Four Live Rounds
She dropped quietly to her knees, lowered herself onto the floor, the right side of her face flush against the carpet. Their room was dark, but a lantern flickered outside in the hallway.
Through the crack under the door, the strand of lantern light was broken in two places. She saw the tips of a pair of boots, could have poked a finger under the door and touched them.
Ten feet away, invisible in the darkness, the infant began to cry.
. . .
Will and Rachael slipped out of the passage and into the stairwell. No lanterns or candles here, the darkness absolute.
Rachael whispered, “Should I turn on the flashlight?”
“No. Just go slow and keep one hand on the wall like we did before.”
Even as he said it, Will knew they might be walking blindly to their death, couldn’t stop himself from picturing a man crouched on the next flight of stairs, outfitted with night-vision goggles, just waiting for them to stumble past.
They proceeded carefully, one step at a time, Will’s heart knocking so hard he feared he’d faint. This was far worse than the wolves. At least you could see your attacker coming outside.
They reached the landing. Will traced his hand along the wall, letting it guide them to the next flight of stairs. Three steps up, he stopped.
“What is it?” Rachael asked.
“I see a light up ahead. Wait here.”
Will ascended the remaining nine steps. At the top, he reached an archway, and from there he could glimpse the corridor, where a lantern mounted to the wall threw shadows and light on a man dressed in black, standing at the door that opened into Devlin’s room.
Will glanced back down the steps, waved Rachael up. She came, stood beside him as the corridor filled with a baby’s wailing. They raised their shotguns.
The man leaned against Devlin’s door, his ear pressed to the wood. Will felt an eerie chill radiate down from the base of his neck into his spine.
Will and Rachael eyed each other, and she could barely see his lips moving in the low light.
Will mouthed, “That’s Javier.”
The man spun, bullets striking the walls of the stairwell, the iron railing sparking.
The Innises returned fire, then dived back into the archway, ears ringing. Will pressed Rachael up against the wall, whispered, “You hit?”
“No, you?”
“No. Don’t move.” Will peeked around the corner, gun smoke drifting through the corridor. The door was splintered with buckshot but still intact. No one there, just sprinkles of blood. Will motioned for Rachael to join him, and he spoke into her ear, “I think he’s pinned down at the end of the corridor, maybe fifteen feet away. All the doors are locked, so I don’t think there’s anyplace—”
Will heard a door squeak open.
SIXTY-NINE
Kalyn pushed the last shell of buckshot into the twelve-gauge and pumped it. She set it beside her, took out the Browning. The shotgun was good if you didn’t know how to shoot, but you could easily get yourself killed in the time it took to absorb the shoulder-bruising recoil, pump it, and take aim. Her head was bleeding again, and she was dizzy from the blow.
As she wiped away the rivulet of blood trailing down her nose, the Browning flew out of her hand and slid across the stone, hitting the library door. She went for the shotgun, and as she realized it wasn’t there, she felt its barrel, still blazing hot, push into the back of her neck.
“You will tell me your name.”
She stared at the floor, said nothing.
“Are you the ex-FBI agent?”
“No, I’ve been imprisoned in this lodge for five years. But I can take you to her right now. She’s just through that passage over—”
“Stand up.” Kalyn stood. “Take three steps forward and slowly turn around, leaving your hands up, fingers open.” Kalyn moved toward the doors, her arms raised. She stopped and turned.
A man garbed all in black stood in the hearth, covering her with her shotgun. Where his face wasn’t streaked with soot, she saw that his skin was reddish brown, wondered if perhaps he was half Mayan.
He looked at Kalyn, said, “I’m afraid you resemble the photograph I have of Kalyn Sharp. Are there any other weapons on your person?” She shook her head. “Remove your jacket and your pants.” Kalyn didn’t move. “Take them off now, or what’s going to happen to you will only last longer and involve more pain.”
A pair of shotgun blasts tore out of the passage.
. . .
Will yelled into the corridor, “You wanna walk out of here, Javier? Two of your friends are already dead.”
. . .
A small explosion around the corner shook the floor beneath Will’s feet.
After a moment, another noise filled the passage—a zipper in motion, followed by the sound of something dragging across the floor. Will didn’t risk taking a peek.
“Hello, Will. Were you able to locate your wife?”
“Yes.”
“I hope the very short amount of time you’ve had together was worth the pain that is coming your way.”
“Look, you have nowhere to go, and there’re two of us here with shotguns.”
Something went whisk in the corridor.
“What was that?” Will asked. The sweeter smell of tobacco smoke mixed in with the cordite. Will was thinking, Maybe I should just go for it, poke out mid-sentence, hope to catch him off guard.
“Do you remember, Will, the substance of our last conversation?”
“Yes, you—”
“I extended you and Kalyn the opportunity to improve the outcome of our inevitable future meeting.”
“Javier—”
“And you did not accept my offer.”
“Jav—”
“What? What, Will? What are you about to propose? That we call things a day? Do you believe I have traveled all these miles, at great expense, suffered cold and snow, the myriad wrongs to me and my family, only to turn right around and go home now that I have found you? Please answer me.”
“No.”
“Well said.”
Will looked at Rachael, whispered, “We’re gonna have to kill him.”
“Will, I know your daughter is behind that door. Would you care to know my plans involving her?”
SEVENTY
Fidel finished patting down Kalyn. She was already sweating, her hands restless with nervous tremors.
The man began to shift back and forth on the balls of his feet like a prize-fighter. He grinned. “We go a few rounds? Hand-to-hand combat?”
Kalyn backed slowly away. He pursued.