Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(100)

Below, gunfire exploded in an ugly cacophony. From the sound of things, Deja had her hands full. Hopefully she would hold their attention long enough for him to free Lea. Gibson glanced out onto the third-floor landing and saw that one man had been stationed on the landing to guard the rear. The gunman had his back to the wall with unobstructed views up and down the stairs. He would cut Gibson down before he took three steps.

A gun would come in handy right about now, and he was glad Deja wasn’t there to tell him so.




Guo Fa didn’t know the new players down in the lobby, but they had his eternal gratitude. They’d drawn most of the security detail away from the presidential suite, and that presented a window of opportunity. Fate had smiled upon him, and he would not allow it to pass him by again.

At the airfield, he’d cursed himself for underplaying his hand here in Niobe and allowing Merrick to escape. But then the planes had left without Merrick, and the firefight for the right to claim Merrick had exploded the night—decisive and brutal. Fa had watched the chaos from the tree line, a knowing smile creeping across his face: Gibson Vaughn had proven more resourceful than Fa could possibly have anticipated. Well, he hoped the hacker enjoyed Merrick’s money; he’d more than earned it. Meanwhile, Fa’s prize lay at the end of the hall. He drew his gun, tightened the suppressor in place, and made his cautious way down the hall. Fa had to admit to being more than a little curious about the identity of the presidential suite’s mysterious guest. It was the only piece of the puzzle that still eluded him.

As he neared the suite, he heard a shot from inside. Fa rushed forward, fearing Merrick had been executed before he could be questioned. More gunfire caused Fa to reconsider. Not an execution, a fight. But who? He hadn’t seen anyone enter. As he pressed himself to the wall and crept forward, the door to the suite opened. A blonde woman in a yellow dress emerged. He recognized the dress from the airfield, although he’d been too far away to see who wore it. Fa assumed Merrick had arranged entertainment for his flight. It seemed an accurate assessment now, for she held a pair of heels in one hand and closed the door delicately behind her, as if she were slipping out quietly after a one-night stand. In the other hand, she held a gun, and when she turned, Fa saw blood splattered across her dress. He recognized her as the bartender from the Toproll. Not at all who he’d expected to come through that door, but she didn’t give him time to puzzle it out. She saw him and her eyes went wide. Her gun jerked up in his direction.

Fa shot her.

The impact drove her back against the door, knocking the gun from her hand. The shoes flew into the air. Her legs buckled and she sat down hard, collapsing onto her side. Fa tsked under his breath the way another man might at finding a stain on a crisp white shirt. He hadn’t intended to shoot her, but what alternative had she given him? He watched her crawl after her weapon. She had heart. He stepped over her and picked up the gun, then rolled her onto her back with his foot. Her dress shone black with blood. The bullet had struck her in the chest and could have missed her heart by only millimeters. Lucky to be alive. Not that she would last for long without medical attention, and there were no ambulances on the way to save her. He leveled his gun to finish it. She raised her hand to block the bullet.

She did have heart.

Something stopped him, and he looked at her more carefully.

Charles Merrick’s daughter.

She’d been right under his nose all this time. He cursed himself for missing it. Obviously she’d dyed her hair since he’d seen her last, but that was no excuse. He hoped his blunder would not prove fatal to his plans. Chelsea Merrick might yet prove a useful lever, but he didn’t have time to waste tending to her injury. Every second that ticked by saw his window sliding shut. Fa took her by an ankle and dragged her to the nearest room. She whimpered as he yanked her over the threshold. The rooms on the lower floors held bodies from the airfield, but not the fifth floor. Until now. Fa brought her the towels from the bathroom and pressed them to her chest. She would live or die on her own.

“Pressure,” he instructed her.

She wrapped her arms around the towels and held them like a life preserver. She looked scared. She had good reason.

“Tight,” he said and shut the door behind him.

At the suite’s door, Fa paused to listen, uncertain what to expect on the other side. Certainly not the carnage he found. He cleared the room of immediate threats and counted at least two dead. Thankfully, Charles Merrick lay on his side tied to a chair and very much alive. A guard who lay dead near Merrick had cleared his gun from his holster but hadn’t gotten off a shot. His killer had been firing wildly; he’d been hit in the shoulder, the gut, and the thigh. The last of which had clipped the femoral artery, judging by the blood loss.

Chelsea Merrick’s handiwork, he presumed. She had heart but lousy aim . . . lucky but lousy. Fa took the gun and pressed a finger to his lips for Merrick to stay quiet. A near-catatonic Merrick made no answer.

To Merrick’s left, two hooded figures sat tied to chairs. The first could be only Veronica Merrick. Fa could hear her hyperventilating. He couldn’t guess who the man beside her might be. A bodyguard perhaps? A fourth chair, rope coiled around the legs and armrests, sat unoccupied. Chelsea Merrick’s, no doubt, but how had she freed herself and gotten her hands on a gun? He had more questions than answers.

He didn’t recognize the woman in the wheelchair, but apparently she’d been in charge. Hard to imagine someone so frail being the author of so much havoc. Perhaps she’d been more fearsome before Chelsea Merrick had put a bullet in her head. Judging by the star-shaped wound in her forehead, blackened by soot from the discharge, it had been done up close and personal. The woman’s expression, a mix of outrage and disbelief, suggested that things had not gone the way she had envisioned. Fa retraced Chelsea Merrick’s footsteps back to the inner room.