be. There's two holes in the body, one in Orloff's right eye, the other just under his chin, and the ground behind him is covered in blood. “What do you have planned?”
“Peter's coming, let's leave him a present and a warning,” Carson says, stepping back and grabbing Orloff's ankles. “Go, clean that up, and then maybe you can help me.”
There's no tenderness in his voice, but there's no hardness either, he's commanding and not expecting any disagreement. There is love there though, and I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me after grunting, tugging Orloff's body past me. “Come on, Andrea. Get cleaned, and then I need your help.”
I nod and go into the RV, cleaning myself up in the half-bathroom that is in the back. There's tepid water at least, and as I clean my face, the fear starts to cause my hands to tremble, and I can feel my control slipping. The first tear is hot, burning on my cheek, and I can't help it anymore, I'm sobbing, not able to hold back the terror and fear of the past few hours any longer.
Carson's here, his hands on my shoulders, turning me to him and holding me, his voice soft and tender in my ear. “It's okay, Andrea. It's okay... you're safe.”
“We're never going to be safe,” I sob, shuddering. “He's always going to have another Orloff to send, another gun or knife or something.”
“That's why we need to try and end it now,” Carson says, stroking my hair. “I promise you Andrea, I'll always protect you, for the rest of your life.”
“Carson...,” I sob in reply. “But how?”
“I don't know, but we'll figure that out later. First, help me with this. Can you do that?”
He pushes me back a little bit, and I look up into his eyes. The silver-gray is slightly clouded, he's just as scared as I am, but he's determined, and I can see the love there as he searches my soul. I find the strength, and nod, sniffling back the tears. “What do you need?”
He smiles, stroking my face. “Come on, I saw this on TV once.”
“What?”
Carson laughs, nodding. “If it works, we'll have quite a surprise for Peter when he gets here. But let's work quickly, I don't know how much time we have.”
The first step is making the trigger. We try a matchbook in the door, but it's not effective, the paper matches bending and breaking without catching. Then, under the kitchen sink, I find something that both chills me and gives us our trigger.
“What about this?” I ask, pulling out the butane torch, the type that you might use to light a barbecue or maybe do some quick soldering if you're an electronics geek... or use to torture someone if you're a sociopathic hitman.
Carson, who's been positioning Orloff's body and trying to make sure we've sealed as many cracks as we can in the RV, turns and nods. “Perfect. Here, and bring the tape we found.”
Using the ropes that Orloff had originally intended for me, we tie his corpse to the metal chair, and then tape the torch to the arm of the chair. “I don't like this part, but it's a risk either way,” Carson says as he wraps loop after loop of tape around the canister. “This is about the best I can think of.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I found some more rope under the counter with the torch, and have been quickly unwrapping the three strands to get something thinner and easier to use for our purposes.
“The flame's going to be far from the source, but if we put this torch near the stove, I don't know if the rope will pull in the right direction to trigger the thing. Best guess here.”
“I trust your best guesses,” I tell him, giving him a look. “It'll work.”
“You know how to be romantic, you know that?” Carson wisecracks, grinning. He snaps the tape and squeezes the trigger, watching in satisfaction as a harsh yellow flame pops out. “Best we're gonna get. How's the string?”
“Got it,” I tell him, pulling out the tangled mess. “I think.”
Carson laughs, and helps me tie one end to the door handle before stretching it to the trigger and wrapping it, taping it for extra security. “Okay, give it a shot.”
The string stretches a little bit, but still the torch lights when the door's open about six inches, still narrow enough that whoever opens it can't see what's going on inside. “Looks good.”
Carson undoes the knot on the door handle and nods, humming. “Wish we had some time to throw some gas around in here. But I don't know how to siphon the gas tank.”
“I'm sure it'll be enough,” I tell him, rubbing his shoulder. I reset the safety catch on the torch before I stand up, ready. “Come on. I've got skinnier arms, this is my part.”
Carson nods and goes outside, waiting anxiously for me while I go over to the kitchenette area. Twisting the back knobs, I make sure the propane tank is open before I cut the rubber tubes that run to the cooktop with Orloff's own razor, the rotten egg stench immediately assaulting my nostrils. I rush to the door and slip out, reaching in a small crack and reattaching the string to the door handle on the inside, cinching the slipknot tight before closing the door shut. “Let's go.”
We run to the edge of the clearing, not a minute too soon as we hear a car approaching in the distance. “He's going to pass my car,” Carson says, concerned. “What if he suspects something?”
“Nothing we can do about that now,” I reply, kneeling. “But I doubt he'll think about it. He's too arrogant. Come on, I don't need to see this.”
Carson nods, and we turn away, walking quickly through the woods in the direction of Carson's car. We're about two hundred yards away when a massive explosion rocks the air behind us.
Chapter 22
Carson
“So you remembered to police up all your shell casings?” Katrina asks in appreciation as Andrea winces, the surgical adhesive stinging. I hiss in sympathy, but there's not really much we can do. It's a four inch long cut that, while not deadly, needs to be treated if Andrea doesn't want a scar along her jawbone for the rest of her life.
“That was Andrea's idea,” I admit, holding her hand and letting her squeeze. The nurse, who listens the whole time without saying anything, finishes his glue job and steps back. “So?”
“So keep a bandage on it for the next four to five days to help keep it clean, but it'll heal well,” he says, wiping gently. “Also, you can't get it wet for a couple of days. This is superglue, not stitches, so you'll have to be a bit more careful. I'm not a plastic surgeon, we can't stitch that well.”
“That's fine,” Andrea says, trying not to move her mouth as much as possible. “Guess I'm going to be eating through a straw for the next few days.”
“I've done that, great for bikini season,” Katrina quips, a tense smile on her face. She and Andrea lock gazes, and I see that they need a moment together. There's fear and tension that Andrea can relieve with me, but right now, she needs a sister, and Katrina is her sister as much as Melissa is.
“I think I'll go check on 'Lissa and Nathan,” I say quietly, giving Andrea a kiss on the top of her head. “You two have a good talk.”
“Thanks, Carson,” Katrina says, giving me a grateful smile. “If you get a chance, think you can tell Jackson to bring BA in here too? My shoulder's feeling good enough to at least hold my daughter.”
“Sure,” I reply, leaving the treatment room. I go down the hall and turn the corner, going past the staff waiting area. There's only one staffer on duty, the same guy who just finished Andrea's treatment.
“How's it going?” the guy asks, putting away the last of his things. “She need something?”
I shake my head, and the guy relaxes, taking a seat in his chair. “No, the girls are having a talk. I wanted to come by and say thanks for the car, and for lending me a scrub top. Also, just curious though, why're you doing this gig instead of working legit medical stuff?�
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The staffer, I can't call him a nurse but he's not a doctor, who the hell knows what to call him, leans back in the chair, putting his feet up on the cabinet in front of him. “We've all got our reasons. Stick around us blue pills long enough, you'll get wise to it.”
“Blue pills? You're a Matrix fan, I take it.”
The man shakes his head, laughing softly. “No, but it's the term that I was taught when I first came into all this. Guy who owns this place is big into the whole series though. Anyway, your question. Simple, really. I chose this over legit work.”
“Why?”
The guy folds his hands over his stomach, shaking his head sadly. “After high school, I spent four years in the Navy as a corpsman. Got pretty good at it, too. Anyway, after I got out, I went to school, using my GI Bill, was all ready to be a physician's assistant, but as I approached the end of my courses, I just didn't want to put up with the bad side of the medical world. Insurance companies, corporate bullshit, all of it. So, I knew a couple of guys, they made the right introductions, and after I finished I started off working at a free clinic that helped out in some of the bad neighborhoods. They've got just as much bullshit to deal with as regular hospitals do though, but it led me to meeting the guy who runs this place. Now I work with people who need our help, and I don't worry about the rest. Still help out at the free clinic sometimes, too.”
“I gotcha. Well, thanks for your work so far, I know you don't get too many overnight visitors.”
The man laughs and shrugs. “Not a problem. We know y'all are good for any charges.”
Retaliation: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 18
