Echoes (30 page)

“Get down!” He shoved Callie down into a crouch beneath the dashboard as the Jeep crashed through the ornamental wrought-iron gates to the hotel. The gendarme—or whoever he was—followed, shouting and shooting, but they lost him when the driveway curved. Callie pushed herself back up into her seat and held on to the roll bar as they tilted at an alarming angle.

“Jesus!” Mac slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid a couple in matching jogging suits exiting the Paradis's main building. The man shouted and raised his fist, but Mac ignored him, maneuvering the car around the side of the building. “I hate ops with civilians. These people are going to get themselves killed, and there's fuck-all I can do about it.”

Callie started to answer, to reassure him, but her head hit the roof of the Jeep, cracking her teeth together, as Mac jumped the curb, ignoring the path in favor of cutting across land to reach their destination more quickly. They rounded the corner of the hotel and found themselves confronted by an olive-skinned man holding an AK-47. He aimed at them and Mac gunned the engine. The solid
thunk
of flesh against metal turned Callie's stomach as the guy flew up and onto the Jeep's hood. His face pressed for a minute against the windshield, dead eyes permanently open in a kind of shocked horror, before Mac braked and he slid to the ground.

Mac jumped from the vehicle, tucked the pistol he'd taken from the house into the back of his jeans, and retrieved the machine gun from the guy's twitching body. “C'mon,” he said, “he won't have been alone. We have to find Nash.”

Callie slid from her seat, the Glock that Mac had given her at the house an unwieldy weight in her hand. But the body lying before the Jeep put paid to any thought she might have had about leaving it behind.

“Stay close.” Mac edged forward, staying pressed up against the wall of the hotel, and she followed. He ducked his head around quickly, then pulled back. “Door's clear. But I wouldn't expect more than one outside anyway. Inside's more practical for an ambush. Wait here.”

He ran back to the Jeep and retrieved the leather bag he'd brought with them. When he returned, he slung the machine gun over his shoulder and dug around inside the bag, coming up with a pair of binoculars. He used the glasses to study the wall of the building.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“These show me the heat signatures of anyone in the cellar. I need to know what we're up against.”

After staring through the glasses for a minute, he grunted and drew a square in the sandy dirt beneath his knees.

“Here's what we've got. Two guys in this area, here.” He put a couple marks on the drawing. “Then one here, by this door, another on the opposite side, which I assume is the door from the kitchen and dining room, and a third off to himself over here.” He made appropriate marks for each.

“The first four are moving. Not doing jumping jacks or anything, but moving around. The last one is staying very still. I'd wager that's Nash. Either he's been captured and tied up or unconscious, or he's trying to avoid that fate by remaining hidden.”

“What do we do?”

“First, we get every innocent person out of Dodge. Claudine can handle it. I'll give her a good reason to do it quickly.” He reached into the bag again and withdrew a phone. “Claudine,” he said when the woman answered, “this is Mac. Yes, I know. I don't have time right now. Listen, you have to round up my team and have them evacuate the hotel. There's a bomb in the wine cellar. Yes, yes, call the gendarmes, but get the people out first. Get them far away from the building. That's the important thing. Be careful.”

“She'll be able to handle that?”

“She and Andy and the rest of the staff and security team. Between hurricanes and high-profile clients, we have drills several times a year. After a drill, we apologize to the guests with special incentives—spa treatments, water-sports excursions to Pinel Island—make them feel extra pampered. It gets the job done.”

“Impressive. Too bad I'm not really writing an article about the place. I could advise them to come when they thought a drill might be imminent in order to get access to the goodies.”

The spark of humor in their situation impressed him, and he grinned down at her, hoping to prolong the moment. “Why no article? You don't think Vacation Spots for Serial Killers and Arms Dealers is the sort of thing your readers would enjoy?”

“Nope. To them, a ‘sick puppy' needs doggie detox.”

“Tell me you're kidding.”

“I wish I could.” She gave him a strained smile and returned her attention to the building, all levity gone. From around front, they could hear a rising babble and ruckus as people exited.

“So what now?”

“Let's see what goodies we have.” He dumped out the satchel and began sifting through the items.

The colors of death are steel blue and charcoal, matte metal and black rubber
. She glanced away to get her bearings.

“Okay,” Mac said, after hefting a couple of the objects. “Here's what we're going to do. You are going to set up behind that palm.” He pointed to a tree some fifteen feet opposite the door and handed her a pistol. “You can use that? You don't have to be precise.” She nodded, then checked the gun to be sure it was loaded, proving her point.

“Good. When I left, I . . . retained some keys. I thought we might need them. I doubt they've had a chance to change the locks, but they will be listening for anyone trying to break in. By now, they have to have heard the exodus and have some idea what's going on.

“I am going to unlock the cellar access door over there, open it, and get the hell out of the way. You are going to fire. Aside from the guard, no one should be in the path of the bullets, and from this angle, it's unlikely you'll hit him. The stairs go directly down from the doorway, so you're too far above and outside to do much damage.

“Give it six shots. Count them. When you're done, I'm going to roll in a flashbang. At that point we'll both run like hell for the front.”

“A flashbang?”

He held up a canister with a loop-and-pin lock at the top. She'd imagined the word to be jargon, but the device actually said “FLASH BANG” in large letters on the side. “I can't throw it in—you don't want this baby hitting anyone, believe me—but I can roll it. It explodes, with a lot of light and sound, just as the name suggests. It also generates a fair amount of heat. It will temporarily blind them, especially given the dimness of the wine cellar and the fact that they'll probably be looking in the direction of the door, and create a distraction. By the time they get sorted, I want to be around front and in through the other door.”

“Do you really think we can run that fast?”

His mouth tilted up on one side. “Nope. But I think six shots and a three count before a flashbang will alert Nash that we're coming. I'm hoping he'll provide the rest of the distraction. I don't suppose I can convince you to stay behind?”

Callie examined his long legs, compared them to her own, suppressed the flash of heated memory at how well they'd fit together. “I'd slow you down if I tried to follow.”

“Okay, then.” He glanced around, eyes coming to rest on a squat, square cement building about thirty feet from the palm-tree vantage point from which Callie would be shooting. “That's the laundry building. When I roll the flashbang into the cellar, squeeze into the vegetation next to it. Stay close to the building. There's a lot of scrub, which will keep you hidden, but the cliff drops off pretty quickly, so watch your step. I'm not going far, so if anyone comes after you, shoot and shout. Ready?”

Was she? Did she have a choice?

“Let's do it.”

He pulled her close, kissed her hard, and led her to the palm tree, where he had her check to be sure she could see where she was supposed to shoot. Then he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and crept toward the cellar door. He eased a large bronze one into the door. In that moment, Callie's hearing sharpened and silence fell as if the very air had stopped moving, and every footstep on pebbled ground, every jiggle of the key, every snick of the lock was magnified. How could the people in the cellar not hear? Not realize they had an enemy poised to invade?

Mac turned the handle with excruciating deliberation, then slammed the door open hard and fast, simultaneously pressing himself against the outer wall of the building. Callie could see no movement from within the cellar. She hesitated.

“Go!” Mac shouted, and she fired, counting off the shots under her breath. One, two, three, four, five, six. Then, hanging onto the gun with her finger outside the trigger guard, she ran for the laundry building. Behind her, she heard the enormous, crashing explosion that signified the flashbang's deployment.

She shoved her way into the dense foliage next to the laundry building, ignoring the scratching twigs and occasional thorn. Though she hugged the wall, the three feet separating her from the cliff's edge seemed mere inches. And no sooner had she found a spot where she felt secure than tires crunched across the gravel at the front of the building and she heard a French-accented voice calling Mac's name.

***

Mac rounded the corner of the hotel and hit the front door of the Paradis at a dead run, doing his best to ignore the grinding pain of his broken rib. Once inside, he slowed slightly, watching for guards. None appeared, however, despite the shadows fluttering at the edges of his vision. The door to the wine cellar—a stout, darkly stained affair custom-crafted to match the hotel's furnishings during the remodel—blocked all sound. Mac swung it wide and launched himself through it in a somersaulting leap he could only hope didn't get him killed.

Shots sounded, and he felt the spit of splintering stone strike his skin, but he landed safely in a deep crouch, his enemy before him. He kicked out, heard the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage signifying a direct hit to the knee and an equally satisfying scream of pain. The man went down but didn't lose his grip on his gun. He squeezed off a shot that tore the air a breath from Mac's neck. Mac's own bullet found its mark a second later, puncturing a neat hole in the bridge of the guy's nose and spattering the back of his pulverized skull over a tall rack of red wines.

Nash had also dispatched at least one man, Mac realized as he stepped forward and almost stumbled over the body. Now he faced Lewis, who stood in front of the entrance to the secret compartment. He'd evidently opened it before Mac's arrival. Mac, approaching at an angle, stilled at the sight of the object in Lewis's hand. In the sudden absence of gunfire, Lewis's words ran out over the others' harsh breathing.

“One more step and I'll kill her.” He held up the small, utterly innocuous remote control. None of the five buttons on it bore labels, but Mac had no doubt that at least one would cause Callie's death. If the device operated on simple infrared, Lewis would need a direct line of sight to get to her, but the men who'd created the subtle evil he held so casually wouldn't have gone for something so straightforward. Nor would they have chosen radio waves, not when any passing boat might interrupt the signal. And Mac, no electronics expert, had no clue what other forms of linkage might exist between the control and the bomb.

“Come on, now,” Nash coaxed. “No need for that. You don't want to kill her, or you'd have done so already. And we couldn't care less about what happens to her. If we did, why would we be here, with you, instead of back at the house helping her? All we want is the bioweapon.”

“That's not what he said.” Lewis jerked his head at Mac. “He said he planned to betray you and go into business with Falcone.”

“Did he now? Well, as you may have noticed, Mr. Brody's loyalties display a certain flexibility. Liberal applications of cash have always kept him in line in the past.” Nash cast an evaluative eye over Mac, who grinned. Oh, yeah. He'd played this game before. Never with Nash, however, which increased the danger, as they'd had no chance to practice timing or signals.

“That'll work just fine,” he said, ostensibly replying to the cash comment.

“So you say. But I'd just as soon not take any chances.” Nash swung around, aimed, and fired.

Mac fell sideways, deliberately landing in the blood pooling on the floor from Nash's previous kill without letting go of his gun. His lungs burned and his ribs shot pain through his body, but he stayed perfectly still.

“Jesus Christ!” Lewis's horrified outburst indicated their ruse had succeeded. Mac cracked one eye open to get a position on him.

“One problem solved.” Nash spoke with perfect calm. “Now we need to discuss your little weapons stash.”

The sound of a male voice heavily accented in French calling Mac's name distracted Lewis. Mac took advantage of the moment to shift unobtrusively, bringing his gun arm down to aim at him. But Lewis was moving.

“Take it,” he said, gesturing toward the cache. “Take all of it. You won't get anywhere. Falcone won't let you.” Every step he took away from the alcove brought him nearer to Mac, whose eyes tracked him though he didn't move a muscle.

“Go home to your girlfriend, then.” Nash moved toward the alcove, forcing Lewis back yet another step, right into Mac's line of fire.

Mac emptied the magazine into Lewis's head.

***

Gritting her teeth against nerves and pain, Callie retraced the path she'd just carved, then poked her head around the side of the building just enough to see, not enough to break free of the foliage. Mac's friend Vichy stood beside the Jeep. He touched the driver's seat, and Callie saw his hand come away bloody. The bandage on Mac's knee must have come loose when they were driving. She hadn't noticed it when he'd been explaining the plan to her, nor had he given in to a limp when he'd run for the front of the hotel after dropping the flashbang. Remembering the beautiful grace of his walk, she hoped he hadn't crippled himself abusing that knee.