Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(162)

She groped for a handsaw, and as soon as her slippery fingers closed around it, used it to release her ankles.

Her first act of freedom was to grope for the patches in the pocket of her pants. One of the cards was gone. She counted again. How . . . ?

Whatever. She’d figure it out later. She peeled off three, put them on. A large dose but she had a very big job to do. Three of them would make her impervious to pain, to fear. To anything.

Two more gunshots in the distance jolted her into action. She grabbed two of the heavy cans of gasoline and ran into the house.





35


Zwangggh, the bullet slashed through the top of Bruno’s ear, stinging. It plowed into the woodwork, sending splinters and chunks flying. Bruno kept going, blood trickling in front of his ear.

King had a revolver. Bruno had heard six shots. Th





e guy would have to reload, unless he had another gun. He burst out into what had once been the great hall of the turn-of-the-century country mansion, and a towering vaulted ceiling with domes, cupolas, and innumerable windows opened up above him. It had been painted white and gold a long time ago, but now the paint was cracked, browned, and flaking.

Two symmetrical curving staircases led down to the first floor. He bolted for the nearest one. Julian was at the door, shoving the last of the teenagers out the main entrance. Julian swung around with a shout, pulling out his gun. Bruno lurched to the side—bam.

He slammed into the banister, bounced off, somersaulted, found his feet. Leaped off, straight at the younger guy. Their bodies slammed together. Bam. The gun discharged, bounced, and spun as Julian hit the floor, squashed beneath Bruno’s weight, but the boy was only stunned for an instant. He punched, Bruno blocked. Julian snagged his wrist, twisted until the torque flipped Bruno over. He jabbed a finger under Julian’s jaw. Julian twisted away. Strange to be so close to a face so like his own, but contorted with killing rage. He flinched back to evade a finger jab to the eye, and it gouged his cheekbone, snagged his eyelid. Blood, filling his eye. His body moved instinctively. Jab, block, kick and punch, chop and stab. Bruno had a slight advantage in height and bulk, but Julian was a decade younger, and Bruno was trashed on every level. His combat buzz bore him up, but he gained no ground.

They maneuvered for the gun. Julian lunged for it, jerked back to let Bruno’s flash kick swoosh by his face. He dropped, trying to sweep Bruno’s leg from under him. Bruno danced back, rolled, flipped, dove—

Oof, the kid landed on top of him, but he got his arm around Julian’s head from below and jabbed the gun under his chin.

And could not shoot. He simply could not pull the trigger.

Terror exploded inside him. Frantic gabbling voices, his blocked survival instincts telling him not to be a f*cking idiot, kill him already—

No. He just couldn’t. Not his brother. His mamma’s son.

Julian was braced to die. Bruno slammed the younger man’s face to the floor and sat on him, keeping the gun jabbed.

“Before you kill him, Bruno, consider this.”

King’s voice jerked Bruno’s gaze up. King held Lily in front of him at the top of the stairs, head jerked back, arms twisted behind her.

The guy they’d called Hobart descended the stairs, holding a gun on Bruno. He was herding the last two teenagers in front of him, shoving them on. The two young people gave him and Julian a wide berth as they fled out the main door.

“Look what’s around her neck,” King said. “Remember the fight at the cabin? The operatives’ cell phones, wird to their vital signs?”

“The ones that exploded when they croaked,” Bruno said.

“Only my own personal operatives carried them. Those who serve me directly. A small amount of explosives to destroy the mechanism after the information is erased. But enough to kill at close range.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bruno said. “I was there.”

“I learned from that experience,” King mused. “Very painful. Humbling, even. You see, before you, I considered my own operatives invulnerable. But pride goeth before a fall. Or an explosion, if you will.” A strange, shrill giggle burst out of him. “Today, I reactivated Julian’s and Hobart’s old cell phones, with the explosives wired to their vital signs again. On impulse.” He indicated Lily’s neck, where the phones dangled on duct tape. “And here they are! If you should kill either one of them, the explosion would blow her head . . . well, if not off, then almost off. It would hang by a thread. Picture it.”

Bruno stared at the guy, his mind blank. What the f*ck?

Lily stared down, unbending dignity radiating from her body. Her face, her eyes, had that hard, glassy look he had seen in the video. Now he sensed, in a rush, what that look actually was.

It was endurance.

“Go down, Hobart,” King ordered. “Have no fear. He’s neutralized.” He studied Bruno’s face, his gaze fixed on Lily. “You may well ask, eh? Is she, or isn’t she? Is she the Lily you know and love? Or is she my Lily?” His voice dropped to an oily croon. “My lovely, perfect, dirty Lily.” He let go of her neck, slid his hand down, grabbed her breast.

Lily jerked. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

King cackled. The sound bounced off the walls, blurring like spooky canned laughter. “You know what’s funny, Bruno?”