He’d just killed two men to scare the others and make them take their time about following him. Hopefully it would turn out in the end to have been worth it.
The second-floor hallway was lined with doors, all of them shut. The lighting up there was more subdued than it had been on the ground floor. Chapel didn’t waste time looking at all the charming architectural details.
“Give me a door,” Chapel said. “Just pick one.”
“Two down on your left,” Angel told him.
He raced to the door she’d indicated and threw it open, a pistol up and ready in his good hand.
26
The room beyond was dark, save for a strange green glow coming down from the ceiling. Chapel didn’t have time to wonder what that meant. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him. He considered locking it, but he knew that would only delay his pursuers a few seconds—the door was made of soft wood, and anyone could kick it down—while it would also mean trapping him inside a room with no other exits. That was always a bad idea.
“Favorov,” he called out. “Favorov, it’s over. You can’t get away now. You waited too long.”
There was no response. As Chapel’s eyes started to adjust to the strange glow in the room he started to make out details—a pair of single beds on the far side of the room, a dresser, a desk with two laptop computers sitting on top of it.
Toys.
The floor was strewn with toys—action figures, toy trucks, a couple of robots.
No. No, Chapel thought, oh no, I’ve picked the wrong room.
He looked up and saw that the ceiling was covered in stars. Decals of stars that glowed in the dark. That was the source of the dim lighting. This was the room where Favorov’s boys lived. He could even see one of them—Ryan, the younger of the two, he thought—huddled in his bed. He wasn’t asleep. One eye glinted with terror as it looked at Chapel over bunched-up blankets.
He put a finger to his lips and tried to think of something reassuring to say. He couldn’t think of anything. The best he could do for the kid would be to get out of the room immediately and lead the guards as far away from his part of the house as possible. The mansion’s walls were sturdy and thick, but there was no telling where stray bullets could end up. Chapel knew that if one of the kids was hurt in the firefight he would never forgive himself.
He turned to go, putting his free hand out to reach for the doorknob.
That was when the closet door flew open and banged against the wall, startling Chapel so much he barely noticed when something small and fast moving charged right at him and sank the inch-long blade of a pocketknife into his thigh.
“Jesus!” Chapel gasped, as the pain reached him.
He stared down at Daniel, who must have been hiding in the closet the whole time. Smart kid. He had what looked like a Cub Scout knife in his hand and he was bringing it back to strike at Chapel’s leg again.
“We never did anything to you!” the boy shouted. “Leave us alone!”
Chapel was so surprised he couldn’t stop the boy from stabbing him a second time. The wounds weren’t deep enough to seriously injure him but he could feel blood running down inside his dress pants.
“Kid, kid,” Chapel said, trying to grab at the knife without getting his hand slashed. “Kid, come on! Stop it!” He felt absurd—he’d just fought his way through a cadre of bodyguards, and here he couldn’t do more than ask a child politely to stop trying to kill him. But he couldn’t risk hurting the child, even in self-defense. His training had focused on debilitating and crippling attackers, not calming them down.
But then a female voice called out from another room, calling Daniel’s name. It was Fiona, the boy’s mother. “Daniel! Run away! Just run, baby!”
Chapel had no choice. He brought his left hand down just as the boy was going to stab him a third time. The knife blade sank deep into the silicone flesh of Chapel’s artificial hand. With a good hard yank Chapel pulled his hand back and the knife came with it.
“Daniel!” Fiona called again.
Chapel folded up the knife and put it in his pocket, just to keep it away from the child. Daniel’s eyes had gone very wide and he looked like he expected to be shot at any second. Silently Chapel cursed Favorov for putting his children at risk like this.
“Daniel! Run away!”
The boy turned and screamed and ran back into the closet. “You,” Chapel said to Ryan, who was still curled up in a ball on his bed. “Get in there with him. It’s the safest place.”
He expected the younger boy to scream, or throw a tantrum, or just freeze in place, paralyzed by fear. Instead he jumped up and ran for the closet, dragging a stuffed dog in after him.
Maybe Favorov had trained his sons at the same time he’d trained his bodyguards. Or maybe the kid was just smarter than he looked.
“Daniel! Ryan!” Fiona wailed. It sounded like she was just outside in the hall.
27
Chapel yanked the door open and found himself looking Fiona right in the face. Her features were writhing with panic. “My boys,” she whispered.
Behind her, the door across the hall was open. It looked like a master bedroom lay beyond.
“If you hurt my boys—”
“They’re fine,” Chapel said. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to one side. Through the door of the master bedroom he was sure he saw someone moving. It had to be Favorov. “They’re in the closet. You need to get them out of here, as fast as possible,” Chapel whispered. He checked the pistol in his hand. “I’m going in there. Do not call out or try to warn him.”
Fiona’s eyes snapped to his. “Who?” she asked.
There was definitely movement down the hall. The guards from the first floor were coming and they were moving faster now. Chapel had no time left. He pushed past Fiona and dove into the master bedroom, locking the door behind him.
The room was well lit. Chapel saw a king-size bed flanked by low tables, a larger table off to one side, a couple of chairs. Expensive-looking paintings hung on the wall. A second door led to what he presumed was a bathroom.
“Angel,” he whispered.
“One heat source in there with you. You’re close,” she told him.
Chapel lifted his pistol. He saw no sign of Favorov. No movement at all. Clothing and papers were piled up on the bed. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly banded. Looked like fifty thousand dollars or so. Three passports. A revolver. Chapel picked that up and stuffed it in his pocket, keeping his own weapon leveled on the bathroom door. On the far side of the room from the bed stood a massive dresser, but the drawers were too small to hide a human being. Over by the bathroom door stood an upright wardrobe—Favorov could easily be hiding in there, but the door hung open revealing nothing inside but shirts and dresses on hangers. It looked like someone had torn through the wardrobe in a hurry. Favorov had been packing, getting ready to make his escape on his yacht. Except Hollingshead was sure the yacht was just a ruse.
Chapel stepped carefully toward the bathroom, expecting to be lit up by assault rifle fire at any second. Favorov was a smart guy, but he was also cornered, and even brilliant people did stupid things when they thought their liberty was in danger.
“All right, Favorov,” Chapel said. “You made a good try at it, but this is over. You can come quietly and I promise you won’t be hurt. A guy like you can afford an excellent lawyer, right? Maybe you won’t even do jail time.” Though if Chapel had anything to say about it the Russian would rot in prison for the rest of his life.
There was no response from the bathroom. Chapel thought he heard something, like a piece of wood being dragged across a tile floor. Then nothing.