To Die Fur (A Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Mystery) (34 page)

That was a pretty tough point to argue, so Shondra grumbled and gave in. Right about now I guessed she must be feeling pretty smug.

Bad guess.

Shondra came barreling down the stairs just as we all rushed into the foyer. She had a gun in one hand and a cell phone in the other. “No reception,” she said. “They have a jammer. Internet’s down and so are the landlines. Must have been cut.”

“What do we do?” Oscar said. “My body doesn’t react well to bullets. I tend to break out in hospital bills and sporadic fits of death.”

“Stay calm,” said Shondra. “That’s a steel-cored security door and an ANSI Grade One dead bolt. It’ll buy us some time—”

I heard the rattle of chains being drawn across metal. “Not much,” I said. “I don’t think a dead bolt’s going to last long against a dump truck in low gear.”

“Nor does it have to,” said a familiar voice from behind us.

Luis Navarro strolled through the door to the hall, casually holding a pistol in front of him. “Not when you can simply unlock it from this side.”

Shondra’s gun was down at her side, but I could see the calculation in her eyes. “Don’t,” I said to her. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Good thinking,” Navarro said. “Drop the gun, please, and kick it over here.”

Glowering, Shondra did so. Navarro picked it up, then shouted something in Spanish. I heard the chains being withdrawn. He walked over to the door, watching us the whole time, and unlocked it. It opened to admit his crew.

“Forgive the theatrics,” Navarro said. “A grand entrance was necessary to occupy your attention while I gained access through the French doors out by the pool.”

“This is pointless,” ZZ said. “Yes, you can take Augustus’s body by force, but what then? Are you going to slaughter us all to conceal the crime? Over a
trophy
?”

“No, of course not,” said Navarro. “That would be foolish and ill advised. This is merely a business transaction. I gave you a check, and I am here to pick up my merchandise. These men are my assistants.”

“Assistants wearing masks and carrying guns,” said ZZ.

Navarro raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You are mistaken. I see no guns or masks. Your cameras, I am certain, will not show them, either—not once I pay a visit to your security office.”

“You can’t delete my memories that easily,” said ZZ.

“No, but I can delete other things. Can you protect the other animals in your zoo? Your staff? Your family?” Navarro shook his head. “No, I think not. You must understand, these accusations you are about to make—they will be viewed as slander by my employer, and that is tantamount to declaring war. War is a worrisome thing, Ms. Zoransky; it consumes your time, your peace of mind, and ultimately your life. Far better to cash that check and forget this ever happened. I feel confident you will make the right decision. And now, why don’t we sit down and have a drink? We shall make this quick.”

He herded us all into the sitting room and told one of his men to guard us. When Navarro started to leave, Rajiv Gunturu said, “Wait. Take me with you.”

Navarro looked at him curiously. “Why?”

“There are things about the liger you do not know. Things, I promise you, that your employer will want to know. If nothing else, consider me an additional hostage to ensure your safe escape.”

“You know where the body is being kept?” Navarro asked.

“I do.”

“Then show my men. They will kill you if you try anything stupid.”

Gunturu left with Navarro and his men, no doubt to break into the clinic and take Augustus’s body while their boss destroyed the security footage. There was nothing we could do to stop them.

Not personally, anyway.

Whiskey? Are you in position yet?

[Yes. As is Ben.]

I’d been thinking furiously ever since I realized what the dump truck meant, describing the situation to Whiskey who then relayed the information to Ben. He’d left through the kitchen door and hidden in the cabana while I tried to figure out what the best play was. Whiskey had sprinted for the clinic with the speed of a greyhound, and was now hiding beneath a bush as a very small Yorkie.

Okay. Tell Ben to turn on the waterworks. Make it flashy.

[Done. He says to inform you he’s unsure how accurate he is with lightning strikes but is willing to try.]

Tell him to hold off.
I’m no expert on guns, but even I know you shouldn’t pull the trigger unless you can hit what you’re aiming at.

A moment later there was a satisfying rumble of thunder. Rain began to pelt against the windows, getting harder by the minute.

“Looks like your friends are going to get wet,” I said to the guard. He stared at me with flat, black eyes and said nothing.

The guard had a walkie-talkie on his belt, and now it crackled to life. A voice speaking Spanish, sounding uncertain. Burst of static every time lightning flashed outside.

Didn’t do anything to mess with my communications system, though.
Tell Ben to amp up the lighting. Doesn’t have to be powerful, just frequent.

The light show outside must have been spectacular; all I could see was an erratic strobe through the window, with an accompanying rumble of near-constant thunder. The guard’s walkie-talkie sounded like a radio stuck between stations, with only the occasional random syllable of Spanish making it through. I did my best not to grin.

[The men have arrived at the clinic. They have a large, wheeled cart with them. They are using pry bars to break in.]

Fortunately, Caroline had gone home for the day. Shondra and I had agreed it was better if she was off-site tonight, which was when we’d planned to set our trap for the thief. I already knew it was Abazu who’d broken into the clinic, but at the time I still thought a trap was still a good idea; maybe someone other than Abazu would make an attempt, which would lead me to the killer.

Then I’d figured out the killer’s identity, so the trap wasn’t needed—but Shondra had already sent Caroline home and put up extra cameras by then. Which would do us absolutely no good, since Navarro was currently in the process of remotely disabling them and/or erasing their content. At least Caroline wasn’t in danger.

I needed to stop those men, and I didn’t think Whiskey could do it by himself. But maybe I could get him some help.

Tell Ben to go find Tango. Then have both of them hightail it over to the zoo. When they get there, here’s what I want them to do …

When I was finished my instructions, Whiskey chuckled. [Well, that should make things interesting … by the way, the men have broken into the clinic. They’ve left one outside as a guard.]

Think you can take him out without alerting the others?

[Easily.]

How about without killing him?

[Less easily. But I can certainly disarm him and run him off.]

Then do so, please
.

[Very well. Switching to Irresistible Puppy Mode now.]

Which I was guessing would last long enough for Whiskey to get within lunging distance, at which point upward of three hundred pounds of mastiff or St. Bernard would clamp its jaws around the barrel of the guard’s gun and yank. Followed by the growling and the snarling and the running away. One down.

“I say, old boy,” ventured Oscar. “I don’t mean to upset you in any way, but none of us is really used to being held hostage. Your leader obviously feels we should all stay civilized about this, and I most heartily agree. He even went so far as to offer us a drink.”

“So?” grunted the gunman.

Oscar lifted his empty glass. “So that was
ages
ago. A quick refill would do wonders for my nerves, and you can train that extremely lethal-looking weapon at me the entire time. I assure you, my hands will remain in full view the entire time.”

The thug considered this, then nodded. “Go ahead. You even twitch, I’ll blow you away.”

Oscar swallowed. “Ah. Well then, perhaps someone else should go. I’m feeling a little unsteady.”

The gunman shook his head. “Oh, no. No servants here, man. Just us. You want a drink, you’d best get on your feet and go get one. Matter of fact, bring the whole bottle. And a glass for me, too.”

“If … if you insist.” Oscar got to his feet, smiled weakly, and made his way very slowly and carefully toward the bar. Once there, he picked up a bottle of rum, poured himself a large shot with hands visibly shaking, and downed it. Then he grabbed an oversized brandy snifter, filled it three-quarters of the way full, and took two careful steps toward our captor. He extended the glass to him like he was offering meat to a hungry wolf, keeping as much distance between them as possible. I couldn’t see the thug’s grin, but I knew it was there.

And then Oscar dropped the glass.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
WO

The sound the glass made as it smashed into a thousand pieces was mostly drowned out by a sudden clap of thunder. Oscar froze, his eyes wide. The thug’s gun snapped up, pointed straight at Oscar’s heart.

“I—please, I’m sorry,” Oscar managed.

The gunman chuckled. “Little nervous, man? Don’t worry. Not like it’s
my
booze you’re wasting. Now go back and get me another one, and this time be careful.”

“Y-yes. Of course.”

This time, Oscar moved like he was underwater. He filled another snifter, and gave it to the gunman using both hands. Then he made his way back to his seat and sank down into it.

The gunman stuck the snifter under his bandanna and took a sip. “Hey, that’s got some kick to it,” he said approvingly. “You trying to get me drunk, man?”

Oscar grabbed his own glass and took a quick swallow. “No, the last thing I want in the person who’s pointing a gun in my direction is inebriation. I assure you, the only one I want to get drunk is me.”

The gunman laughed. “Everybody got their own way to get high, right? Just depends on what you can afford.”

Oscar’s eyes moved to mine and held them for a second. “We all have our vices,” he said quietly. And then, quite deliberately, his gaze moved to rest on Karst, before flicking back to me.

Karst. Vices
. I thought hard, trying to figure out what Oscar meant.

Karst was a hunter. Was Oscar trying to tell me we could use Karst’s skills to overpower our guard?

No, that didn’t make sense. Karst was so wasted he could barely walk. Is that the vice Oscar was referencing, Karst’s inebriation?

And then I got it. Karst’s
other
vice.

Karst was a smoker. And he was sitting right next to me.

Think, Foxtrot, think.
Karst was right-handed. Most people smoke with their dominant hand, so that’s the one they use to stick the cigarette in their mouth. Odds were that he was used to lighting his cigarettes with the other hand, meaning the lighter was most likely in his left-hand pocket. I was sitting to his left.

Which pocket?

Hopefully, the outside pocket of his suit jacket, which was within reach—but I still needed a distraction.
Whiskey? You busy?

[Not really. I’ve treed the guard and he seems sufficiently terrified to remain there for a while.]

Tell Ben I need hail on the house. Just a short burst should do it.

[I shall.]

Either hail wasn’t something you could call up on short notice or Ben was occupied with what I’d sent him to do, but it seemed to take forever before the sound of hard rain suddenly became the machine-gun rattle of ice falling from the sky. It ratcheted up from loud to deafening in a matter of seconds, though, causing everyone—the gunman included—to glance in the direction of the window.

Not me, though. I slipped my hand into Karst’s pocket, felt the familiar shape of a book of matches, and grabbed it. My hand was out of his pocket and dangling beside the couch, out of the gunman’s sight, as fast as I dared.

“That’s some crazy weather,” the gunman said. “Glad I’m in here.”

“The gods are displeased,” Abazu said. Not quite, but closer to the truth than he knew.

Karst gave me an odd look, which I ignored. I hoped he wasn’t so drunk that he’d blurt something without thinking.

There’s a trick I know that involves lighting a match from a matchbook with one hand. First you had to get the book open, which was fairly easy. Then you bent one match all the way over and around the bottom, so that the head was pressed against the striking strip—a little harder, but manageable. Finally, you juggled the whole book around with your fingers until it was upside down with the back facing you and your thumb on the head of the match. Tricky to do, but actually easier when you weren’t looking; all your attention was focused on the tactile.

When you had it all properly aligned, it was possible to light the match by flicking your thumb. Possible, but not certain.

My first attempt failed. I repositioned the match head with my thumb and tried again. No good. The hail stopped and the rain returned.

“Hey,” said the gunman. He was looking right at me. “Aren’t you gonna have a drink with us?”

My drink was on the table in front of me. I couldn’t lean forward to pick it up without exposing my left hand. “I’m not thirsty, thank you.”

“Too good to drink with a guy like me, huh?” the thug said. He took a step forward, stopped, and gulped from the snifter like it was a glass of beer. Getting his courage up.

I smiled at him, pressed the book of matches into my palm with my thumb, leaned forward, and grabbed my drink. I settled back and let my hand dangle beside the arm of the couch again, raising my glass in a toast as I did so. “I can’t stand things that are ‘too good,’ myself. Here’s to trying
new
things.”

He pulled the snifter out from under the bandanna and joined my toast. We both drank, while I did my best to maneuver another match into position.

It flared to life with an audible sound on the second try, but the rain made enough noise to cover it. Part of the match head stuck to my thumb, though, and it took all my willpower not to yelp with pain.

I’d only have one try at this, and a single burning match was risky; it could go out before it did its job far too easily. So, one-handed and blind, I had to shift the book of matches into a position that would cause the burning one to ignite all the others, without burning myself.