Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(105)

So that was the woman at the center of the fifth floor. Emerson’s mother. Gibson had a pretty good idea how Emerson Soto Flores would react. He cut him loose using the same knife that had killed Veronica Merrick. The man stood gingerly and thanked Gibson. A little premature, in Gibson’s opinion, because the gunfire downstairs had stopped. Someone had won and someone had lost. They’d be coming now, and it didn’t matter who: Emerson or Deja, neither would be happy to see him. The front stairs were no longer an option. With the elevator out, the only other alternative he knew was the fire escape at the back of the building. It went only as high as the third floor, but a two-story drop beat a five-story fall any day of the week.

“Give me the gun,” the man said.

“You really want to have that conversation now?”

“I have training.”

“I was a Marine, and you look like ground round.”

The man gave him a hard look and ceded the point. “After you, then.”

Gun drawn, Gibson led him down the hallway. Midway, Deja came around the far corner with one of her men. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and they all came to a halt. An awkward bump-into-your-ex-at-a-wedding moment passed. No one seemed to know where to start, so Gibson put his gun on her. He wasn’t much in the mood for Deja’s “give me your gun” routine.

“Gibson Vaughn. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Deja.”

“See you finally got yourself a gun.”

“It was good advice.”

“That’s funny. You’re funny.”

“I’ve got no issue with you yet, so gun down, Deja. Your man too.”

“My brother dead?”

“No, but if you see a drugstore on the way back to Virginia, stop for some aspirin.”

“You put him down yourself?”

“That’s right.” He saw no need to bring Margo or Old Charlie into this.

“That boy’s going soft.”

The questions were a stall. She hadn’t put her gun down and instead had taken a half step forward and to her left, blocking his view of her man. Gibson took a step to his left, matching her. Deja showed him her teeth and stepped back to her right.

“Now we just dancing. Why you dancing with me, Gibson? You wanting to fuck me?”

Behind him, Gibson heard rising voices. At the other end of the hall, Emerson had come up the front stairs with two of his men. He disappeared inside the presidential suite. Everyone else froze. A momentary, indecisive cease-fire. When it ended, and it would, they would be the meat in a very unhealthy sandwich, cut down in the cross fire. The government man knew it too and eased slowly toward the nearest door. An anguished howl came from the direction of the presidential suite. Gibson knew that sound intimately. The son had discovered his mother. It meant so many different things, but only one of them mattered.

The cease-fire was over.

Gunfire erupted once more in the Wolstenholme Hotel. The man yanked Gibson inside and slammed the door. The battle took on a different tone. Gone were the disciplined, tactical bursts of professionals. Now it was a son avenging his mother, and the gunfire sounded berserk and indiscriminate. The story of this family would end here tonight.

The man hopped on one leg to the bed. A bullet had taken a chunk out of his calf, but he gritted his teeth and used his tie to stanch the flow of blood as best he could.

“Find us an exit.”

Gibson checked the window, confirming what he already knew—five stories down to a concrete alleyway. They weren’t climbing down the side of the hotel, and the fall would kill them. The door to the adjoining room was locked from the other side. Gibson shot the lock out and forced his way into an identical room. It didn’t gain them much more than fifteen feet, and it still left them squarely in the line of fire.

“Anything?”

Gibson came back, shaking his head. “I like the plan where you call in the cavalry, Mr. Government Man.”

“Unless you have a satellite phone, we’re on our own.” The man lowered himself behind the bed for cover.

“Then we may be in last-stand territory.”

The man nodded in grim agreement.

The battle was short and definitive, and the hallway beyond the door fell silent. Gibson wasn’t sure who he preferred to have won. He joined Ogden behind the bed and took aim at the door as a fist hammered on it.

“Time to finish our dance, boy,” Deja shouted. “You and your friend come on out. Only going to tell you once.” Deja put a burst of gunfire through the door when they didn’t answer. “Now.”

Gibson had an idea and whispered to his companion. The man nodded that he understood and stalled for time while Gibson moved quietly into the adjacent room.

“Your friend’s dead.”

“How’s that?” Deja said.

“Caught a bullet in the hall.”

Deja didn’t sound all that broken up at the news. Gibson cracked the adjoining room’s door open. Deja’s man was down in the hall. One more dead for no good reason. Judging by her mood, Deja seemed intent on adding at least another to the list. Gibson opened the door just wide enough to step out, and he closed the distance between them in four fast steps; she felt his shadow at the last moment and turned her face into his fist. He put it through her jaw and spun her like a top. Deja went down in a heap. Shooting someone in the back, even someone as dangerous as Deja Noble, didn’t sit with him. He wasn’t that kind of man. Although, apparently, he was the kind of man who coldcocked women. Still, he figured she’d appreciate it more than a bullet.