Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(102)
“Cut her loose. Be ready when I get back. I’m going to check our exit.”
Fa drew his gun and glanced out into the deserted fifth-floor hallway. Sporadic gunfire echoed up the stairwell; the battle had reached a stalemate. If the Merricks followed his instructions and kept quiet, there was still time to get away. He recognized the enormity of that if. He calculated the time to get the Merricks to his safe house and make arrangements for their exfiltration. He hadn’t counted on phone service getting knocked out. That had set him back, but he had a satellite phone at the safe house.
That left Damon Ogden. Leaving him alive was a risk, but killing a CIA agent on American soil was an act of war. Even the identity of Poisonfeather couldn’t justify an unsanctioned assassination. But if Ogden somehow managed to raise the alarm, it would complicate matters. Fa scratched the back of his head. Then again, the man was tied to a chair in a building rigged to burn. Sometimes the thing to do was to do nothing at all. These situations had a way of working themselves out.
In the hall, an upended planter led Fa to a thin blood trail on the carpet leading from the room where he’d stashed Chelsea Merrick. Somehow she was gone; a bloody handprint on the doorknob marked her exit. It didn’t seem possible, but he saw no drag marks; she had gotten up on her own. His admiration for her continued to grow. Most people would have lain down and died, but not this woman. She didn’t stand much of a chance, but Fa wished her good fortune.
Fa went back to the presidential suite to collect his cargo. Charles Merrick hadn’t cut the ropes binding his ex-wife to the chair. It took Fa a moment to understand the blood on the knife. The blood everywhere. Merrick had put her hood back on. Had not looking into her eyes made it easier? Nonetheless, he’d made a mess of it, but he hadn’t given up. American stick-to-itiveness at its finest. Merrick stood over Veronica Merrick’s body; his shoulders shook, and he looked to Fa, eyes wide.
“Twenty million.”
Fa raised his gun. “Drop the knife.”
“I want twenty million.”
“Twenty million,” Fa agreed. “Now the knife. Put it down.”
Merrick did as he was told and looked at Fa with sundown eyes.
“It’s not the same, getting your own hands dirty, is it?” Fa asked.
“Twenty million.”
How Fa despised these people.
CHAPTER FORTY
The tile floor felt cool against her face. She might be content to lie here forever, though Lea didn’t imagine forever would be that long in coming. Still, the idea of dying facedown on a hotel kitchen floor didn’t appeal to her any more than dying in an anonymous hotel room. With what strength remained, she raised herself to a sitting position and put her back against a wall between two stacks of boxes. Better. Not good, but better. A shaft of moonlight lit the kitchen in pretty blues it didn’t deserve. All around, boxes stacked like haphazard skyscrapers formed a cardboard skyline that reminded Lea of the New York of her childhood.
What an odd place to die, she thought, but couldn’t think of anywhere better. Not that it was up to her. Her legs could take her no farther. They hadn’t been in a cooperative frame of mind, and the old, disused servant staircase, warped and uneven with age, had exhausted their patience. They’d gone out from under her at the top of the last flight, and she’d tumbled her way to the kitchen floor. Not that it had hurt. Strangely, nothing hurt, although her hands and legs felt terribly cold. Didn’t seem right to die and feel fine. If she didn’t look down, it was almost possible to forget that she was even shot.
Honestly, dying didn’t sound so bad. Today hadn’t given her the satisfaction she thought it would, but she’d done what she’d set out to do. She took comfort in the knowledge that this had all been her decision. That would have to be enough.
Strange the way it had ended, so close to getting away, only to take a bullet from a Chinese fisherman. He’d seemed irritated and a little sad about it. She hoped he didn’t feel too badly; it all just struck her as funny now. The utter randomness of it. Except, of course, not at all. They’d all, for their own selfish motives, come to this godforsaken town, this godforsaken hotel. None of them were innocent. They’d all tallied the risks and chosen to stay out of greed or revenge. Or both. The very essence of human purposefulness in all its venal glory. So it was pure arrogance to think she would leave unscathed from this meat grinder. Lea could accept that now.
The gunfire sounded far away. Soothing in its way. Lea licked her lips. What she wouldn’t give for a sip of water, but the kitchen sinks might as well have been in New York.
A stack of boxes blocking the dining-room door tilted and spilled across the floor. A figure squeezed through the opening and slunk toward her. Lea considered where she might hide, then realized the utter pointlessness. Whoever it was would be doing her a mercy.
Gavin Swonger stole into the moonlight, weaving his way toward the servant staircase. He paused a few feet away, almost close enough to reach out and touch. He hadn’t seen her, and the dying part of her hoped he left her in peace. The living part thought that was about the stupidest thing it had ever heard. The living part won out. For now. Her lips spoke his name but couldn’t muster so much as a whisper. Had she died? Become a ghost in her own silent film? He moved on, and an animal panic seized her.
“Gavin,” she whispered in a voice filled with gravel.