He stopped beside the open door of the Red Room. A smeared trail of blood led from the doorway to the bloody, one-armed corpse of the new guy, whose name he couldn’t recall.
He cocked his head to peer into the partially open door of the Red Room. By the pale light, he could see nothing. There was no point delaying. Whatever had happened was now over, and he had to know what happened to Inga.
With a roar, he charged through, his gun at the ready. One shoe slipped in the blood on the floor, but he managed to keep his balance as he swung his weapon this way and that. Inga was nowhere to be seen. The sole occupant of the room was the lifeless Danny Garcia.
“What the fuck did you do?” he asked the corpse, as he lowered the gun.
The muffled sound of semi-automatic gunfire answered him instead. It was coming from inside the house. He ran out of the room and sprinted for the staircase.
13
Ivan passed the idling Cadillac and reached the doorway of the staircase that led up into the house. He paused, taking a deep breath before glancing quickly around the corner. Another body was sprawled face down on the steps on the middle landing. There was no sign of anyone else. He turned back and waved to the driver before entering.
The bodyguard sprinted up the steps two at a time, slowing when he reached the body. Charlie Matuzzi had clearly died a horrible death. He was covered in blood, and his neck had been crushed, almost flattened against the marble step on which his head rested. The walls seemed to close in a little and Ivan reeled as a feeling of déjà vu rocked him.
When it had passed, he continued up the stairs until he reached the ground floor. On his haunches, he peeked through the ornate balustrades into the living area. It was clear, but to the left, through the opening to the kitchen, he could see the legs of another body. A man. He thought of Isabella with a sinking feeling in his guts.
There was another burst of automatic gunfire and yelling from the floor above. It was quickly followed by more shots. It was clear Molenski was the target, and for the first time in a long time, Ivan wasn’t there to protect him. Spurred into action, he rose to his feet and staying side on to present as small a target as possible, headed for the kitchen.
Apart from the body he had spotted from the stairs, the kitchen was empty. The dead man was another of Molenski’s guards, one that Ivan didn’t know by name. He had a neat bullet wound between his staring eyes and his automatic weapon was missing. Ivan noted a discarded pistol resting on the floor a few feet from him. He looked around the kitchen, and then through the large window above the sink. Another man slumped over the railing on the patio.
Jesus, how many attackers are there? And where is Isabella?
He heard a soft scrape from the other side of the large kitchen island and immediately ducked, scrambling to the end nearest him, freakishly silent for a man of his size.
Again, on his haunches he shuffled to the corner and glanced into the area between the island and the sink. Nothing but the debris of a dropped bowl of flour. In the white mess, he saw scuff marks and a partial hand print, but no sign of footprints leaving the area. There was, however, a telltale dusting of flour on one of the cupboard handles.
With gun in hand and breathing fast, Ivan sidled along the island until he was in reach of the door. He grasped the handle and ripped it open, only to be confronted by a hissing, wide-eyed Isabella. She sprang from the cramped space, lunging at him with a carving knife.
Ivan fall onto his backside but deflected the blow with his forearm and gripped her wrist before she could strike again.
“Ivan! Sorr…”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and shook his head. He put a finger to his lips and slowly took his hand away.
“Did you see them? I need to know how many men?”
She giggled uneasily.
“No los hombres! La niña, la niña demonio…”
“What? Speak English,” he whispered harshly.
“Not men! It is the girl. Just her. She’s a demon…”
“Inga?”
“Si, the pretty one. She has a gun.”
“She shot them? Nyet… that’s not possible, she’s a robot, she’s not allowed…”
Isabella spat on the floor.
“She did it. I saw her. Lucky I am quick like the rattlesnake and ducked before she saw me, or I’d be dead too. The Russian cursed us by bringing that demonio into this house.”
“Stay here, don’t come out till I come back for you.”
This new information certainly complicated things. He had no doubt that Garcia had probably earned his broken neck, but even so, it should have been impossible for her to kill a human, let alone seven of them. He had no doubt about her goal. The trail of bodies led to the obvious conclusion.
Ivan stepped lightly over the mess of flour and rounded the island before running down the long hallway and heading for the stairs that led up to the level containing the bedrooms. At that point, he didn’t know who he was more concerned for, his boss or the pretty robot he’d somehow managed to fall for in the space of a few hours.
Part 3 – Death in Socks
14
As soon as Molenski and his wife were through the front door they began pawing at each other. Like a twisted Hansel and Gretel, they left a trail of clothes and underwear all the way to their bedroom.
Minutes later, engaged in a wild, urgent coupling, they were oblivious to the fact that death in socks was rapidly heading their way. The soundproofed walls Molenski had installed when the mansion was built, and the shitty music Tatiana insisted on playing whenever they had sex, effectively muted the symphony of murder and mayhem playing out in other parts of the house.
Tatiana, as overenthusiastic in the bedroom as she was with her makeup, squealed at every thrust of her husband. Far from turning him on, it annoyed the fuck out of him. Molenski had to work hard to blot out the shrill sound of her forced yelps. Thankfully, he had the anticipation of what he would do to Inga very soon to fuel his imagination.
Buried deep in his wife, he imagined punching Inga’s pretty face until it was bruised and bleeding, and then pulling her teeth out one by one with a pair of pliers. He would inflict such pain on her; just as he had planned to on the real Inga so long ago.
He felt himself begin to climax as he imagined taking the box cutter from the toolbox and slowly…
CRAAACK!
An enormous blow rattled the bedroom door on its hinges. The startled Russian rolled off a cursing Tatiana, fumbling for his Ruger even as a second violent blow shook the heavy door, leaving it hanging dangerously askew.
Molenski’s desperate hands overreached, knocking the weapon to the carpet as a third and final blow sent the door crashing into the room. The mobster dove off the bed, his heart thumping madly as he blindly groped for the pistol while risking a peek back over the top of the tall bed.
Like a demon in a nightmare, the smiling replica of his first love, unmindful of the bloody bullet wound in her upper arm, raised the machine pistol she was holding and aimed it at him.
“Target acquired.”
Ivan sped past the bullet-pocked walls in the hallway to the main bedroom and hurdled the bloody body of another guard.
He heard the burst of an automatic weapon in his boss’ bedroom.
FUCK!
Molenski ducked as the spray of bullets thunked into the mattress and whizzed over his head. Focusing, he ignored the fragments of foam and feathers raining down upon him and his trembling fingers finally found his trusty Ruger.