As before, Girotti was flanked by his bodyguards, who stood with their hands resting near pistols worn in hip and shoulder holsters.
Tuttle wasn't cool. Ugly, gloating triumph marked his face, as did an enormous purple bruise from Carter's knockout punch.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance, buddy boy," Tuttle said.
"I can fix that now if you'd like," Carter retorted.
"You're the one who's gonna get fixed, wise guy."
Carter's adrenals primed his body for flight or fight.
Tuttle started toward him. "I'm gonna tear you down like a condemned building."
Girotti held up a hand. "I'm afraid you'll have to forgo that pleasure, Tuttle. Solano belongs to someone else. Or perhaps I should call him by his real name — Nick Carter."
Guns appeared in the hands of Bob and Bill. They were good, all right. Carter had hardly seen them draw, they were so fast.
Eva sidled away from Carter. She knew which way the winds were blowing, even if she lacked the big picture.
"More games?" Carter asked. "Suppose you tell me, so I can play too."
"You're good. Very good. You'd have to be good to fool me for so long. I, Gianni Girotti, salute your skill, Carter."
"The name's Solano."
Girotti shook his head. "No need to act any more, Carter. Your cover's blown. I know who you are and what you are. Or should I say what you were. Because as of tonight, you're done for."
Tuttle fidgeted, unable to contain himself any longer. "I don't care if he's Jimmy Carter, I got a score to settle with that guy and I ain't kiddin'."
Girotti's eyebrows drew themselves together in a frown. "Leave us, Tuttle. You, too, Eva."
Eva was well trained. Without a word, she spun on her high heels and left the room.
"Ciao, carissima," Carter called after her.
She did not reply.
"I told you to leave, Tuttle," Girotti said.
"Nobody gives me the bum's rush."
"I won't argue, Tuttle. I'm telling you to get out while you still can."
"Sheeeyit." Tuttle reached for the revolver stuffed in his waistband.
Two shots rang out. Bob fired casually from the hip, his bullet taking off the top of Tuttle's head in a soft wet explosion of blood, brain, and bone. Bill used a more classic marksman's stance, shooting with arm extended straight out. His shot took Tuttle in the heart.
Tuttle was doubly dead.
Carter held back from making his play, even though Tuttle's death had provided an opening diversion. Girotti was enjoying his little game of cat and mouse too much to cut it short by killing Carter. Still, this waiting game was hell on the Killmaster's nerves.
Glancing at Tuttle's bloody corpse, Carter said, "Thanks. You just saved me the trouble."
"You're a cool one," Girotti said. "Let's see how cool you are when the pain begins."
"I don't know who you think I am, but you're making a big mistake…"
"It won't wash, Mr. Carter. You know a man named Tigdal?"
"Never heard of him."
"He knows you. He's my pipeline into the upper echelon of the SB's Counterforce department. Tigdal had a sister, a pretty little thing, if a bit spoiled and reckless. She came here to play, but when I found out who her brother was, why, I simply couldn't let her go. Tigdal didn't believe I had her, so I sent him a ring he'd given her for her birthday."
Girotti paused, then delivered the punchline. "Her finger was still attached to the ring. Since then, the lieutenant has been most cooperative."
Carter figured Girotti for the type who could have happily gone on gloating all night long. But the arrival of his master put a halt to the game-playing.
Girotti and his bodyguards stood on a raised dais, looking down at Carter. A hairline crack appeared in the wail behind them, the leading edge of an oblong of darkness revealed when a hidden door slid back.
Reguiba stepped through it.
The trio glanced his way as he made his entrance. Carter used the opportunity to put his hand in his pocket, plunging his fingers through its slitted hole to touch Pierre. The contact was infinitely reassuring.
Reguiba stood regally, sinister in his black garments so reminiscent of the garb of the ninjas. But no ninja ever wore twin.45s holstered on his hips.
How had he managed to slip through the cordon around the villa? Carter wondered. Was he that good, or was more treachery involved?
Reguiba stared at Carter. Something odd about his eyes… the irises as dark as the pupils, with no line of demarcation between the two. They created the unnerving illusion of twin black holes bored through his eyeballs, a pair of gun-barrel eyes. Reguiba regarded Carter so coldly that icicles could have formed in the room.
Girotti said, unnecessarily, "This is Carter."
"I know," Reguiba said. "He looks like the kind of man who could have sunk my ship."
He spoke directly to Carter. "You have cost me no small trouble and expense, a debt you will repay a thousandfold."
Carter said nothing. What was there to say?
Reguiba told Girotti, "Your work here is done. The dogs are hard on your heels. Even as I speak, the hunters tighten the net around your dwelling place."
"What?"
"You will leave now, with me."
"But I can't leave just yet…"
"You must."
Girotti looked stricken. "But my work, all I've accomplished here…"
"There is work for you in Al Khobaiq. Come."
"All right, just let me get some things together."
Reguiba shook his head. "Time runs out. We must go now."
"I…" Realizing the futility of arguing with Reguiba, Girotti accepted the inevitable. He pointed at Carter. "What about him?"
"Bring him. I will exact the full measure of the blood debt he owes me."
Bob and Bill started down the stairs of the dais toward where Carter stood.
Reguiba was right. Time had run out.
The Killmaster depressed Pierre's tiny trigger button twice, a fail-safe device to prevent accidental activation. It was activated now, and this was no accident. He pulled off the special tape and it rolled down his leg and dropped to the floor, a little lead egg whose three-second safety delay was done.
Carter took a mental picture of the positions of the foursome, then squeezed his eyes shut.
He had selected his armaments well. This particular Pierre was a combination dazzle-smoke bomb, a useful tool for a one operator in the midst of his enemies.
Pierre detonated in a flash, with a loud fizz-pop! It was like a gigantic flashbulb going off, a blinding glare. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the glare was harsh, painful.
Carter threw himself to the floor. Shots rang out, none of them nearing him as he rolled sideways to Tuttle's corpse.
Clouds of choking smoke billowed from the little bomb.
Carter grabbed Tuttle's.357, jammed in the top of the dead man's pants. It was more gun than he preferred, but it would do the job and then some.
Pink and yellow afterimages danced in front of his eyes. He could imagine the blinding effect the flash must have had on those who had their eyes wide open when it went off.
Girotti and his bodyguards stumbled around like three blind mice, futilely clawing at their eyes, arms flailing, guns blasting far wide of the Killmaster.
Reguiba had better reflexes. At the instant that Pierre rolled across the floor, he had thrown himself backward, through the secret door by which he had entered.
Carter crouched on one knee, holding the gun in a two-handed grip. He squeezed off three shots.
Three shots, three kills. Gianni Girotti, Bob, and Bill spun like swivel-mounted targets in a shooting gallery. They went down, not to rise again until Judgment Day.