by Amy Vansant
Had one of his men shot Shee as she ran away?
A woman’s voice exclaimed something he couldn’t make out.
Was Shee hit? Begging for her life?
Without me?
Scotty braced himself to push through the swinging door.
No, no, no, no...
&&&
Chapter Fifty-Six
Mason held the Ukrainian under water for a few more seconds and then thrust himself to the surface with his good leg.
Sucking air, he swam for shore. The toes of his right foot struck sand. He’d lost his loafer somewhere.
He frowned. He’d liked those loafers. They’d been a big step toward trying to feel like a civilian.
He coughed, brackish water purging from his lungs. Somewhere on the opposite bank behind him, a gunshot echoed.
He spun.
Where..?
Stifling a second cough, Mason shuffled up the bank to find a position just inside the tree line. He scanned the opposite shore.
Another shot. The blast came from farther down river, somewhere across from the hotel.
Sniper?
These guys thought of everything.
Mason retrieved his own gun and threw the kid’s rifle over his shoulder.
He moved as fast as he could toward The Loggerhead, hoping the darkness would be enough to hide him from the sniper. He was half way across the grass separating the hotel from the forest when he heard another shot. Something flew past him.
Not dark enough.
He threw himself against the side of the Inn.
“Y’missed me again, ya git,” said a voice from the back yard.
Mason scowled. Creeping along the side of the building, he peered around the corner.
A man lay flat behind a raised bed of flowers. A second man in black body armor lay nearby, face down as if he’d been asked to imitate the dead Ukrainian Mason had left on the river bank.
“Hey,” called Mason.
The man tucked behind the bed stretched his neck to look behind him.
“Hullo there,” he said. “You’ll be wanting to stay put. Sniper.”
“Got it. I assume you’re one of ours?”
“Gardener,” he called back. “Trimmer.”
Mason wondered why the man called himself a trimmer. Gardener really covered everything gardeners did.
As if he could read Mason’s mind, the gardener continued. “Last bit’s my name. Trimmer.”
Ah.
“You okay?” Mason scanned the trees across the water calculating his chances of successfully retrieving the fallen gardener. It was too dark to see much of anything. Sniper probably had a night scope. The odds weren’t on his side.
“Took one in the leg. Not cricket, having a chap over there.”
Mason motioned to the still body in black. “That guy’s dead?”
“Have a look—you’ll see he’s got my shears sticking out of his neck.”
So that’s a yes.
Mason sighed. The sniper had Trimmer pinned. To run over and drag him to safety would be suicide. Probably end with both of them dead.
“You have a gun?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“Couple. How bad are you bleeding?”
“I tied it off. Ruined a perfectly good shirt doing it.”
Gunfire blasted just inside the hotel.
Mason frowned. “Look, Trimmer, I gotta get inside. I’m going to toss you a rifle. You sit tight.”
Trimmer’s head nodded. “Cracking idea.”
Mason rose from his crouched position long enough to toss the rifle. It landed two feet from Trimmer, who rolled to grab it before spinning back to his position against the raised bed. “I’d like to go in the back here,” added Mason.
Trimmer waved once. “Cheers. I’ll keep our friend across the water busy.” He pointed the rifle over the bed and let off a shot.
Mason ran toward the back porch as more gunfire exploded inside. He rolled aside as two men burst onto the porch.
Men in black.
He fired, clipping one in the arm. The merc fell down the stairs and tumbled out of Mason’s line of sight.
From his spot behind the plant bed, Trimmer twisted and sprayed the porch with bullets.
A second merc spilled out of the kitchen and fell directly on his back, a hole in the center of his forehead.
Bracco appeared in the doorway.
“Sniper!” warned Mason from his crouched position in the darkness behind the porch railings.
Too late.
The gun echoed. Mason heard Bracco’s wind escape and the thud as the big man hit the ground.
“Bracco?”
Bracco grunted.
“Hold on, buddy. I gotta take care of some things.” Mason turned his attention to Trimmer, who shot a staccato string of bullets toward the opposite end of the porch.
He must have missed that soldier. Now the merc sat in the perfect position to pick the Brit off.
Mason wanted to stay low and creep to the end of the porch but he feared his leg wouldn’t let him move like he wanted. He tucked his gun away.
Here goes nothing.
He tucked and rolled sideways past the open stairs. The sniper fired, the bullet striking the building.
Mason threw himself to his stomach and aimed. Alerted by the sniper’s shot, the merc hiding on the side of the house popped up his head, looking for him between the spindles of the porch railing.
Mason fired.
The solder dropped.
“Cheers,” called Trimmer from his hiding spot.
Mason belly-crawled to the end of the porch and peered over the edge. The body of the merc lay on the ground below. He flipped himself over the railing to join him to the sound of another gunshot. He saw the muzzle flash in the darkness as he fell.
Mason grit his teeth.
I hate snipers.
He scanned the opposite shore. He’d never get a clean shot at the sniper in the dark. His gaze dropped to what looked like a body on the ground an arm’s length away. He stretched out to poke it.
Soft.
What is that?
Mason reached out and pulled the object toward him to find it was a giant doll made of straw, pinned to a long stick.
Hm.
He poked his head around the side of the house.
“Hey, Trimmer.”
“At your service.”
“How you doing?”
“Brilliant.”
“I’ve got some kind of straw doll here I’m going to throw to you.”
Trimmer twisted to look. “Guy Fawkes? He’s my scarecrow.”
“Whatever. Heads up.”
Mason popped up long enough to fling the doll at Trimmer, dropping back to his hands and knees as the sniper took another shot.
Mason saw the flash on the opposite shore again. He had a general idea of where the sniper lay.
“I’m coming next,” he said as Trimmer pulled the scarecrow to him.
Mason spun like a rolling pin down the hill toward Trimmer, crawling at the last second to join the gardener behind the raised bed.
Mason slithered up beside him.
“How do you do?” said Trimmer.
“Give me the rifle. I need you to lift the doll when—”
“Scarecrow.”
“Whatever. Lift it on my mark. Give me a second to set up.”
Mason scrooched around until he found a comfortable position and pointed the rifle toward the spot on the opposite shore where he’d seen the flash.
“Up!”
From his supine position, Trimmer lifted the scarecrow. The sniper fired two quick shots and Mason let a flurry of bullets go where he saw the muzzle flash.
He stopped and ducked back down, waiting.
“Try it again,” he said.
Trimmer waved the scarecrow.
No shots.
“I think I got him,” said Mason.
“Might be a trick,” said Trimmer.
&
nbsp; He nodded and glanced back at the hotel. “One way to find out.”
&&&
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Shee ran into the lobby, grabbed the doorknob to the stairwell and rattled it.
Locked.
Dammit, I—
A blast exploded that sent Shee rolling sideways. Splinters of wood peppered the side of her face as she ducked away.
She glanced back to see a hole as large as her head blasted through the stairwell door. Cough’s head appeared in it, his eyes bugged.
“Jeezus, Cough!”
“I’m so sorry!”
“Get away from the door—go up, go somewhere, he’s on my heels!”
Cough ran up the stairs.
“Wait—”
Too late.
She realized the stair door remained locked, the hole too high for her to use it to reach through and open the door from the inside.
“Sunuva—”
She glanced back down the hall. No Scotty yet but he’d burst through the swinging door any second. Hitting the elevator call button would do her no good. She’d be dead by the time it arrived.
She looked at the useless weapon in her hand.
How had she emptied an entire clip into the freezer?
I need another—
The elevator door slid open to reveal a portly, dark-haired man in pajama bottoms and a polo shirt.
“Are you people shooting fireworks?” he asked before his gaze dropped to the gun in her hand.
Before he could step out, Shee shoved him back and hit the highest floor button she could use without the key.
“What are you doing?” The man stumbled against the back of the car. He pushed her back and slapped the lobby button. The doors slid open again.
“Why would you do that?” Shee glanced down the hall as the door pushed open and Scotty peered out.
Shit.
Shee shoved the man again and slapped the door shut button. She raised the gun in her other hand for the man to see.
“Touch another button and I’ll kill you.”
The man’s eyes grew wide and Shee turned to point the gun out of the elevator as the doors closed. She heard Scotty slapping outside as the door sealed. The elevator lurched upward.
Shee remembered to breathe again. She lowered the gun. With her eyes closed, chin against her chest, she felt movement behind her. She looked up in time to see her unwanted elevator-mate hit the three button.
She glared, gun rising again. “Is there something wrong with your brain?”
“It’s my floor,” he said. He looked as though his brain had flipped on autopilot.
The doors opened and the man pushed past her.
“Get to your room. Don’t come out,” she called at him as he jogged down the hall.
He held up his middle finger.
Shee sighed.
Fair enough.
Another gun blast exploded to her left. The stairwell door swung open as if it had been kicked, slamming into the wall behind it.
Scotty.
Shee slapped the elevator door-close button. The doors slid shut at their own leisurely pace, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest.
She had to find a way to the penthouse before Scotty took the stairs. Maybe the tourist had done her a favor detouring on the third floor.
The elevator opened on the floor below the penthouse and Shee ran out, only to stop dead, her hands outstretched on either side of her as if she were guarding a soccer net at the end of the hall.
What am I doing?
Even if the door to the stairwell was open, the door to the penthouse floor would be locked.
She was out of bullets. Scotty was headed up the stairs.
She straightened.
Cough.
He had to be in the stairwell.
She bolted to the door and flung it open.
Cough stood there, shotgun pointed down the stairs.
“Oh thank God,” he said. “I think someone’s—”
“Give me your phone. Do you have a phone?”
“Yes—”
“Give it to me.”
He fumbled his cell from his pocket and Shee dialed Angelina as she dragged him toward the stairs leading to the penthouse.
“Shee! Where are you?” said Angelina on the line.
“I’m one floor down. Scotty’s on his way up. I’m out of bullets. I’m with Cough—he might have one shell left. We’re coming up. Open the door!”
“We’re coming!”
Shee shoved Cough in front of her and peered over the railing down the stairwell. She heard Scotty below, taking two steps at a time.
It would be tight.
She joined Cough behind the locked door to the penthouse level.
“Come on, come on...” Shee looked from the door to the stairs and back again. She heard keys and the door opened.
Croix stood in front of her, gun in hand.
“I’ve never been so happy to see you,” said Shee.
“I wish I could say the same.” Croix pushed past her and shot twice down the stairwell.
Cough followed suit, leaning and blasting his shotgun over the railing.
Croix reeled back, her free hand on her ear. “You can’t do that!”
Shee grimaced, pleased she’d taken a step into the hall before Cough made her ears bleed, but disappointed to see him empty his last shot. “Do you have more shells?” she asked.
Cough shook his head. “They’re in a bag on the reception desk.”
Shee looked at Croix. The girl rolled her eyes.
“I’ll hold him back. Go get loaded.”
Shee looked down the hall to see Angelina’s head sticking out of her father’s apartment. She ran toward it. She needed a working weapon. Then she and Croix could work their way down to Scotty and end things.
“Get in, get in,” said Angelina, motioning to her.
She slipped inside.
“I need a gun.” She waved her weapon. “Or bullets for this one.”
“Take mine,” said Angelina, thrusting an enormous Magnum .45 into her hand.
Shee gawked at it. “This is your gun?”
“I picked the big one. I like to know I can stop someone.”
“You could stop Godzilla with this. The kick alone would send you back in time.”
Angelina ignored her. “What’s going on?”
“Scotty has a team. Bracco might have them tied up. Maybe Mason. I don’t know. I only know Scotty’s on his way—Croix has him pinned in the stairwell for now. I have to get back. Did you call the police?”
Angelina shook her head. “Mick said not to. He doesn’t want to endanger them or get the staff in trouble—”
Shee huffed. “Well, I think he might feel differently today—”
Angelina shook her head. “No, Mick is—”
“I have to go.”
Shee ran back into the hall. Croix stood at the end with the door propped open, watching her approach. Cough stood behind her.
“Where is he?” she asked as she ran.
“I don’t know,” Croix called back. “I haven’t heard anything for a while.”
Shee stopped.
The light.
She’d seen a light on the elevator panel as she ran out of her father’s room.
The penthouse light.
She turned as the elevator doors slid open.
Scotty stepped out.
He turned and saw her.
He raised his gun.
Shee squeezed the trigger of her forty-five. The blast shook the walls and sent her stumbling back.
Scotty spun back into the elevator. A second later, gunshots echoed from inside.
What is he—?
Her father’s door sat across from the elevator.
He’s shooting the lock from the elevator.
A second later, Scotty bolted across the hall, smashing Mick’s apartment door with his body.
He disappeared inside.
&&&
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“Angelina!”
Shee and Croix sprinted down the hall, Cough somewhere behind them. Gun shots echoed from inside Mick’s apartment.
Fear twisted around Shee’s heart like an Everglades’ python. An invasive species that had made a home.
I took Angelina’s gun. I left them defenseless.
Behind her, she heard Croix closing in, shouting warnings.
“You can’t run right in there—”
The girl didn’t understand.
It’s all my fault.
She’d stolen Mason’s baby. She’d hunted Scotty on her own, behind her father’s back, full of foolish pride. She’d led assassins to her sister’s house and stolen her own daughter’s life a second time. Mick had taken a bullet because of her. In a moment, both he and Angelina would be dead.
I’m a curse.
She’d had years to decipher that Scotty Carson was the assassins’ puppet master and she’d blown it. She’d gotten lazy and settled into her role on the run, happy to be forgotten.
On the road, she didn’t have to look into her father’s eyes. She’d spent a lifetime searching for approval in those eyes. Eyes that never looked at her the same after Grace died.
The bullet was meant for her. Grace had paid the price.
Croix’s fingertips brushed her back.
“Slow down—”
Shee jerked her shoulder away and found another gear, one last burst of speed to put distance between the girl and herself. Only the door frame stopped her momentum. She crashed into it, twisting to hit back-first as she raised her gun.
Inside the apartment, the gunfire had stopped.
They’re dead.
She knew it.
A blur of motion hit the door the same moment Shee did. It stepped on her toe and slammed into her shins. Pulling up, Croix’s gun snapped downward to meet the advancing threat.
Archie, racing in a blind panic.
Croix jerked up her weapon as the dog shot by, running full-tilt down the hall.
The girl swore. “That was close.”
She looked at Shee, who stood frozen, back against the door jamb, gun raised but pointed low.
“You have him?” she asked.
Shee swallowed. The black-clad, still body of Scotty Carson lay on the ground in front of her, face down.
