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They fanned out in a choreography from the past, rehearsed to perfection in another killing field long years ago. Each moved forward carefully, every reflex on alert, nerves taut.

They found him two rooms away, seated behind his desk. When Carey suddenly stepped into the room, his assault weapon trained on Rifat's chest, he greeted them without surprise, with unusual calm. Unknown to them, the explosive charge had set off his warning system, and the villa was on full alert.

“Count Fersten, I thought you and I might meet again.” And he crossed his hands on the leather-covered desktop as though a submachine gun wasn't pointed at him. As though he wasn't responsible for half the terrorist attacks last year. As though all the people dead because of him were numbers in a ledger of profit and not human beings with families who perhaps couldn't even begin to understand the reason for their deaths.

“You were harder to find this time,” Carey said, remembering the last time they'd met in Cannes with sycophants and starlets surrounding him, not steel security doors and armed guards.

At Rifat's casual words, Ant had moved over to the windows facing the courtyard. Easing the drapery aside a scant inch, he surveyed the scene below. It was full-scale mobilization with armed men racing toward Rifat's wing, and every light in the villa illuminated. “The troops are out, Carey. Time to go.”

“In a minute.” He wanted that minute. He wanted Rifat to suffer a brief moment for what he'd done to Egon. For what he'd done to countless, nameless people in his rise to power. There was a rumor he collected ears and brought them out at dinner parties for effect. It almost made one consider torture in return as biblical justice.

“You'll never get out alive,” Rifat said, his voice moderate, the burgundy silk of his dressing gown, a vivid splash of crimson in the glow of the desk lamp. “I've sixty men garrisoned here.” His smile held no geniality.

“A few less,” Ant said, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below, “on the other side of those steel doors.”

“My commendations on your skill.” Rifat's smile thinned. “No one's ever gotten this far.”

Luger was guarding the doorway. “Let's go,” he muttered.

And when Carey rotated the half-turn to interpret the intensity of his voice, Rifat's hand moved a scant few inches toward the silver inkwell in the shape of a small cannon lying directly in front of his clasped hands. The flash of red caught as a periphery image warned him, and Carey fired without aiming. The impact blew Rifat back, but he recovered a moment later to his smiling, upright self.

A bulletproof vest, Carey thought just as Ant said, “We're outta here.”

“One second.”

“A half a second, that's it.”

“My dear count,” Rifat said, his voice grating with animosity at the first serious threat to his life in years, “you don't have a half-second.” He drew from his pocket a small automatic handgun, firing it before his hand had lifted. And if Carey hadn't automatically moved in practiced reaction to a pointed gun, he would have been gut shot… or lower. Instinctively he aimed for Rifat's head and fired-one close-patterned burst that no one could survive.

Luger slammed the bedroom door shut behind him just as the sound of shattering glass echoed through the shadowy room.

“That's for Egon,” Carey said as Rifat's body fell heavily to the floor, his head splashed in bloody pieces across the torn drapery and broken glass of the window behind him.

“No way we're going back the way we came,” Luger said, shoving a large dresser in front of the door. “They're halfway down the hall already.”

“They haven't climbed the balcony yet,” Ant declared with a tight smile. “Let's try a little Tarzan shit.” He was already uncoiling the nylon rope hooked to his belt harness. “Hey, Carey, are you fucking back in this world yet?”

But Carey didn't hear him, transfixed, not by the sight of Rifat's remains, but by a memo sheet on Rifat's desk with Sylvie's name, the name of the Miami hospital, and Egon's room number scratched across it in bold script.

“We've got to get out of here,” Carey said aware of Rifat's auxiliary plan now that Egon was beyond kidnapping.

“No shit,” Ant muttered, exchanging an ironic lift of his brows with Luger.

The sound of running feet was audible now, much too close for comfort. The next sound they'd hear would be splintering wood as the door was shot open.

“I'm going up and out of here,” Ant said. “You two cover my ass while I find something to anchor this rope to.” And following Ant, they stepped out onto the balcony through the smashed window. After looking in both directions they opted for the more dimly lit area to the left. Undetected, they raced down the length of the veranda, away from the commotion concentrated in the area around Rifat's suite.

At the corner they stopped, assessing where best to gain access to the roof. The balcony supports were smooth marble columns unsuitable for climbing, and the balcony eaves were without decorative detail. “Christ,” Ant swore. There was nowhere to secure a rope, and even a grappling hook would never catch on the polished handrails. “I'm going to see if I can slip this rope through the third floor balcony railing. Hang on to me, 'cuz I'm going to have to lean out.” It went without saying the third man would cover them against attack. Down below them the courtyard was a hive of activity with soldiers running, orders being shouted, and sounds of frantic movement, but no one had seen them yet, concentrating as they were on racing to Rifat's quarters. “Shit,” Ant swore, the eave on the balcony obstructing his view, “we could use Mac's long arms right now.”

“Here,” Carey said, “let me try. I'm taller.” Jumping onto the railing, he grasped the marble column with one hand and leaned out past the roofline. Extending his hand, he felt the coiled rope being slapped into his palm. With a swinging toss he threw it toward the third-floor railing. It slid off and tumbled back down. The noise levels below were escalating. He heard bursts of fire power and wondered if they were through Rifat's bedroom door yet: Lights were coming on even in the formerly dark rooms of the mansion.

Gauging his distance carefully, Carey swung the weighted rope upward again in a slow, looping arc. Though it flipped over the marble railing, it didn't have enough trajectory to continue downward so a knot could be secured. Carey swore.

Ant swore.

Luger checked his clip.

Violently jerking the rope down, Carey meticulously coiled it so it wouldn't tangle. Leaning out so far the muscles in his arm strained with the effort, he tossed the coil of rope up a third time.

It ascended into the silvery moonlit sky in a lazy, curving sweep as though time didn't matter. Carey watched the rope sail skyward. His mouth was dry, the tension in his body acute. How long would it be before they were observed, like sitting ducks in a target gallery? And still the rope rose in its indolent course.

A silent prayer was forming in his mind when the soft nylon drifted over the railing. His prayer was changing to a pleading appeal as the free weighted end snapped through the balustrade uprights with a small purring whoosh.

So far so good, he was thinking, as though the rope were listening to his encouraging words. It was descending downward now.

Hurry, he silently admonished, fucking hurry! Time was precious. He tried to mentally speed up the formulaic equation for gravity as the rope seemed to sink downward in excruciating slow motion. He heard the machine gun blast tearing up the barricaded door. If this bloody rope didn't touch his fingers soon, they were all in deep shit.

Every muscle in his body strained toward the rope, his arm extended to its absolute limit. And then the slippery nylon touched his fingertips. He grabbed it and hauled it down. Thank you, God.

They were up the rope and onto the third floor balcony with a buoyant agility that overlooked the fact they had a long way to go yet.