Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(81)
Gerard snarled, hatred and anger flaring in him fast and hot. “How dare you threaten me with more blackmail.”
Brodsik looked a little taken aback by his sudden, intense fury. “Something happened to him. Shell’s not the type to stay quiet for two minutes, let alone go missing for days. I’m not saying it was you who did something to him, but—”
“It certainly sounded that way to me,” Gerard grated out.
Brodsik seemed to regret bringing up the topic as he continued to eye the backpack.
“Let’s just get this show on the road,” Brodsik mumbled, stepping toward the desk, his hand stretched toward the backpack.
Gerard made a halting gesture. “I’ll open it for you in a moment. First, let me see the gun. I have a right to assure myself that you’re prepared.”
Brodsik looked like he was going to argue, his gaze glued covetously to the backpack. He eventually shrugged his linebackerlike shoulders and reached into a deep pocket of his parka, extracting an automatic firearm.
“It worked just like you said. The guy in London asked no questions,” Brodsik said.
“So you needed to tell no lies,” Gerard replied, his gaze running over the familiar gun with satisfaction. He’d used the very same weapon to kill Shell Stern less than a week ago. “Jago Teague is nothing if not discreet. He has to be, in his line of work . . . or lines of work, I should say. Well, let’s get this over with, shall we? The sooner Noble is out of my life, the better. He’s been in it for twenty years too long.”
He unzipped the backpack. It contained no money whatsoever—he would never be bribed by anyone, let alone an idiot such as this—but did contain several of his work files. And something else.
He withdrew James’s handgun and aimed it at Brodsik. Brodsik didn’t have the opportunity to look surprised. Gerard fired point-blank at his head without blinking.
Brodsik’s hulking body hit the floor with a jarring thud. Gerard calmly pulled back the right-hand drawer of James’s desk. The red leather box where James always stored his private firearm was already open.
He gripped the gun tightly in his hand and schooled his face into an expression of blank shock.
* * *
Anne had referred them to the library for a place to do the computerized rendering without interruption. Francesca sat next to the computer artist, a woman named Violet, at a desk, both of them peering at the screen of Violet’s laptop as the man’s face took shape from Francesca’s description. Francesca heard a distant sound like a firecracker going off. The sound itself didn’t alarm her, but the way Lucien leapt up did. He’d been sitting in an armchair and perusing the business section of a French newspaper while Francesca worked with Violet. Now the newspaper lay on the Oriental carpet, forgotten.
“Lucien?” she asked in amazement when she saw his tense expression. A prickle of wariness went down her neck and coursed along her arms when he rapidly strode to the heavy doors and pressed his ear against them, listening.
“Come with me,” he said, turning. “Both of you,” he added, giving Violet a pointed glance. When Francesca stood, but Violet just stared at him in amazement, Lucien added, “Now.”
Lucien pointed to a rear exit and nodded at Francesca, obviously expecting her to walk in front of him.
“Lucien, you don’t think that sound was a gunshot, do you?” Francesca asked.
“I’m almost certain it was.”
Her heart squeezed tight. “But . . . Ian.”
“Is not going to thank either one of us for running out there if there’s a gunman on the loose. Please, Francesca,” he said less harshly. “Do as I say. There are some policemen stationed at the back door in the kitchens. With their communication equipment, they’ll know from the police at the press conference what happened up here quicker than we can find out ourselves. The security and police will need to secure the area anyway. They’ll have enough on their mind.”
It felt entirely against all that was natural to walk in the opposite direction of where Ian was when a gunshot had just been fired, but Francesca forced herself to do it. The rear door led to a dim corridor. She was starting to learn that many of the great rooms had a family entrance and a staff entrance, the staff entrance with access to the basements, kitchens, and servant’s dining area. Lucien had been right. One officer was racing up a flight of stairs she’d never before used. They weren’t the ones that led from the dining room.
“Get downstairs. Officer Inez is down there with the kitchen staff,” the officer said.
“What’s happened?” Lucien demanded.
“Someone’s been shot. An intruder, we think. Things appear to be secure, but we’re still not sure. Go on down with Inez, please.”
He raced past them. The officer’s terse, vague explanation seemed to leave more questions than answers, mounting Francesca’s anxiety. Nevertheless, she mechanically followed Violet down the stairs, Lucien bringing up the rear, her calm actions belying a mind buzzing with fear.
* * *
Officer Inez had Francesca, Violet, Lucien, and the rest of the staff gathered in the dining room while they waited to hear if the house had been secured from the threat. There was only one entrance to the room, so it was easier for the policeman to guard, she supposed. Francesca was both nervous and thankful when she saw Officer Inez move into the outer corridor to stand guard with his weapon drawn.