by EC Sheedy
“Go ahead,” he said, making a play of putting his rifle case in the car. “I’m right behind you.”
She didn’t move. “I’ll bet you are,” she said. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he knew it was set to hard. She went on, “And if you’re thinking I’m disposable about now—think again. Charity expects to see my face. If she doesn’t you’re a dead man. You got that?”
“Understood. And rest assured I have no death wish. Now shall we go? There is the problem with the jammer, remember?”
Mercy stuffed her gun in her jacket, shot a beam of light on the rutted path—the rising fog making the light virtually useless—and went ahead of him up the road. No doubt confident her threat had sufficiently terrified him into obliging docility. It was amazing how wrong a person could be.
Q withdrew the Glock from his pocket and shot her in the back.
His reward was the sound of her body thudding face forward onto the gravel road. He put his moccasin-clad foot on her head, and ground her face into the sharp stones. He wouldn’t give her the grace of being a beautiful corpse. “No one threatens Quinlan Braid,” he murmured, savoring the hard powerful beat of his heart, the ease of his one-handed kill. “No one.”
Shoving the Glock back in his pocket, he shifted the Winchester to a more balanced position in his left hand—he didn’t like carry-straps—and strode up the road.
Unlike Mercy his back was well protected.
April, Phylly, and Noah were propped up like dolls around the base of the bed in Noah’s bedroom. Joe, demanding they stay silent, stayed near the bedroom door, and listened intently for any sound behind it. As did April, but all she heard was nature’s mood music; the ocean’s endless communion with the shore, soft but relentless, dulled by the night’s mist and fog.
Noah had secured the patio sliders and pulled the blackout drapes on the outside wall of the bedroom that backed onto the dense forest. The bedroom’s inner walls, thick glass brick, provided them all the protection they’d get. Not a hell of a lot. And whoever—whatever—was out there was keeping a close watch, firing another shot into Noah’s second floor office just minutes ago.
April, sitting on the floor, her back against the bed, fought the invading, slithering darkness. They huddled in a brackish world, shadows to each other—a world growing blacker by the minute.
Basement black. Cellar black.
April had forgotten . . .
Forgotten how the dark pervaded, made her heart pound with a fearful expectancy. It was unknowable, the dark. It clawed at you, caged you as easily as iron bars.
As easily as a locked cellar door.
Joe, staying low, left the door and came toward them, gun in hand. When he was close enough, he put his strong hand on April’s knee and squeezed it. “You doing okay?”
His gesture was reassuring, briefly making her forget the dark—the danger outside. She put her hand over his and squeezed back. “I am now.”
“Hang in there,” he whispered. “We’ll get out of this.”
“I know.” If Joe was right, and she prayed he was, April thought, she’d come full circle, first Phylly taking her from the dark, now her son.
Joe’s tone turned brusque when he said, “Jesus, Bristol, you must have a weapon of some kind. A rifle maybe?”
“No. I told you. Nothing,” Noah answered.
He cursed softly. Other than getting them all into the bedroom, telling them to be quiet and keep low, Joe had barely said a word since the first shot was fired—except for the first time he’d asked Noah this same question. Now April sensed impatience, knew his mind was testing ideas, turning over plans, looking for a way out. His silence was deep, but deadly. This was a whole new Joe, no wisecracks, no easy smiles—just focused determination. When she touched his shoulder, his muscles were drum-tight.
“I have a gun,” Phylly said. “A Kahr 9 millimeter. It’s in my bag.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Joe said.
“I didn’t hear you asking before.” She matched his brusque tone, but still sounded defensive. “Things were a little chaotic after all.”
While Joe let out a frustrated breath, April wondered how many years in prison Phylly had risked by driving across the border carrying a handgun.
“Can you shoot it?” Joe asked.
“Damn straight,” she said. “I took lessons. Stupid to have a weapon and not know how to use it.”
“Then get it. But stay low.”
April heard Phyllis dragging herself over the carpet, then rifle in either her bag or suitcase. “Got it.”
When Phylly came back to the base of the bed, her shoulder again touched April’s. “How you doing, April?” she asked, sounding remarkably calm. Maybe having your own gun did that. April only felt useless.
“I’ve been better.” She didn’t want to say sitting in the dark terrified her more than the insane, violent creature stalking them from outside Noah’s transparent walls.
“Listen up, everybody,” Joe said. “Whoever’s out there is either waiting for backup or for us to make a run for it, so they can pick us off one by one. Either way waiting around to find out nets us zero. I’m going out there—”
“Joe, you can’t.” April grabbed his arm, a shaft of fear tearing at her chest.
He touched her hand, his voice less clipped, more soothing. “This sitting-duck routine doesn’t work, April. And if whoever’s out there is waiting for backup, it’s plain stupid to sit here until it comes.”
“What if there’s more than one?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said. She’d borrow Phylly’s gun; she could do this. She would do this.
“No.” His reply was unequivocal. “I can look after myself, but I can’t look after you—not out there.” He gestured toward the window.
“Then I’ll go.” It was Phylly.
Joe’s head shook again. “No. You stay here. Anybody gets by me, you use that six inches of steel you’ve got in your hand. And don’t miss. Okay?”
“Okay, but . . . be careful.”
“Yeah.”
He moved away from April, and she chilled instantly. “Before I go,” he said, “we’re going to build a barricade. Move everything we can from this room and out there”— he pointed to the living room—“against these glass brick walls. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.” His big shape moved toward the end of the bed. “Bristol, give me a hand, will you?”
It didn’t take long before three of the walls were stacked with furniture, sofas, chairs, table, lamps—everything they could find. All of the moves done with shoves and pulls from the floor.
The bed’s mattress was now propped against the outside wall. Knowing they were less exposed did feel safer, and just doing something—anything—made them feel more in control.
When they were settled in the barricaded bedroom, Joe said, “Stay in here. And . . . Phyllis, keep that gun of yours pointed toward the door. If it’s me coming in, I’ll whistle. Once. Sharp. Like this.” He whistled an example. “You don’t hear that whistle, you don’t let anyone through that door. Anyone. You got that?”
She hesitated, then said, “I got it.”
“Good.”
“I want—’’Phylly reached out as if to touch him, but pulled her hand back. Whatever she was going to say, she thought better of it. “Just come back. Okay?”
After a beat of silence, he answered, “Yeah.”
Noah said, “Remember to stay to the east. The bush is denser there. More cover. West is the ocean—you’ll hear it—and the cliffs. It’s misleading out there, even though both sides of the road in are heavily treed and the brush is dense, there’s really only a narrow strip of forest on the west side. Not much of a barrier between the road and the cliffs, and it’s about a fifty-sixty foot drop, solid rock all the way.”
“Thanks.” That said, Joe was gone. The fog hushed the sound of his leaving. It did nothing to mute the pounding hearts o
f the two women he’d left behind.
Quinlan stayed on the tree and shrub-flanked road, walking the middle of it. His eyes scanned ahead, straining to see through the murk. The fog, pushed and prodded by drafts from the cold Pacific, was lighter in places, heavier in others. There were times he easily saw a few feet in front of him; others, the dark mist closed over his path as solid as pewter.
Still he stayed with the dark rather than turn on his flashlight.
“Over here.” A figure, ghostlike in the gloom, stepped briskly onto the road. “Can you see me?”
“Yes.”
The figure immediately faded back into the trees on the west side of the road. Charity was exactly where her dead sister said she’d be. Good.
Q stopped, turned his ear to the road behind him, and listened. At first all he heard was the ocean’s surges against the hard land holding it back; he waited until he heard a trilling whistle. Satisfied, he again moved forward, following the woman into the dense brush.
“Where’s Mercy?” The voice came from somewhere in the trees.
“Coming up behind me.” Unable to see his target, take his shot, he played along, even glanced over his shoulder. “She should be right along.” He took another step.
“Stay where you are. Do not move. We’ll wait for Mercy.”
Her voice was sharp but familiar. No . . . impossible. Unthinkable.
“Of course,” he said. Q stood in a compact clearing not more than five feet in circumference, and no doubt directly in her line of fire. Assuming a relaxed posture, he scanned the gray wooded area for form and movement. The fog was settled low here, massed in the underbrush except where it wound upward in spots to snake around the trees.
To locate the woman, he needed to hear her voice again. “How far are we from the house?” He asked the question genially, as if they were still a team.
“Sixty, maybe eighty feet,” she answered.
His heart started to race. He worked to calm it. That voice. It couldn’t be. “And it’s secure? You’re sure of that?” He turned his head, cocked his ear, and strained for her reply, even as his mind rejected the possibility.
She didn’t respond. He waited, saying again, “I asked if the house was secure.”
More time passed, then a figure stepped out from behind the tree, shapeless and hooded, a shadow within a hundred shadows. Surreal except for what was in her hand. The gun was very real indeed, and it was pointed directly at him. “She’s not coming, is she?” The voice wasn’t as steady as the gun. “You bastard. You sick greedy bastard. What have you done?”
It was her . . .
“Giselle?” The name shot out, a hoarse yelp born from a sudden, intense jolt of pain. Q’s body jerked as his brain dulled to a mass of disjointed forms, in gray and sepia. “Is that you?” In his numbed state, he needed confirmation.
Giselle moved closer and shoved back her hood with her free hand. “Yes, Q, it’s me,” she said, her voice coolly amused. “Now, where’s Mercy, you son of a bitch? What did you do to her?”
“Me, I—” He was mumbling, couldn’t think. He took a breath. “She’s behind me. As I told you.” Even as he spoke a network of nerves misfired along his spine. Shock at seeing his lover clad in black and pointing a gun at him gripped him like a studded glove. He steadied himself until he was sure his discomfiture wouldn’t manifest. “The better question is what are you doing here? With that.” He pointed his chin at her hand, the gun.
“I’d think that was obvious.”
You’ve betrayed me. At that realization, he felt a spill of acid into his stomach, an unimaginable pain cramp his abdomen. He swallowed deeply and set the pain aside. Let cool rage replace it. She had betrayed him. Nothing else was relevant. No one betrayed Quinlan Braid. “Not to me,” he said in a soft voice.
She ignored him. Shifting her head, she looked behind him.
He smelled her hope—he had to think, to plan—use her hope to save himself. He reminded himself that Giselle was rash, easily manipulated. His Giselle. She’d deceived him, used him. And she would die for it. Bile rose in his throat, yet his tone was soft, unthreatening, when he assured her, “I told you, she’s coming. But before she gets here, I’d like an answer to my question. Why, Giselle? Why are you doing this?” He hated that his question pleaded, hated the insipid need underlying it.
“Money. Why the fuck else?”
“I gave you everything you wanted. More.”
“You’re an old man with money, Q—what the hell else are you going to do to get a woman in your bed?”
Her words entered him like fine shrapnel, first bringing pain—then rage.
“You were in it from the beginning,” he said, refusing to acknowledge the tumult within.
“Mercy covered Castor. I covered you. When big money’s at stake, you cover your bases. That’s how Mercy and I do things.”
“Is she really your sister?”
“Yeah. Really. And, damn it, I told her not to trust you—to be careful.” Again she leaned to look behind him.
He couldn’t see her face clearly, but by her rigid posture, he knew she was both afraid for Mercy and losing patience. His time was running out—as was hers.
Giselle glared at him. “If she doesn’t show up, if you’ve hurt her. I’ll kill you—and fuck the money. I’m gone.”
“You don’t have to do this. You could put that gun away. I’ll finish what needs to be done here and we can go home. I’ll forgive you. We can go on as before.”
“I don’t want your damn forgiveness—I want Mercy. Here. Now.” She steadied the gun. “Get back, Q.”
He looked at the gun in her hand. “You could do that? You could kill me after all I’ve done for you?”
“Done for me—” She made a snorting sound. “A few orgasms and spa trips? A goddamn Brazilian wax. You’re good with your tongue, Q, I’ll give you that, but underneath the money and crap, you’re a freak—in bed and out.”
Something red and hot moved behind his eyes, stoked a latent viciousness in his gut. None of it showed. But he was through with conversation. “Have you ever killed anyone, Giselle? Or will I be your first?”
From behind her came a trilling whistle. If it registered with the stupid woman in front of him, she didn’t show it.
“Third,” she said, cocking her head. “But the one I’ll enjoy the most.”
“I see.”
“You see shit. But don’t worry, your rotten life is safe enough—if Mercy shows up.”
“Too bad. Because yours isn’t safe at all.” He dipped his chin. “Giselle, my darling, you don’t think you’re the only one who covers their bases, do you?”
Like her sister, she went down hard, falling into a patch of rotting stump and salal at the edge of the clearing. Jerald had obviously seen fit to remove his silencer. Not a problem, of course, because there wasn’t a soul within miles—who wouldn’t be dead within the hour.
Jerald stepped into the clearing. He quickly checked Giselle’s throat for a pulse, then picked up her gun and stuffed it in his belt. He stood. “Sir,” he said. “Do you have further instructions?”
Q tore his gaze from Giselle’s lifeless body and stared vacantly at his trusted accomplice. Yes, he had instructions; he always had instructions. Quinlan Braid always had a plan, always anticipated the next step. Quinlan Braid knew what to do about everything—except the tears sliding silently down his face.
Joe stopped cold, the sharp blast of the gun came from his right, ocean-side, fifty, maybe sixty feet away. And it signaled that whoever was after April and Phyllis was close to the cliffs. An advantage if he could figure out how to use it.
Moving closer to the road’s edge, he listened in the direction of the shot, shutting out the sound of dripping trees, the swoosh of ocean against the shore.
Low voices. Male. Maybe two of them. No discernible words. Then the utter silence of the northern rain forest blanketed in ocean mist and fog.
He had his location fix.
Two minutes later, he was on the ocean side of the road. Sixty seconds after that, he was on their asses. Two shapes, moving as he had, low and silently, inched their way forward.
Thanks to his earlier recon of Bristol’s property, Joe already knew where their route would take them—to about thirty feet from the house. At that point the trees and underbrush gave way to moss-covered rock and the clearing that held the house. From there a slow rise led to Bristol’s glass box.
The gravel road ended at the clearing, and except for the darkness, so did the cover. Joe guessed they’d stop behind the final row of trees; they did.
Whatever plans they made were whispered, inaudible. Again they did what he expected they’d do—what he wanted them to do—they separated. One man heading east—angling toward the back of the house—the other staying put, looking relaxed as he leaned against the last tall tree before the clearing. Had it not been oil-slick black out here, the asshole would have been easily seen from the house. As it was, the only thing visible was their plan; covering the house front and back they didn’t intend for anyone to come out alive. His gut balled. Jesus, he hoped to hell everyone in there stayed put.
The shape leaning against the tree stayed stone still—just waiting for Joe’s forearm to cut off his breathing . . .
Every muscle in Joe’s body tensed, readied. He had just a few feet to close and—
“Don’t move.” The words were low, guttural and urgent—and poured into his ear at the same time a gun barrel was shoved into his kidney.
Chapter 30
“Phylly. Stop. I said you’re not going out there.” April, her own nerves strung to snapping, barked out the words. All she wished right now was that Phylly would calm down, give her time to think.
“You think I can sit here while Joey is—”
