Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(47)
I’d take three to one on that second option.
With the door shut behind him, he didn’t see the man who slapped an Out of Order sign over the universal little stick man that made the bathroom safe for penis-carrying men everywhere. He didn’t see it, but I did. And that was something they did not expect. They waited until I was around the corner buying Michael another apple pie with a chocolate shake to chase it down. It wasn’t the brightest move on their part. My body may have been around that corner, but my mind wasn’t. I hadn’t kept Konstantin alive, no matter how temporarily, by standing around with one thumb up my ass and the other in an apple pie. Jack f*cking Horner I was not.
The sun hit the plate glass that lined the boxy building at the exact angle for a clear if phantom reflection of the rest of the so-called restaurant. My eyes were glued to it as I handed over a five to the cashier. As I paid, I’d seen a veritable parade of the full bladdered. There had been a pudgy old man in high waters and a white belt who’d entered the restroom at an urgent clip. He was followed by a man in jacket and jeans, and then by Michael. My brother now took any and every opportunity at a toilet without leaves and bark.
I didn’t think much of the guy in the jacket. We were well into northern Florida by now and it had cooled into the forties and fifties. A jacket was the rule here, not the exception as in Miami. It was when the second man, denim jacket and baseball cap, taped the sign on the door with the speed and panache of Houdini that I immediately realized just how many guns one could hide in those jackets. The bastards had traded in their khakis, forsaking the Gap for Wal-Mart.
They’d found us. In one damn day, they had found us—again.
Leaving the shake on the counter, I shoved the boxed pie into my pocket and walked to the bathroom. In a bit of sleight of hand of my own I’d pulled my gun from the small of my back and hid it against my leg as I moved. Considering that I planned on making one helluva commotion when I passed through that door, that concealment would buy me only seconds at best before the cops were called. But those few seconds could mean the difference between getting away and being stuck behind bars as Jericho walked out of the police station with Michael. It might be with real government ID, bought and paid for, or with the expertly forged kind. Either way, they’d be gone. It took ten years to find my brother; I doubted I would be able to find him a second time. And that was making the rainbow fantasy assumption I’d live out the week to even try.
Jericho wasn’t that stupid and neither was I.
I kicked open the door hard enough to rip it from one hinge. There was an immediate reaction, in front of me and behind.
If life had taught us anything in the past few decades, it was that you could die violently in a public place long before you’d win the lottery. Psychos were everywhere. These fast-food fans were at the top of their class on that news headline. To the back of me I heard fish patties and cheap plastic prizes hit the floor as lunch patrons stampeded. Good for the herd. If the aerosolized fat in the air didn’t kill them first, they just might survive.
The bathroom was fairly large. There was more than enough room for the two men to keep a safe distance from Michael. In the confines of the Institute he’d been obedient, but now he was an unknown. He’d gone along with his rescue and then ignored Jericho’s demands to return with him. They may have thought he’d been confused, inexplicably gone rogue, or simply transferred his submission to me. It could be that I’d already been identified as his brother and his sudden stubbornness could be pinned there.
The speculations didn’t matter. The two of them weren’t about to let Michael get close enough to make contact with them—no way, no how. They had him blocked into a corner by the urinal. He had his arms folded with his hands tucked tightly out of sight. He had even less desire to touch them than they had to be touched. His life was at stake, yet he was desperate not to take the life of anyone else. That alone proved that Jericho, despite all his efforts, hadn’t tainted him. Couldn’t taint him.
One of the bastards aimed a peculiarly shaped pistol at Michael’s chest as the other pointed a gun that was completely familiar and completely lethal. The explosion of sound that was the door shattering had their heads whipping around. Michael’s eyes, as empty of emotion as his face, rose to meet mine. “I think I should’ve waited for the tree,” he said with darkly forced cheer.
Hopefully, I’d be able to remind him of that later. For now I slammed a foot into the back of the first man’s thigh before the startled expression had time to register on his face. Catapulting across the room, he crashed headfirst into the stall, but not before he’d pulled the trigger of his weapon. A dart flew through the air and hit the tile next to Michael’s shoulder. That’s why I hadn’t recognized it. It was some sort of tranquilizer gun. Jericho would take Michael out permanently before he’d risk exposure, but if he could recover him alive, safely and secretly, that could only boost his profit margin.
The second kidnapper was turning, attempting to shift his gun in my direction. He did come close; I’ll give him that. A definite A for effort, but I doubted that was much consolation. I fired the Steyr, and a bullet in his chest bowled him over backward. A fine red spray flew from his mouth to dot the white porcelain of the sink. I didn’t know if he was still alive or not, and truthfully I didn’t have time to wring my hands over it. The one who had cracked the stall like cheap cardboard was trying to climb to his knees. I could’ve shot him in the back easily enough. But the words I’d said to Michael came back to me: It’s not what you can do, but what you choose to do.