Rising Tiger: A Thriller (81)

In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the elevator arrived, the door opened, and it was empty. Then, on closer inspection, he’d see that the trapdoor in the ceiling was unlatched and he’d waste further time investigating.

Or worse—and he wouldn’t put it past Special Operations types—there’d be a claymore up there waiting to take his head off. He wasn’t going to walk into that kind of a trap—or any other. He had a better idea.

Retracing his steps, he moved back toward the rear of the house. From his reconnaissance outside, he had seen a line of zigzagging windows. They resembled enlarged arrow slits and suggested an additional staircase leading to the upper floors.

In less than two minutes, he had found it. The circular stairs were cut from limestone, as were the walls. He took great pains not to make any noise that might radiate ahead of him and tip off his opponents to his approach.

At the second-floor landing he stepped into the hallway. Clearing rooms by one’s self was an absolute worst-case scenario. No one in their right mind would do it solo if given the choice.

But Carbon hadn’t been given a choice and there were many who believed he had never possessed a “right mind” to begin with.

Soundlessly, he advanced from room to room, looking for any sign of his quarry. There was none. Reentering the stairwell, he moved up to the next level.

The third story was the last full floor of the house. The only thing above it was the fourth-floor observation deck.

Carbon moved even slower now. Barely breathing. Not making any noise whatsoever. The men were close. Their scent was in the air. The lingering smell of cigar smoke, as if carried on someone’s clothing, was unmistakable.

He made his way to the end of the hall. There, in front of him, was the arched stone entrance to the master bedroom. Its heavy, walnut door stood ajar. The killer paused.

Something felt off. It was too easy. The smell of cigar smoke. The open door. Even if there was a panic room within, why not close and lock the master entry? The door was almost three inches thick and, befitting a fortress, was replete with heavy iron hardware. He would have needed an axe and an afternoon to get through it. No, this wasn’t right at all.

Now he was torn. Back up and wait them out? Or press on and potentially be drawn into a trap?

There was also the possibility that reinforcements were already inbound and they were trying to get him to spin his wheels until they arrived. But why leave the door open?

If the Troll was with them, their number one job was to protect him until the threat could be eliminated or he could be evacuated from the property and relocated someplace safe.

But, if he wasn’t with them, why would these two guys be hiding? Why wouldn’t they be bringing the fight to him? It didn’t make any sense. He had his orders, which meant that there was only one thing he could do.

Carefully, he nudged the door open and did a quick peek inside. A jacket, much too large to belong to the Troll, had been tossed onto the bed. A stubbed out, partially smoked cigar balanced on the edge of the nightstand.

So, at least one of the men he was looking for had been in this room. The question was, was he still here? And where was the other one? He was going to have to commit to clearing the master to get his answer.

Making sure to avail himself of any cover and concealment, he pushed into the room, pistol up, ready for whatever might come. Nothing did. Something, however, did catch his eye.

Inside the Troll’s enormous, walk-in closet, surrounded by infant-sized clothing, was what looked like a freestanding tornado shelter wrapped in some sort of gold metallic fabric.

It was rigged with an HVAC system and had massive amounts of cables and wires plugged into it. It was probably an SCIF of some sort, but not like any SCIF he had ever seen. Whether it was also functioning as a panic room at this moment was the biggest unknown. That, and whether hidden underneath the foil were any gunports from which he could be shot at.

Grabbing an edge of the foil with his free hand, he began tearing it away. He pulled the material off the front and then all the way down one side. There were no gunports that he could see.

He tried to open it, but it was locked. There was a keypad next to the door and he punched in a few random combinations, but nothing worked. Each attempt was greeted by a blinking red light and an error buzzer. He gave up.

The container appeared to be fabricated out of thick steel and probably offered a certain level of ballistic protection. He’d need a plasma cutter or, if it was thicker than two inches, an oxyacetylene torch to get in there. Despite everything else he had brought for this job, neither of those items had been on the list. He would literally have to “smoke” them out.

Taking a look again at the HVAC system, he realized that while the steel box might function as an impromptu panic room, that wasn’t its primary goal. It was likely stuffed with computer equipment that needed to be kept cool. That was the container’s Achilles’ heel. If he could get a fire going in the system, the container would fill with smoke and they’d have no choice but to open the door.

He moved back into the bedroom proper, looking for anything that would be easy to burn and would create a lot of smoke.

That was when he heard a noise from the hallway.

It wasn’t a groaning floorboard or a door creaking on its hinges. It was the telltale sound of battle rattle—one piece of tactical gear bumping up against another. And it had the effect of a starting gun being fired.