The Girl Who Wants

by Amy Vansant

  Come on...

  They exchanged blows, a flurry of blocks and thrusts. Mason connected to the bridge of Pox’s nose. Cartilage collapsed. A second later the soldier’s fist found his jaw. Mason felt his mandible shift uncomfortably to the right. Pox took the opportunity to kick. Mason blocked with his forearm. His leg faltered as his balance shifted.

  Shit.

  Mason felt as if he’d been attacked on two fronts, once by the soldier, once by his own body.

  Let’s even the playing field.

  Mason blocked another kick and then dove forward, tackling the man to the ground.

  They bounced, grappling, both rolling to gain the upper position. They hit the water. For a moment Mason had top bunk—he pressed Pox’s head into the water. Too shallow. All he did was soak the guy’s hair. The soldier bucked and they were rolling again, deeper into the river.

  Weighed by his body armor, the man floundered. Mason took a breath and pulled him down. Beneath the water, they wrestled. Pox struck him in the head, tried to choke him, and strained against him to reach air. Mason took the blows and let him swing, using all his strength to hold him under.

  The solder stopped fighting. He pushed away, but Mason held tight, twisting in a death roll like an alligator.

  Pox stopped thrashing just as Mason’s lungs began to burn.

  Apparently, the Ukrainian hadn’t been drownproofed.

  &&&

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  ‘Alpha Leader’ slapped Popov on his chest as they reached the top of the porch stairs.

  “Stay here. Guard the back so we don’t get flanked. Radio silence. I don’t want them knowing we’re coming.”

  Popov nodded and exchanged a glance with Rudenko on his left as he wrinkled his brow. His teammate’s expression telegraphed that he’d had the same thought.

  What an idiot.

  Popov suppressed his bubbling laughter. How could he ensure they weren’t flanked by guarding the back? And radio silence? The man spoke like a child playing soldier.

  Who calls themselves Alpha leader, anyway?

  If they hadn’t been hired to attack a hotel, he’d be worried.

  Get in, get out, kidnap a woman. Easiest money we’ll ever make.

  He’d bet a hundred dollars the woman was the moron’s ex-wife. Rudenko bet the woman was a cheating girlfriend. Alpha Leader told them a bullshit story about her being some ‘bitter slut’ who had tricked him into jail. He warned them the hotel was full of trained assassins. Popov and the team had laughed for days over the crazy rich man’s fantasies.

  Ah well. The crazy man paid well.

  Popov slapped Rudenko on the back as his buddy and the others entered the hotel.

  Alpha Leader had a key to the back door.

  That was a new one. Handy.

  Strolling from one end of the porch to the other, Popov spun on his heel and then stopped, squinting into the darkness.

  Something moved off the side of the hotel.

  What the hell is that?

  Over by a palm, it looked as though a very tall man beckoned to him.

  Very tall.

  Popov lifted his rifle and walked to the stairs. He peered into the night sky, cursing the lack of moon.

  So damn dark.

  Refocusing on the figure, he walked down the stairs to the grass.

  No man could be that tall, but the shape...a head, outstretched arms...

  He moved in. What looked like sticks protruded from the tall man’s sleeves, and more poked from the neck of his dress shirt.

  Popov chuckled, realizing his mistake. He lowered his rifle and released the breath he’d been holding.

  A scarecrow.

  He rotated to head back to the hotel.

  Look at me. Jumpy outside a tourist hotel—

  Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as he turned.

  The scarecrow’s right hand beckoned.

  Popov spun back around, the smile fading from his lips as he slid his revolver from his holster. He turned his face to the left and right, eyes never leaving the scarecrow.

  No breeze kissed his cheeks from any direction.

  There was no wind.

  Why was the scarecrow’s hand moving?

  He took a step toward the scarecrow. Clumps of plants gathered around the figure’s feet. It looked like a garden...

  This is crazy.

  He stood two feet in front of the raggedy figure, staring up at the tilted hooded head. It smiled down at him with its painted U, black triangle eyes staring.

  Popov shook his head.

  I shouldn’t have had that beer before we left.

  He turned again, the gray image of the stuffed man still burned in his memory. Hay poked from its neck and sleeves, his burlap face and gloved hands. The hand that had moved—had it been holding something?

  Something hard struck Popov’s back. It felt as if a gorilla had pounced from a tree above him. A sharp pain exploded in his neck as he hit the ground. He tried to catch himself as he fell, felt his wrist snap against the uneven ground.

  Grass in his mouth, he flipped to his back and tried to scramble to his feet. His wrist screamed with pain. His arms felt too weak to push up. Collapsing back, he reached up and felt his throat. His gloved hand slid across his skin, lubricated by something.

  He blinked and the scarecrow stood over him, pruning shears in his hand. Popov recognized them now. His mother had a pair back in Kurhan, outside of Odessa. She loved to garden.

  Popov reached for his gun but couldn’t be sure his arms had even moved.

  “Curiosity and the cat and all that nonsense,” said the scarecrow as it wrestled to remove its head. British accent. The idea of a scarecrow with a British accent almost made Popov laugh. He felt giddy.

  The burlap hood pulled away, revealing a red-haired man. The Brit grinned down at him, plucking the hay from his neck and sleeves.

  “Now time to see your friends.”

  The scarecrow took one step toward the hotel before a shot rang out.

  The scarecrow crumpled at Popov’s feet.

  “Bugger.”

  Popov giggled.

  Then everything went black.

  &&&

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Shee reached the front door of the hotel and jerked open the screen. She wrapped her hand around the silver knob of a large wooden door she’d never seen closed before and turned.

  It resisted.

  Locked.

  Shit.

  Hands shaking with urgency, Shee studied the keypad lock above the knob. She thought about the postcard her father had sent her, almost two years earlier. The one with the Loggerhead sea turtle on the front.

  Stop by anytime, it said. They key’s enclosed.

  But, of course, nothing had been enclosed. It was a postcard.

  There had been a strip of color blocks along the bottom, trimming the edge like a flattened rainbow.

  That was what she pictured now, eyes squeezed tight.

  Orange. Blue. Red. Red. Yellow. Purple.

  She could see the boxes, colored in with permanent marker. She’d known then what it was. Her father knew about her synesthesia. He knew the colors of her days and the day that began the week in her mental calendar.

  Orange. Thursday is orange and the fourth day of her week.

  Four.

  Blue. Red. Red. Yellow. Purple.

  Saturday. Monday. Monday. Tuesday. Friday.

  She punched in the code.

  Four. Six. One. One. Two. Five.

  A green light blinked on.

  She smiled.

  Thanks, Dad.

  The smile faded from her lips as she swung open the door to find two guns raised to greet her, a Glock and a shotgun.

  She raised her hands. “It’s me.”

  Bracco and Cough lowered their guns. Cough couldn’t have looked more relieved if he’d just discovered a letter he thought was from the IRS was really just a workplace OSHA poster.

&nb
sp; “I’m going to destroy this place on TripAdvisor,” said Shee, running a hand through her hair.

  A radio clipped to Bracco’s side crackled to life.

  “Shee is at the front door, let her in,” said Croix’s voice.

  “Thanks, Croix, great timing,” said Shee, locking the door behind her. “Where are they?”

  “Angelina took Croix and the dogs to your father’s room,” said Cough.

  Bracco pointed to the shuttered front window. Shee read the concern on his face.

  “Mason stayed to take care of a guy in the woods. There are soldiers on their way—”

  “Men at the kitchen door!” crackled Croix’s voice.

  Gunshots exploded in the distance.

  Bracco turned toward the hall, his bulk blocking Shee as she also tried to head that way. She bounced off his shoulder, spun, and came to a stop pointed at Cough.

  The doctor swallowed and tried to aim his weapon down the hall. His hands were shaking. Shee took a step forward to push the muzzle of the shotgun toward the floor for fear he’d aerate the retreating doorman.

  “Are the stairs locked?” she asked.

  Cough nodded. “Angelina gave me the key.”

  More gunfire. Different pitches, different weapons—it sounded as if a fire fight had erupted. She could see Bracco still at the end of the hall, peeking into the kitchen.

  The sweat on Cough’s brow gave her pause. She guessed Angelina or Croix had chosen the shotgun for him because such a weapon made it difficult to miss, but the last thing she needed floating around the hotel was a jumpy man with a scattergun.

  She motioned to the stairs. “Go. Lock the door behind you and guard the stairs. Don’t let anyone up.”

  Cough thrust his hand into his pocket to retrieve the keys. He dropped them, stooped to pick them up, fumbled them a second time and then tripped toward the stairs.

  Shee ran down the hall after Bracco as the big man pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door and fired.

  &&&

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Scotty left a soldier to guard the back porch before opening the kitchen door with the key he’d had made during his time at the hotel. He’d thought of everything.

  Stepping back, he motioned his men ahead.

  “Elevator and stairs are in the front lobby. Remember, do not kill the woman.”

  With a nod, his lead merc raised his gun and led the other three men inside as he held the door.

  Scotty couldn’t erase the grin from his face.

  This is going to be a cakewalk.

  He felt powerful. He’d walk through the hotel like a god, a true Alpha Leader, his team of assassins fanned in front of him clearing the way.

  Mick’s gang of misfits had no idea what was about to hit them.

  With two soldiers in front of him, Scotty stopped the third to take his place in line as they crept into the kitchen.

  The gunfire started almost immediately.

  Scotty turned to retreat, only to find the last soldier blocking his way. The merc put a hand on his shoulder and pushed Scotty down as he, too, lowered to a squat.

  The two front men sat on their heels. A man wearing what looked like striped pajamas popped up from behind the large granite island in the center of the room. Bullets sprayed in their direction.

  Scotty raised his hands over his ears as the soldier behind him stood and fired. His head rang. The image of the shooter bouncing up like a whack-a-mole flashed again in his brain.

  The cook?

  He hadn’t talked to the cook much during his time at the hotel. The man seemed too fat to be a soldier. He certainly hadn’t considered the possibility of tubby guarding the kitchen. Was he afraid they’d steal a steak on the way in?

  The cook would slow them down and alert the rest of the hotel to their arrival. Scotty glanced at the black Luminox Navy SEAL Chronograph watch he’d bought especially for the mission. They needed to get moving. How many gunshots could ring out before the neighbors realized they weren’t fireworks? Even in Florida?

  Scotty grit his teeth. “Kill him!” he barked. “What’s taking so long?”

  The front man rolled to the left and fired behind the island. Scotty heard a grunt.

  No gunshots answered in turn.

  Scotty nodded.

  There. They just needed some direction.

  He stood and clapped his hands together. “Okay, men, into the lobby.”

  He’d taken one step down the path between the island and the walk-in freezer before the door swung open and a head popped in.

  Bracco.

  Scotty froze, realizing his mistake. He’d taken point. He raised his gun and released a wild shot. Bracco withdrew.

  Scotty collapsed to his knees as Bracco’s arm and weapon reappeared to fire twice. The bullets flew over Scotty’s head. Air escaped the man behind him as one struck his chest.

  Even hit, the merc returned fire over Scotty’s head and his ears rang anew. He clamped his hands on the sides of his head and swore.

  Bracco ducked back into the hall. No doubt he’d be back.

  Scotty’s mind raced.

  What am I doing?

  Surely, Bracco had seen him on his knees. The next shot would be low.

  I’m a sitting duck.

  He stood and scrambled to push past the merc behind him.

  “Go, go, get him!” he commanded, snarling. “Get out of my way!”

  After the blow of the bullet, the soldier was still winded, making it easy for Scotty to grab his vest by the armpits and spin him to the front of the line. The second soldier stared at Scotty, his hulking form blocking his escape.

  “Get out of the—”

  The second soldier raised his gun. For a split second Scotty thought he had a mutiny on his hands, but the guy fired past him.

  Scotty threw himself flat against a wall of shelving. With his left hand he pushed the lead soldier toward Bracco, and with the other, he jerked the walk-in freezer handle. Something wet sprayed the side of his face as he stumbled inside the metal box and shut the door.

  Gunshots erupted again.

  Scotty waited, panting. He touched his face. Even through his tactical gloves, he could tell something slippery had splattered his cheek. Thankfully, the freezer was pitch black.

  Footsteps shuffled outside. Scotty opened his eyes wide, trying to see.

  Did Bracco see me slip in the freezer? Is there a back door out of here?

  He reached out, feeling for an alternative escape hatch. His fingertips brushed shelves lined with what felt like frozen meat.

  Gunfire again.

  Scotty cocked his head.

  Farther away. Out back?

  Someone nearby made a strange, loud grunting noise.

  “Okay, I got him—” said a female voice.

  Scotty reasoned the grunting had to have been Bracco trying to communicate.

  Big, brain-dead mother—

  Footsteps again. More gunfire farther away to his left. It sounded as if the fight had moved to the yard.

  “Where are you hit?” said the woman in the kitchen.

  Scotty gasped.

  Shee.

  It had to be.

  His men had fallen back. She was tending to the fallen cook.

  This is my chance.

  Scotty felt for the freezer’s safety release and pulled it slowly, easing open the door. It wouldn’t open farther than the width of his head.

  What the hell?

  He saw a black boot on the floor. Bracco had shot his lead man. The soldier had collapsed in front of the freezer, his body wedged between the door and the island.

  “Put pressure there. Good.”

  The woman was on the other side of the island.

  Scotty took a deep breath.

  Go out. Grab her. Take her out the front while the others are busy in the back.

  Scotty pushed his head through, straining his shoulder against the door. His eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by the clock
on the mounted microwave.

  A face stared back at him.

  Shee.

  She stood behind the island, gun pointed at him.

  Scotty didn’t move.

  Shee was something to behold.

  He’d sneaked looks at her from afar since she arrived at the hotel, of course, but even in the dim light, she was so much more up close.

  It was as if decades of prison dreams had materialized in front of him. His revenge. His fantasy. Almost within arm’s reach.

  “You look the same,” he said tucking back into the freezer a notch.

  “You look like shit,” she said. “But you never were a good-looking guy.”

  Something in Scotty’s brain snapped.

  He’d planned things better. He’d wanted to be cool, to slip his gun out, maybe wing her if he had to. Say something cool.

  But that mouth.

  That smart bitch mouth.

  He couldn’t help it. Fury boiled his blood and he lifted his gun.

  She fired.

  Scotty jerked back into the freezer like a turtle sucking into its shell. Bullets struck the door. One went through and hit the wall across from him. He grimaced, curled tight in the corner like a standing fetus.

  Then he heard it.

  Click. Click. Click.

  She was out of bullets.

  Scotty’s body exploded with elation.

  You’re mine now.

  He pushed open the freezer door and thrust out his gun. He squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice.

  No returning fire. No scream of pain.

  He poked out his head.

  Nothing.

  Where did she go? Roaring with effort, he wrestled the door open far enough to push his bulky vested torso through.

  Leading with his gun, he crept around the island.

  Nothing.

  Even the cook was gone.

  Intermittent gunplay continued out back. He glanced out the back window into the darkness.

  She wouldn’t have run into that mess.

  She would have gone to the lobby.

  He turned that way. The swinging door still rocked.

  Got you.

  He leapt forward as something exploded beyond the door. He threw himself against the wall.

  What the hell was that?