"You want to know?" Briggs said. "Toro, tell DeMartini how you—"
"Run!"
Kemel glanced toward the house and saw Baker on his feet, backpedaling and pulling the redheaded mercenary around to the side of the house.
"Get away from the truck!"
The other three mercenaries weren't paying attention, but Kemel decided if Baker was running, so would he—as fast as he could.
"Yeah!" Briggs shouted behind him as Kemel turned and sprinted away. "Run! You yellow-bellied Arab rat! Run before I—"
The explosion caught Kemel by surprise. One moment he was running, the next he was flying, as if a giant hand had slammed against his back and hurled him through the air. The night was full of sound and light and flying metal.
Kemel landed and rolled and stayed down, lying flat with his arms over his head, pressing himself into the cold hard earth.
And then it was over.
Kemel shook his head as he rolled over and rose to his knees. He could barely hear through the high-pitched hum that filled his head. He looked around and saw burning bits of wreckage strewn about the yard. The mercenary who had been behind the truck with him was a still dark form on the lawn. He was sure the wounded Briggs and the one called DeMartini were in a similar state on the other side of the smoking hulk.
But someone was moving. Baker… returning from the side of the house, shaking his fists at the night. Kemel could see the rage in his face, and knew from his wide-open mouth and the bulging cords in his neck that he was screaming into the night.
But Kemel could not hear him. And he was glad of it.
He looked back to the road and noticed that the white car they'd followed here was gone.
Kemel lowered his head and prayed. It was that or burst into tears.
19.
Yoshio found himself laughing aloud as he watched from his car.
Tonight had been a thing of beauty. When he had heard shots from within the house, he had assumed the worst: That Muhallal and his hirelings had killed the Clayton woman's ronin. But when Yoshio had seen figures hurrying from the house and taking up position behind the wrecked truck in the front yard, he had expected a firefight to follow.
But how could there be a firefight when Alicia Clayton and the ronin were slipping into their car across the street?
The explosion had made everything clear. A small explosion—or the impending threat of a larger one—had driven everyone from the house to the supposed safety of the outdoors. And what better place to shield one's self from flying debris than behind the oh-so-conveniently located truck rusting in the front yard?
But the house was not rigged to explode. Why destroy a perfectly good house when you can drive out invaders with a fake bomb and induce them to cluster around the real bomb?
And as the debris from the derelict truck was still flying though the air, the ronin's white car had begun moving, rolling down the street with its lights out. Slipping away into the night.
Yoshio clapped his hands. So simple. So elegant. Bravo, ronin-san!
Fortunately, Muhallal had survived. Yoshio wanted the Arab alive. He was the only one besides the Clayton brother who knew why the Clayton house was so valuable.
He watched Baker rage at the night as the remaining man he had sent to guard the rear raced back to the front yard. Yoshio rolled down his window to hear what Baker was screaming.
"Who is this guy? I want him! I want him! Who are you, you fucker? Show yourself! Let's do it! You and me! That's all! No tricks! Just you and me!" Baker's voice rose to a screech. "Who the fuck are you?"
Good question, Yoshio thought. Who is this ronin!
Obviously, he was more than mere hired muscle. He was a man who was comfortable with violence but used it judiciously, and with style. He was a man experienced in his line of work and intended to stay in it for the long run—as witness this skillfully booby-trapped house. The house told Yoshio that the ronin planned far ahead and might well be prepared for almost any eventuality.
Which meant Yoshio would have to be especially cautious in his next move.
For Yoshio was determined to meet the ronin before Muhallal and Baker, by some blind luck, blundered into him and killed him. Yoshio was sure the ronin knew something, had learned something in that house.
He resisted the urge to gun his engine and follow him. He calculated the risks and decided it unwise to drive past the house right now. Baker or one of his thugs might empty a clip or two from their assault pistols at him. He had little faith in their accuracy, but a lucky slug might pierce his gas tank or—worse yet—pierce him.
No, he would catch up to them back in Manhattan.
Then he would learn what those two had discovered in the Clayton house.
20.
"Really, Jack," Alicia said. "I want to go home."
Or at least get out of the car. She felt queasy.
Instead of heading back to the city, Jack had continued east, racing toward the tip of Long Island. He'd taken them into the Hamptons, and then turned north until they'd come to the quaint houses and deserted marinas of Sag Harbor. Now they were pulling into the parking lot of something called the Surfside Inn. Alicia knew there was no surf in Sag Harbor; in fact, this crummy-looking motel wasn't even near the water.
"We can't risk heading back to the city," Jack said. "They're hurting, but I don't know what kind of reserves that Arab's got. He could have spotters waiting out on the highways, looking to follow us back home. So I say, let's take the long way home."
"All right, let's." She just wanted tonight to be over. "So why are we stopping here?"
"To spend the night." He held up his hand before she could speak. "Trust me. We head back in the morning, no one will find us. We try it tonight, there could be more rough stuff."
Damn him, she thought. He knows exactly what to say. The last thing she wanted was more violence.
"All right," she said, surrendering. "But can't we find a better place than this?"
"We're not exactly in season," Jack said. "This place is open, it's got its 'Vacancy' sign lit, and we'll only be here half a dozen hours or so. And best of all, its parking lot isn't visible from the road. Wait here."
Before she could object, he was out of the car and heading toward the office.
Alicia closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. This was all a nightmare. None of this had happened. Soon she'd wake up and find it all had been an ugly dream.
She jumped at the sound of a tap on the window: Jack—holding up a key and motioning her toward a row of doors to the left of the car. With a groan, she got out and followed him. Her limbs dragged… her marrow had turned to lead.
Jack opened a door marked "17" and held it open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.
Slightly better decorated than Jack's "country place," but just as mildewy. Flowered drapes matched the spreads on the two double beds, but not the rug.
"Which do you want?" Jack said.
"Which what?"
"Which bed."
"You've got to be kidding," she said. "We're sharing a room? Look, things maybe be tight, but I can spring for—"
"Money's got nothing to do with it. It's the safest way." He pointed to the beds again. "So, which one?"
Alicia pointed to the one nearer the bathroom. God, she wanted a shower—she craved a shower—but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use?