by Camilla Monk
“Island, get down!”
I didn’t even have to. When bright blue beams appeared out of nowhere and outlined the dark figure lunging at us, my legs simply gave way. I fell on my ass and curled into a ball as Alex shot twice. The silhouette fell with a groan. I realized that the light came from his gun, on which a tiny laser lamp mounted under the barrel streaked the walls around us with a bluish glow.
Above me someone pulled at my arm. I shrieked, my arms flailing in all directions to escape the newcomer’s grasp, while a third figure seemed to have emerged as well, in front of Alex this time. The hands reaching out for me let go, leaving a smarting sensation where long nails had scraped my skin. A familiar perfume floated in the air, something flowery. The girl with the credit card terminal—the nails that had dug into my flesh were hers.
More gunshots resounded, silenced this time, and Alex started fighting with our pursuer. Terrifying shadows danced on the walls, and I could hear grunts and punches, along with the sharp clatter of shoes slamming on the stone steps. Alex and his adversary tumbled together, sending candles flying everywhere. Drops of molten wax splattered on my legs, leaving a burning sensation in their wake. I scrambled away with a scream of alarm.
Amid the growls and dull thuds of bodies hitting the walls, a noise suddenly reached my ears that I didn’t recognize. Like a low rush of air and some crackling, followed by a harsh acidic smell. Someone howled, and Alex raced back toward me. Then, like they say in the Bible, there was light. Or more exactly, the blaze of an acrylic suit catching fire and lighting up the stairway. The man who had tried to kill Alex staggered on the stairs with desperate moans that turned into blood-chilling screams.
Behind him, a shadow moved, shielding himself with his arms. In a split second I recognized March’s tall frame and black tux—I gathered he had heard the gunshots and come to our rescue. He shoved the human torch out of the way, making me guess, with no small amount of horrified awe, that his own jacket was not acrylic, and possibly fireproof. A practical demonstration that smart fashion choices are, indeed, a matter of life and death.
Both men hauled me up by the shoulders, and we ran up the stairs so fast I wasn’t even sure my feet were touching the ground. We reached the top of the stairs, and Alex slammed shut the security door behind us, leaving the torch guy to his misery. I could still hear his cries through the heavy steel, still smelled burned flesh and fabric, and I wanted to throw up. I clutched my stomach in an effort not to.
Ahead of us, the hallway had been deserted. Credit-card girl appeared to have vanished, leaving the dozens of tiny candles to burn in a silence troubled by the low hum and sinister groans rising from the entrails of the club.
“They’re waiting outside. They won’t let us get away,” March said, pulling out a gun from his jacket.
I gripped his arm harder. “What the hell is going on? Are we . . . are we trapped in here?”
Alex smirked. “I guess Sahar didn’t like March’s little tale.”
“What do you mean?”
I was stopped by March’s hand on my shoulder. “They’re here.”
“They” announced themselves with thin rays of red light piercing the darkness at the end of the hallway. One, then two, then too many for me to count. Ten, at least, maybe more. Soon, the candlelight gilded leather boots, combat gear, and the harsh lines of rifles and guns.
Alex raised his Glock in their direction. “Mr. November? Any immediate suggestions?”
It was when March did the exact opposite and lowered his own weapon that I understood just how profoundly screwed we were.
“No. Not for now.”
THIRTY
The Price
“Gianni had paid the price to rise to the top of the Risoli family. His heart was a calzone the Mafia’s oven had burned to ashes.”
—Kerry-Lee Storm, Gods of Darkness #4: Gianni
It’s probably gonna sound weird, but when we came out of the villa, escorted by a small army of terrifying guys who seemed straight out of Call of Duty: Black Ops, I thought about yoga pants. About how I should have put some on before leaving the hotel, since goose bumps were forming on my legs.
The two guards who had allowed us in earlier were nowhere in sight, replaced by a second group of five armed men—less equipped than their little friends surrounding us, so good news, right? March and Alex had handed their guns to our captors; the three of us stood perfectly still for what seemed like ages—waiting for Sahar, I assumed. I felt March’s hand brush mine, like a silent reassurance that we’d be okay somehow. I had no idea how he could remain so calm, so focused when all I wanted was to piss myself.
At some point I rubbed my palms together because I was getting cold and my entire body was shaking, but one of the black-ops guys pointed his rifle at my head and barked, “Freeze!” Which was precisely what I was doing, in fact. That earned him a cold-killer glare from March, who removed his jacket to place it on my shoulders, without so much as a glance at the long, silenced barrel our host was pointing at us. Once I felt the garment’s weight, I wrapped it tight around my body, folding my arms to hold on to its precious warmth.
Behind us, the villa’s front door creaked open. We all turned to look at the newcomers. Sahar stood in the doorway, flanked by that assistant with the slicked-back hair, and one of the bodyguards I had seen in the club.
She snuggled into a white coat concealing her silvery dress and took a few steps toward us, smugness oozing from her every pore. “I’m sorry for all this. You guys jostled my schedule a bit.”
March still appeared cool and controlled, but I knew those little signs—the twitch in his jaw muscles, the intensity in his gaze. Rage. “Does Guita know?”
“Know what?”
“That Van Kreft is dead and she’s going to buy Ruby from you.”
I startled upon hearing him say it out loud. That being said, I had already been suspecting Van Kreft was either gone or dead, so learning that Sahar was in fact a manipulative bitch on top of that almost sounded like old news. “So Van Kreft did die? When?” I asked.
“I’d say six months ago or so,” Alex said, a cold smile on his lips.
Around the same time Phyllis said he had vanished from the radar. Figured. My eyes darted between the three of them while Alex went on. “Murrell had his doubts about Van Kreft’s profile; he told us that. He called me back later today—”
“To tell you that no one had seen Van Kreft in public for months, and that he was no longer using his credit cards or seeing his doctor?” I completed, almost certain Murrell and Phyllis had come to similar conclusions.
“Yes,” Alex admitted, his voice tinted with mild surprise.
March locked eyes with Sahar. “You put Wille in charge of running Van Kreft’s business, and your men secured all access to the manor. You made him a scapegoat for the Ruby operation and hired Austrian mercenaries so all evidence would point to him.”
She tucked a long strand of black-and-turquoise hair behind her ear and applauded mockingly. “My God, when did you become so smart? Is it all those crosswords? I was so sure you’d end up breaking into the manor and destroying everything in your wake to find that insignificant piece of shit.”
Alex shook his head. “Get over yourself. Do you want to know what tipped us off so easily? It’s that at no point during this entire operation did you act like Van Kreft would have. You’re an average mind with considerable means. You’re not your sister, Sahar.”
Each of his word rang in my ears, like water drops troubling the surface of a black lake. Just how much did Alex know about Guita and the Board to have seen through Sahar so easily? I thought of March’s strange arrangement with Erwin, of the way the CIA seemed well aware of the Cullinan affair and my subsequent kidnapping, but they were okay with that, and they didn’t mind that the Board got to keep the diamond. The word ecosystem came to mind: a vast gray area where players could neither publicly acknowledge nor genuinely fight each other. An ecosystem into which Sahar, wi
th her brutal ways and selfish ambitions had fired like a loose cannon.
At any rate, Alex’s severe assessment of her criminal skills struck a chord. She looked up to the night sky for a second, and the way her lips were trembling, I thought she was going to cry.
“Shoot that fucker in the face.”
One of the henchmen raised his rifle, and I jumped in front of Alex. “No!”
“Island!” March had moved as well, quick as an arrow. He was now in front of us, while Alex’s hands were on my shoulders, hauling me back.
Sahar walked up to March until she stood mere inches from him. “I’m tired of waiting in the shadows. I’m fucking tired of waiting for someone to notice what I’m capable of.” Her voice broke as she brought a hand to caress his cheek. “And you don’t understand. I know you don’t.”
March pushed her hand away. “I lied to you. There’s no virus in Ruby. Let them go. They’re Erwin’s assets. If you kill them, you’ll find yourself biting off more than you can chew, Sahar.”
She bit her lower lip, and her shoulders shook in quiet laughter. “You’re so sweet. I don’t need you to tell me what Roth did or didn’t do to Ruby. I know he tried to screw me and that you guys found something in his apartment.”
Maybe she wasn’t so stupid after all . . .
March flashed her the hint of a poker smile as he shielded me and Alex. “You’re giving us too much credit. Not even the NSA could find anything on Roth’s computers.”
Sahar looked away, shaking her head in mock disappointment, before she jerked her head as a signal to one of her guards. Two of them punched and shoved Alex away. He knelt down in the gravel, clutching his stomach with a muffled grunt. March spun around, but by the time he turned to face us another guy had drawn out his gun, and it was now pressing . . . against my temple.
Trust me, if this had been a game of red light, green light, I would have won. I was so damn petrified I could hardly breathe. My heart was thumping in my rib cage, and the ground under my feet felt like cotton, like it would give way any second and swallow me into a bottomless pit. The cold contact of the barrel, the slight pain as the guy pushed as if to drill into my skull. That was all I could think about. A few feet away, March stood equally still, his hands raised in a pacifying gesture. Dark blue eyes stared directly into my captor’s.
Sahar treaded past him and to me. She grabbed my chin. “My sister says that whoever pulls your strings gets to pull March’s.” Her fingers dug harder into my cheeks. “We’ll see about that. Get her into my car; she’ll ride with me.”
She turned to March one last time. “That way I know you’ll behave.”
It’s so difficult to find a suitable conversation topic when you’re sitting in the back of a limo across from a beginner female supervillain who’s got you handcuffed, sandwiched between two armed men, and who’s taking you to a secluded manor on a mountain to do God knows what. I was tempted to talk to Sahar about Guita, the Queen, and how it seemed that organized crime was yet another sector where women defied the odds and excelled. She seemed, however, to be lost in her own thoughts, curled in that big wool coat on her leather seat, staring through the window.
I decided to shut up for now.
Behind my back, the handcuffs were starting to chafe my skin. I squirmed, struggling to balance myself every time the car took a sharp turn. My eyes darted to the men sharing my seat. I examined the large “88” tattooed on the older one’s skull—there was probably something to be said about his political views, but I didn’t dare bring it up, because he had a Desert Eagle and I didn’t. I gulped, a bead of cold sweat rolling down my neck and raising goose bumps in its path.
The one on my left seemed about my age, maybe even younger. I studied him as we drove through the deserted streets of Vaduz. Brown hair, handsome Hispanic features, very soft brown eyes—not exactly your typical brute. I tried to focus on him to keep my fear at bay; he didn’t seem as scary as his neo-Nazi colleague. I wondered if he would become like March some day—if his face would age gracefully, but his eyes would turn cold, concealing some secret wound.
Thinking of March, I felt my chest tighten. I wanted to turn in my seat to look through the rear windshield and see the other car, just to know that it was there—that he was there. I didn’t dare, though. For one, I had no idea how my captors would react if I moved, but I also figured that seeing me crumble into an emotional mess would give Sahar even more ammo against March. I tried to relax and breathe at least part of my fear out.
We left town at some point and started driving up a narrow mountain road, which confirmed my earlier impression that if things went wrong, I’d be done for good. Miles were rapidly piling up, and I’d never make it back to Vaduz on my own, should I manage to run the hell away.
In front of us, Sahar shifted to look at me. Her silent appraisal had me fidgeting on my seat. After a couple of minutes I couldn’t take it anymore. Consequences be damned, I opened my mouth to speak. “Aren’t you scared of what will happen if Guita finds out what you’ve done?”
She straightened in her seat, and for an instant I thought I glimpsed something genuine, almost childish in her big coal eyes. “No. I know she’ll be pissed at first, but once she realizes what I’m giving her, it won’t matter anymore. She’s like that, all about business.”
“But why sell Ruby to her, then? Why take the Board’s money? Isn’t Ellingham’s money enough for you?”
A bitter smile twisted her mouth. “You don’t understand. I need my own wings to fly. I don’t want to serve her well; I want to make my own way and rise above her.”
I looked down at my lap. “How much will that dream cost?”
She smirked. “Nine zeros.”
My head lolled back; I stared at the roof light. Judging from her answer, it was obvious Sahar hadn’t understood my question.
THIRTY-ONE
The Tub
“Emerging from the water, covered in a light, fragrant foam, Bradley’s lighthouse stood proud, tall in the storm of his desire.”
—Gem Windcrest, The Cowboy of Clam Beach
After nearly half an hour of driving, we reached a large metal gate barring access to a small trail. Fifty yards down the trail stood a seventeenth-century stone-and-brick manor consisting of a long main building and two towers. The left one was flanked by a second wing, built in the late eighteenth century, judging by its neo-classic architecture and the presence of what appeared to be a vast greenhouse. Thirty yards away or so, a much smaller building lay half-hidden by pine trees. Stables, I supposed.
Small in-ground lights drew a path to the entrance door, framed by two large lanterns. Wille had been right—this was, indeed, a typical gentilhommière, as the French would say, except I was pretty sure there were no gentlemen in there. Several unfunny-looking men guarded the entrance, and I heard some barking in the distance, which suggested that someone patrolled the compound with dogs—no doubt equally unfunny dogs, like rottweilers, as opposed to dachshunds.
Whether Guita’s theory regarding March’s strings was right or not, Sahar’s prediction proved true. When we stepped out of the car and the doors to the black SUV following us opened as well, March and Alex appeared, handcuffed as I was, and compliant. No one had been killed, no car had been blown up, and I suspected none would be, as long as that neo-Nazi with the 88 tattoo held me at gunpoint.
She gestured to me. “Get her downstairs and take these two into the dining room.”
March shrugged his captor’s hand off and took a step forward. “Sahar—”
“She’ll speak to us alone. Now, you can either cooperate and get her back in one piece, or keep fucking with me, and I swear, March, that I’ll cut off bits she doesn’t need to talk.”
What kind of bits were we talking about? My teeth chattered, and I clenched my jaw as hard as I could to stop it.
March didn’t say a word, but the look in his and Alex’s eyes sort of reassured me—a silent promise that if anyone chopped any bit off m
e, not even Guita could save Sahar’s ass. She shrugged the unspoken threat off, a cue for my new Nazi friend and the younger guy to drag me toward the entrance door, followed by several guards, while a second group escorted March and Alex.
Behind me, I heard Alex’s voice. “It’s gonna be okay, Island. Tell her everything she wants to know.”
I tried to look back at him and March, but my captors wouldn’t let me. Once inside, we were greeted by the sight of a magnificent lobby decorated with antique statues and Renaissance-style tapestries—Van Kreft had obviously been an art enthusiast. I watched in dismay as March and Alex were led toward a set of French doors on our left. Casting one last look at them, I tried to smile. Don’t worry, I mouthed.
To be honest, I wasn’t so sure things were gonna be okay, but no point in sobbing like a chicken when they were powerless to help me at the moment. I heard the clatter of heels on the stone floor; Sahar had removed her coat and joined us. Across the hall, a guard whispered something in one of his colleagues’ ear. The other goon nodded in response and pointed to a small wooden door, almost hidden under a double flight of stairs.
It looked a lot like I was being taken to the basement, and well, I had qualms about this. Legitimately so. After the old door had slammed shut behind us, the bright chandeliers and limestone walls of the lobby were replaced by dark stone and a persistent scent of mold. Leading our procession, Sahar didn’t seem disturbed in the least by this haunted-house vibe. I staggered down a dingy corridor lined with ancient wooden doors, sandwiched between Baldie and his partner, until we reached a large room that could have been an ancient wine cellar.
A single bulb hung from the low, vaulted ceiling, and the room was nearly empty, save for a couple of empty wood barrels, a few old barreling tools lying around in the dirt, and—oddly—a tub. I could see something shimmering inside it—water, if the long hose lying on the ground was any indication. At any rate, it looked like they weren’t finished with the plumbing, and the floor needed some work too, but the place had great potential.
