Second Shot (39 page)

I heard Vaughan’s muttered response, not clearly enough to discern the words, but I picked up a vibration in them nevertheless. I heard the quick hiss of Rosalind’s indrawn breath, and when she spoke again her voice was harder and flatter than it had been before. “What do you mean, you’ve been having a nice little chat with them?” she demanded. “Felix, you can’t possibly listen to—” And she was cut off abruptly as Felix Vaughan clearly told her what he thought of being given orders.

Matt kept his eyes fixed on the front windscreen, shoulders hunched and hands on the wheel, like he was still driving. I risked a glance back and found Rosalind sitting stiffly upright, her whole body practically trembling with rage.

“You’ll regret this, Felix,” she snapped. “Greg won’t be around much longer anyway—did they tell you that? You think you’re showing solidarity with your old comrade in arms and he wasn’t even a soldier, just some goddamn salesman!”

My eyes dropped surreptitiously to the Beretta in her right hand, but she caught the gesture and brought the gun up, glaring at me. She looked agitated enough to shoot me out of sheer temper, just to let off steam. I quickly faced forwards again.

“Well, you can pass on a message to that worthless no-account husband of mine,” she said now, low and bitter. “You tell him he’s going home to England after all these years and he’s going to jail for what he did, and his precious little granddaughter’s going home with him—in a box.”

She ended the call and sat for a moment, fighting for calm, breathing hard. I heard the hitch in it and realized that she was crying. Beside me, Matt’s shoulders had begun to quiver.

“She’s only four,” he said brokenly. “For God’s sake show some compassion. …”

“Oh, spare me the woe-is-me crap,” Rosalind told him, harsh. “If you want to feel sorry for anyone, feel it for yourselves. I don’t know what kind of a deal your boyfriend worked out with Felix, Charlie, but he’s just ensured that the pair of you won’t last the night.”

“You were planning on having Reynolds kill us anyway,” I pointed out.

“True,” she said, and I heard the smile in her voice. “But now he doesn’t have to make it look accidental, he can have some fun with you first.”

She ordered us out of the Range Rover, Matt first and me after. The cold numbed me again as soon as I opened the car door. It was like I’d never been warm. I slid clumsily to the ground and fumbled with my crutch.

Rosalind began urging us towards the entrance to the store, to where Ella was stashed away and Reynolds awaited. Was he alone? Or did he have the same guy with him who’d been there in the Lucases’ house the night they’d first tried to snatch Ella?

I knew to get out of this I needed speed and strength and right now I didn’t have either. So, what did I have?

Motivation. Experience. Technique.

Motivation.
If I didn’t get out of this soon, I was going to die. Matt was going to die. I tried not to think about the method. And while Vaughan might have decided not to accept Rosalind’s offer of a trade, that didn’t mean he and Sean and Neagley were suddenly bosom pals.

As for Ella, the time when she might have been sold to the highest bidder was way past—if, indeed, it had ever been realistic in the first place. The chances of her surviving the ransom exchange had been poor. Even if Harrington and whoever else was in charge of Simone’s money had agreed to pay Harrington might have claimed to be concerned for Ella’s welfare, but big organizations like his bank tended to have very strict rules about refusing to give in to kidnappers. I imagined them coldbloodedly discussing the matter over a nice merlot in a smart restaurant somewhere in Soho and I knew then I would die fighting before I let that happen to her. To any of us.

Matt reached the outer doorway to the store and opened it, looking back over his shoulder as if anxious to please. I shuffled forwards another step. Rosalind moved in behind me.

Experience.
This wasn’t the first time people had tried to kill me, up close and personal. I had the scars to prove it. And not just the one on my neck that Ella had been so curious about that day in her pink bedroom in London.

Rosalind nodded to Matt and he swung the inner door open. That one hinged outwards, into the lobby area. To open it he had to step back. I stopped abruptly and sensed Rosalind close up unintentionally at my back. Her focus was beyond me, on Matt, anxious that he didn’t make any sudden moves once we got inside.

Technique.
Rosalind was less than a meter behind me, holding the Beretta in her right hand. She kept herself in shape, but she was a sixty-year-old woman who’d put all her faith in the gun she was carrying and who had never been through the military machine in all its nasty glory.

She was also angry, and so close to home turf she’d already begun to relax. I gambled everything on the fact that while she might know how to shoot, she didn’t know how to fight.

I dropped my crutch, letting it fall away sideways, shifted my weight onto my good leg and pivoted to face her. The shock that I would try something so stupid, when she had a gun and I didn’t froze her for a vital half a second. Then she started to bring the Beretta up, knuckles whitening as her grip tightened.

I reached over the suppressor and grabbed hold of the top of the slide with my left hand and pushed back as hard as I could manage. Not very, all things considered, but I was counting on Rosalind’s instinct and, sure enough, she immediately pushed against me.

Between the two of us shoving at it, the Beretta’s slide moved back fractionally in relation to the frame, opening up the breech and breaking the positive lock. I could feel the bunching as Rosalind’s finger clenched round the trigger, but as long as the breech is open, however minutely, most semiautomatic pistols will not fire. When nothing happened, she didn’t understand enough about the mechanics to realize why. Her mouth sagged open.

Still with my hand on top of the slide, I forced the gun out sideways, twisting the end of the muzzle to my left, away from me. Her grip on the gun lessened very slightly. I was working against the natural flexion of her joints and her finger was still inside the trigger guard, trapped there.

Too late, she began to counter me, starting to turn to her right to ease the pressure I was putting on her hand in general, and her trigger finger in particular. I couldn’t afford to let her get farther than that. Couldn’t afford a straight fair fight. Not with Ella’s life at stake.

Motivation.

With a final jerk, I twisted the gun round so the steel trigger guard bit hard against Rosalind’s tethered finger. I held her there, teetering, just until I saw the realization sink in, then completed the move.

Her right index finger fractured cleanly halfway between her knuckle and the first joint. By the time the real pain hit and she began to scream, I had the pistol grip firm in my own fist and the end of the extended barrel pointing square at the center of her body mass.

Rosalind fell back, keening, cradling her injured right hand across her chest with her left. Disbelief that she’d been beaten, and fear of that defeat, amplified her distress.

I took a halting step after her and brought the Beretta up, swapping to a double-handed grip now. My right arm was already trembling with the weight of the gun and the effort of aiming it. The only way I could be sure of my shot was to jam the end of the suppressor against Rosalind’s mouth, forcing her lips open, hearing the click of the steel against her teeth.

For the longest moment we stood like that, suspended almost. I felt every quivering muscle in my arm begin to tighten and felt no hesitation or regret. There was only a fierce roaring glory somewhere in the back of my mind.

“Charlie, for God’s sake!” Matt yelped. “You can’t!”

“I can,” I said through my teeth. “She tried to kill me. She even succeeded, however briefly. She’s responsible for Simone’s death. Oh, I could kill her like swatting a fly, Matt, trust me.”

Right at that second I was consumed by the enormous and almost irresistible desire to squeeze that trigger and watch her lifeless body fall. To hell with the legal system. To hell with the security cameras that I knew covered the inside of the store. I wanted justice. I wanted revenge. And I wanted it now. …

And then cold, hard realities seeped in. Cold enough and hard enough to have me dropping the Beretta away from Rosalind’s startled face and stumbling back away from her until I had the support of the nearest wall. I found I was in the far corner of the small lobby area, but I didn’t remember getting there.

“Don’t worry, Matt,” I managed. “I said I
could
kill her, but I’m not going to.” I shook my head. “She’s an evil bitch and I hope they electrocute or poison her, or whatever the hell it is they do to people over here who’ve committed murder, but that doesn’t mean I have to do their dirty work for them.”

Rosalind sagged against the outer glass, cradling her injured hand. Her face was wet with tears but she didn’t seem to be aware that she was crying again, from pain and shock this time, rather than frustration. I looked round, exhausted, and found my crutch was lying too far away for me to reach. Matt had to retrieve it for me. He helped Rosalind to her feet and the three of us finally made it into the store proper.

“Where’s Ella, Rosalind?” I demanded, more quietly now. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she seemed to come out of her daze.

“In the back,” she said. “In the stockroom. I don’t know exactly. Reynolds didn’t say”

“Matt,” I said, “find me something we can tie her with, would you?”

“But she’s got a broken finger,” he pointed out.

“So? She was going to kill the pair of us.”

“Oh … yeah. OK.”

‘And find me a swivel chair,” I said. “Preferably one with castors on the bottom.”

He disappeared behind the counter and was soon back with a roll of brown packing tape and a typist’s chair with a high back and two sturdy-looking arms that came out from the underneath of the frame. One wheel squeaked slightly as he pushed it towards me.

I gave Rosalind a rough shove in the chest and she sat down heavily.

“Oh,” Matt said, surprise in his voice, and when I glanced at him he gave an embarrassed shrug. “I thought the chair was for you.”

I bit back a laugh, not sure if I’d be able to stop once I started, and kept the gun on her while Matt taped her in. The packing tape turned out not to be the no-noise type and every piece we ripped off the roll seemed horribly loud inside the empty store.

It only took a few minutes before we had Rosalind’s wrists and ankles bound with enough tape to ensure that, if we’d mailed her, she would have arrived intact in just about any country, anywhere in the world.

“Now what do we do with her?”

“We leave her,” I said. “We have to find Ella.”

‘And what will you do then, Charlie?” Rosalind threw at me, disdainful. “You might have gotten the jump on Reynolds once, but he won’t make the same mistake twice. He’s got someone with him—a professional—and he’ll be ready for you this time.”

“Like you were, you mean,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “We’ll take our chances.” I glanced at Matt. “Tape her mouth.”

Matt stuck a last piece of the packing tape across Rosalind’s lips. I patted down her pockets, retrieving her mobile phone and a spare magazine for the Beretta out of her inside coat pocket.

“Do we leave her here?”

I jerked my head towards the entrance. “Outside. I don’t want her causing any trouble.”

“It’s freezing out there,” Matt protested.

I looked at him. “Good,” I said. “It should slow her down a bit.”

He grabbed Rosalind’s shoulders without further comment, wheeling her out through the lobby into the snowy car park. After a few moments he returned.

“I stuck her round the side of the building so she won’t be seen from the road so easily,” he said, still looking uncomfortable. He took a deep shaky breath. “Look, Charlie, shouldn’t we just call the police and let them handle this?”

He kept his voice low and his eyes skimmed nervously over me, the Beretta sagging by my side now. The gun itself weighed less than a kilo— thirty ounces —and the suppressor only another seven ounces. So why did they feel so heavy?

“Call them,” I said, nodding to the phone by the till on the counter. “But by the time they get here Ella could be dead.”

He looked at the phone for a moment, but made no moves towards it.

“What can we do?”

“We can find her and persuade Reynolds to hand her over,” I said, matter-of-fact, calm and with far more confidence than I could probably justify.

“OK,” he said, his face very white. “What do you want me to do?”

The counter was glass topped and held an array of hunting knives with wicked-looking serrated blades. “Pick a weapon,” I said. “You might need it.”

Matt’s eyes strayed along the collection, but he shook his head. “I-I don’t think I could use one of those things,” he said in a small voice. “I’m sorry”

“OK,” I said. “Just stay close behind me and watch my back.”

My jacket seemed soaked through with sweat and I shrugged out of it, letting it drop onto the floor. I thumbed the magazine out of the Beretta and checked it. The standard M9 magazine held fifteen rounds and the spare was filled to capacity, too. Well, at least I wasn’t going to run out of ammunition. I shoved the spare magazine into the side pocket of my sweatpants.

The last thing I did was unscrew the suppressor from the end of the barrel and drop it onto the counter.

“Don’t you need that?” Matt asked. “I mean, to keep things quieter or something?”

I glanced at him. “I can do without the extra weight,” I said.

He nodded, like that made sense to him.

“OK,” I said, dredging up a poor excuse for a smile. “Let’s get this over with.”

We moved towards the back of the store. Towards the doorway that led to the stockrooms and the gun range. Someone seemed to have moved it farther away than it had been the last time I’d been there. My every step dragged and I could feel my breath rasping in my chest from the struggle with Rosalind. I was horribly out of shape, and I knew it.