Devil With a Gun (15 page)

Thirty-One

“Change of plan?” I
mutter to myself. “What the hell!”

We had discussed the plan over a dozen times and agreed that Pinch was to accompany me into the building to make sure I didn't get my ass shot off.

Now I was on my own and having second thoughts about not involving Frank. Of course, he would have been thrilled with that conversation: “You
think
a friend of yours is being held captive by Russian mobsters. And based on a tip from a back-street bookie, you want me to get a SWAT team and execute a search warrant?”

Despite his great fondness for me, there's only so much rope Frank is willing to wind out. At least Pinch, until he deserted me, hadn't questioned my twisted logic.

I study the gun: Italian-made Beretta 92FS semi-automatic with a non-reflective black finish. I eject the magazine and count fifteen rounds of 124-grain 9mm jacketed hollow-point. It's a nice gun—not as comforting as my own, which Pinch told me to leave at home—but solid and reliable. I just hope I don't need to use it.

After double-checking the safety, I slip the gun into the rear waistband of my jeans and move to the corner of the building opposite the one where Bailey is being held. I work on my breathing as I wait, trying to slow each inhale as though I'm running a marathon or swimming laps in a pool. My lungs convulse, fighting me, wanting to race like greyhounds with an electric rabbit in their sights.

Across the street, a broad-shouldered man with distinct five o'clock stubble and nicotine-fueled eyes steps out of the doorway and lights a cigarette. His gaze takes in the breadth of the street—mentally ticking off the junkies, whores, welfare bums, and storeowners that he knows on sight—before heading north for a casual stroll. If he's bored, he isn't showing it. Every muscle moves like a coiled spring.

I wait two heartbeats before stepping out of the shadows and crossing the road. Out the corner of my eye, I notice the guard turn his head to check me out. I'm dressed casually in dark jeans, leather boots, loose T-shirt, and my long green trenchcoat.

I don't hold his interest for long, especially when the wrestlers turn the corner ahead of him.

Bulldog's boys are boisterous, pushing and shoving each other as they fight over a glass jug of Tennessee whiskey. I watch the guard's pace falter as he takes in the collective size of the encroaching group.

I reach the doorway but freeze in place when the guard suddenly swivels back toward me, a silent alarm tripped somewhere in his brain. Time slows and my panic rises when he tosses his cigarette aside. I watch it spin and spark as it bounces into the gutter.

When our eyes meet, I sense recognition, and wonder if Lebed has warned him about me. But how could the Red Swan possibly believe I would attempt this when even I think it's crazy?

The guard's right hand reaches inside his jacket, but whether to grab a phone or a gun, I'll never know, because in the same instant the gang of rowdy wrestlers swallows him whole.

I immediately push through the door and head up the stairs.

Nobody blocks my way to the first landing and I waste no time in rounding the bend and moving swiftly to the second.
This is all part of Lebed's plan
, I remind myself to keep my confidence in check. Lebed
wants
Joe to make it to the third floor.

It's getting back out that'll be the problem.

As I round the second floor on my way to the third, I hear a steel bolt sliding back from one of the closed doors on either side of the stairwell.

I don't stop to look. That'll come later.

On the third floor, I stop on the landing to catch my breath. There are four doors to choose from, but the guard has made it easy by leaving one of them slightly ajar.

Sweat beads on my scalp, pools under my arms, and runs between my breasts. I smell my own fear leaching from my pores. It's sour and unpleasant.

As soon as I go through that door, everything changes. Does Lebed want a dead journalist on his hands? I'm betting heavily that he doesn't. But even if that's the case, has he told his team of hired thugs in the room above?

You should have thought of that before you came this far
, says an inner voice with such sarcastic clarity that I almost look around to see who's spoken.

“Shit!” I curse under my breath and move closer to the door. “Now or never, Dixie,” I tell myself.

Now or never.

I push open the door and vanish inside.

Thirty-Two

Easing down the hallway,
my eyes and ears alert for any sudden movement, I'm surprised to find the Beretta back in my hand with the safety flicked off and a bullet in the chamber. I don't remember grabbing it, but apparently another part of my brain has kicked into survival mode.

The first door I pass leads into a bleak bedroom with little more than four walls and a single unmade bed. The air holds the flophouse smell of hired men—body odor, masturbation, and gun oil—but the space is all ghosts and no threat.

At the end of the hall are two more doors before I reach the living room. The one on the left is for a toilet and stand-up shower that would make Mr. Clean weep, while the other opens to a barely used galley kitchen. I make sure both rooms are unoccupied before passing.

Entering the living room, I see a woman tied to a wooden chair in front of a small portable television that's broadcasting QVC without sound. And if that doesn't count as cruel and unusual, I'm not sure what does. The rest of the room is empty.

When I appear in front of her, Bailey's eyes grow four times their normal size. Her face is red and puffy with signs of bruising on her cheeks and forehead. At one point, she must have struggled.

I wink at her, slip the Beretta into my pocket, and replace it with my switchblade, Lily. Vivid blue tape has been wrapped in a thick band around her head, sealing her mouth. I slide the thin blade into the gap behind her ear to slice an opening before attempting to peel it off. Freeing her mouth, I leave the tape that's become stuck firmly in her hair to be removed when we have more time.

Bailey works her jaw, wincing as her tongue tends to the dried and broken skin of her lips, while I slice through the rope and plastic straps that hold her to the chair.

When I'm done, I ask if she can stand.

“You shouldn't have come,” she says as she pushes herself slowly out of the chair. Her body is stiff and her muscles tremble from fatigue and stress. “This is a trap.”

“I know,” I say, “but it's a trap for your father.”

“You think Lebed's gonna care?”

“I'm banking on it.”

Bailey stands up straight and groans as electric pins and needles course through her muscles.

“You're either very brave or very stupid,” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Bailey cracks a smile, but it fades just as quickly as it bloomed. “My dad was never going to come, was he?”

I slip the knife into my boot and retrieve the Beretta. “Let's talk about that later. Preferably over a beer in a nice little pub run by a very large and protective friend of mine.”

With a grimace, Bailey swings an arm around my neck so I can hold part of her weight.

“I could really use the toilet,” she says.

“No time. Sorry.”

A boisterous cry erupts from the street, followed by the unmistakable crunch of something overly large and metallic being overturned.

“What's that?” Bailey cries out.

I grin. “Just some friends causing havoc.”

A whoosh of gasoline catching fire is followed by the sound of breaking glass. Voices begin to rise in chants and protest. Every riot begins as a party.

“That's our cue,” I say.

Apparently, it's also somebody else's: bursts of automatic gunfire erupt on the floor above us, followed by the stomping of panicked feet, screams of pain, and loud Russian voices. More glass shatters, and the downward concussion of a second explosion nearly knocks us to our knees.

Bailey looks at me in blood-drained panic, her face reflecting what I already know:
we're in a war zone.

“We need to move,” I say, trying not to show that I'm just as frightened as she is.

With Bailey leaning against me for balance as her legs work out the kinks of being strapped tight to a chair, we head quickly down the hallway toward the apartment door and the stairwell to the street beyond.

Two feet from the end, the door is suddenly kicked open by an ugly thug armed with an MP5 submachine gun. His scalp is partially singed and the only thing that delays him from squeezing the trigger is his surprise over seeing two women rather than the man he was likely told to expect.

Everything in that moment screams at me to run and hide, pull the covers over my head and pretend there are no monsters under the bed—but I'm expecting it. Pinch warned me about the overwhelming impulse for flight and how, in times of war, we need to disable that core hard-wired instinct. He also said that was why so many battle-weary soldiers have difficulty returning to civilian life; once that switch is disabled, it can be a difficult thing to reset again.

Shoving Bailey behind me, I snap the Beretta into a two-handed grip and fire three shots in rapid succession at the intruder's center mass. Each bullet hits the man's chest and expands to nearly double its size, sending him flying backward into the door across the landing.

My first thought is,
Oh shit!

But my second is,
No blood.

The man sits up, his chest oozing white stuffing from a ballistic vest. If I'm lucky he'll have a broken rib or two and find it difficult to catch his breath, but that will only slow him down.

Cursing in Russian, the thug recovers faster than I'd like and, still sitting, brings his MP5 to bear.

I immediately grab Bailey's hand and rush back toward the living room before throwing her screaming, terrified body onto the ground as if she's a skim board and we're going to do a little sand surfing.

Bullets zip inches above our heads as I desperately shove Bailey around the corner, where the large appliances in the kitchen next door will offer some protection.

Not giving her time to catch her breath or allow panic to freeze her in place, I point at the window that overlooks the street.

“Open the window,” I yell.

“There's no fire escape on this side,” Bailey protests.

“Just get it open,” I yell back. “Smash it if you have to.”

Bullets are racing down the hallway, spraying the far wall and destroying everything in their path. The living room begins to fill with white dust from disintegrating plaster as the gunman slowly makes his way up the hall toward us. He's angry, injured, and firing without discretion, knowing that we have no place to run or hide.

Before reaching us, his magazine runs empty. I hear it eject and hit the floor with a metallic clang. In the next instant, a fresh one is snapped into place.

Knowing I have to act before he can slap the charging handle forward to fire again, I launch myself across the floor directly into his path. He's standing in the middle of the hall, staring directly ahead, not down, but when he spots me on the floor, he smiles through bloody teeth—until I fire.

The hollow-point round hits his ankle with such explosive force that his foot is nearly ripped clean off the bone.

I don't wait to watch him crumple to the ground—the piercing intensity of his scream tells me I've bought a little time.

I scramble back to Bailey's side and help her shove the window open to its full height. Below us, the wrestlers are cheering the fiery destruction of an overturned car. The smoke is thick and black. In the distance I can hear sirens approaching from all directions.

The heat in the room is too intense to be coming just from the burning car, however. I glance up and see the entire fourth floor also ablaze.

Pinch.

Change of plans.

That's why only one gunman appeared at our door and not four. Pinch must have scaled the fire escape and entered via the roof to take on the Russians before they moved on me. Pity one got away.

Pressing two fingers between my lips, I release an ear-splitting whistle—the same one my mother always gave me hell for and which my father taught me to perfect.

Two of the wrestlers look up and wave.

“Form a net,” I call down. “I need you to catch someone.”

Bailey looks at me in abject terror. “You're not serious.”

“The police are on their way, the hall is blocked by an angry and armed Russian, and we need to get out now. You're first.”

“But—”

I don't let her finish as I drag and push her to the window ledge until she's balanced precariously on her knees.

Down below, the wrestlers have linked their arms to form a human net. Their bulging biceps make it resemble a small inflatable bed.

“Close your eyes.”

Bailey's eyes grow wider.

“Close them,” I say. “It'll be over soon.”

Bailey closes her eyes and I shove her out.

“Don't move, bitch!”

Shit!

I turn around to see the Russian thug sitting on the floor, a river of blood leading from his right foot into the hall. His submachine gun is aimed directly at me, and despite the pain glistening on his face, his aim seems true.

“Drop the gun.”

I drop the Beretta.

Smoke is filling the room from above, but I'm beginning to doubt I'll have to worry about it.

“Who are you?” His accent is thick and cumbersome, the English words practically choking him.

“A journalist,” I say. “Your boss doesn't want me dead.”

The man spits on the floor. “My orders are clear. No one leaves alive.”

“That why he killed your friends?” I glance up at the ceiling. “Leave no witnesses?”

The man looks confused for a second before clarity returns to his eyes. “That is not Red Swan. It is short bastard in black. His corpse will be crispy by now.”

“Just like yours, then,” I say.

The thug's finger twitches on the trigger as I dive to one side and pull the knife out of my boot. The first spray of bullets misses me completely, finding the open window where I stood and sending a shower of glass and lead over the street like lethal fireworks. But as the gun circles back, I realize the distance between us is too great for a knife to give me any advantage.

The Russian realizes this, too.

“I would rather kill you with bare hands,” he says as ripples of flame suddenly burst across the ceiling. “But we run out of time.”

He raises his gun again just as a black blur bursts through the doorway and slams into him with a shoulder block that would make any NFL couch proud. The gun sails out of the Russian's grip as the blur circles behind him and locks a skinny forearm around his throat.

The Russian's eyes bulge as the intruder squeezes tight.

“You should leave,” says the blur. “Now.”

To my surprise, it isn't Pinch.

It's my Good Samaritan.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Does it matter?”

“I find it odd.”

“Odder than standing here while a building burns to the ground around you?”

The Russian thrashes his legs in panic as the life is slowly squeezed from him, my Samaritan's boney forearm locked in a merciless vise.

“Don't kill him,” I say. “He's only a gun for hire.”

“He wouldn't give you the same courtesy, and I don't like who hired him.”

“We need to talk,” I say.

The man nods. “But let's pick a better time. The stairwell should be clear if you go now.”

“Are you coming?” I ask.

“Right behind you.”

I find the Beretta and slip it back into my jeans as I take off down the hall. The cracking timbers sound like breaking bones, and the fire cackles at my back.