The complete absence of any activity gave him pause; perhaps he had erred in assuming that Capri would be held in one of the apartments. If she wasn’t there, then his plan to rescue her without raising an alarm was out the window. He crept down the corridor and crouched at the end of an ornate balustrade, which partitioned the landing above a sweeping staircase down to the main level. Voices were wafting up from below and he strained to comprehend what was being said.
Turino’s baritone thundered above the others. His stentorian volume was intentional; it was his way of keeping Kismet abreast of developments. The mafia leader was presently stalling by making outrageous demands of his Colombian hosts. The thin voices of the men giving answers suggested that the dark monk was not present; there was still a chance to pull this off.
“I’m through with your games,” Turino roared. “If my granddaughter isn’t standing in front of me in two minutes, I’m walking out of here.”
Kismet’s frown deepened. He could just make out two of the Colombian’s conversing in Spanish. “Bring the girl out to the top of the stairs.”
Kismet scrambled back from the banister. So Capri was upstairs. But now he had about ninety seconds in which to find her and escape, at which point the alarm would be sounded. He swore under his breath and glanced at the uniform doors that lined the hallway. Reasoning that her kidnappers were too lazy to drag her unconscious form any farther than they had to, he crept to the door closest to the landing. There was a deadbolt lock on the door, but when he tried the lever the latch yielded and he hastened into the darkened room. In the instant before he closed the door, ambient light from without illuminated a motionless form, bound and gagged, resting against a wall. He had found her, but how long before the Colombians found him? He needed a diversion, something-anything-to distract the man presently ascending the steps.
Then it hit him. He dug out the cell phone, and without a second thought, punched the send button.
In the instant in which Turino abruptly announced that he was done waiting and turned toward the door, two Lincoln Continentals filled with heavily armed men, each fiercely loyal to the Family, burst through the wrought iron main gate in a shower of sparks and an explosion of gunfire. Although the Colombians in the gatehouse were armed with semi-automatic assault rifles and machine pistols, the Mafiosi had the element of surprise on their side. The gate guards went down under a hail of .38 and .44 caliber rounds without getting off a shot or making any kind of call for help.
Nevertheless, the thunder of gunfire echoed across the estate, raising the alarm as effectively as a klaxon. Negron’s men, wherever they were on the property, came instantly alert and brought their weapons to the ready, looking for someone to kill. On the steps inside the house, the man coming up to retrieve Capri paused and looked back to his immediate superior for further guidance. In those few indecisive seconds, Turino reached the front door, where he drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from an ankle holster and broke into a run. The Colombians managed to throw off their confused hesitancy and rushed to stop him, but the moment they crossed the threshold, Turino’s limousine skidded to a halt in front of the steps, and the mobster’s confederates emerged with weapons cocked and locked. The war had begun.
Kismet sliced Capri’s bonds and removed the gag before trying to rouse her. He had no way of knowing if his premature signal to Turino had accomplished the sole purpose of distracting the man coming up the stairs, but there was no mistaking the sound of gunshots, both in the distance and nearby. As he shook the unconscious girl’s shoulder with his left hand, the Glock was fixed in his right.
She came awake in a narcotic stupor, alternately drowsy, shivering and nauseous. Her lethargy left Kismet feeling frustrated and helpless. “Capri, honey, wake up. We’re in trouble here.”
“Who…?”
“It’s Nick. You’ve got to pull it together, Capri. I need you back on your feet.”
Her reply was still groggy. “Nick… Kismet? I was… what happened?”
“Long story. The short version is that you were kidnapped and I’m here to rescue you.” He clenched his teeth to dam his rising ire. “Can you stand?”
He could feel her shaking in his grasp, but she answered in the affirmative. He guided her to the balcony doors and pushed through out into the night. The noise of gunfire was muted on the oceanward side of the house. Kismet approached the parapet cautiously, but there was no activity below. “I’m going to lower you down, okay?”
She nodded dumbly. Evidently the soporific in her bloodstream had left her numb to fear and anxiety. He lifted her onto the banister rail then grasped her forearms. At the last instant, she jerked like a live wire in his hands and slipped free, but Kismet has already lowered her to where she was only a couple feet above the manicured lawn and the springy grass gently received her without so much as a stumble. Kismet landed beside her then immediately caught her hand and steered her toward the woods. They had almost reached the dense forest when a new noise cut through the night: dogs.
Kismet snapped a quick glance over his shoulder. Four sinewy shapes bolted from the front of the house, emitting sharp barks and low growls as they ran. Their lean silhouettes and dark coats marked them as Dobermans, a fierce but loyal German breed and cousin to the beefier, but similarly colored Rottweiler. Dobermans were often used by police and security forces as patrol dogs, and as such were trained to attack. Yet it was not the dogs Kismet was most worried about, but rather their human handlers, who were no doubt closely observing where the canines were going. He debated making a stand, shooting the dogs as they charged, but thought better of it; he’d probably miss, and the shots would just draw more attention to their presence. But one thing was certain: if they went into the forest, the dogs would run them down.
“Change of plans!” He turned so abruptly that Capri, still clinging to his left hand, was whipped violently onto the new course. They now moved parallel to the wooded area, toward a cluster of small structures. Kismet racked his brain to remember which was the one he wanted. Meanwhile, the dog pack was closing. He decided the closest one was good enough.
As with the main residence, faux medieval was the dominant theme for the satellite buildings. A heavy door of vertical planks, studded with wrought iron strap hinges, secured the structure to which they now hastened. Kismet counted down his steps and when he reached zero, launched himself feet first at the door. The solid oak bounced him back without yielding a millimeter. He rebounded, landing on his feet, and whirled, with the Glock in one hand and his kukri in the other, to face the inevitable onslaught.
“Nick!” Capri screamed.
He ignored her. With four ferocious slavering beasts about to rip into them, the last thing he needed was to have to keep the nearly catatonic journalist apprised of every little development.
“Nick, it’s open!”
The words sank in with agonizing slowness, and his mute disbelief would have proved fatal if Capri had not grasped his elbow and yanked him through the open portal. He recovered his senses enough to slam the door shut and throw the heavy slide bolt. He could hear the Dobermans scratching at the planks.
“It wasn’t locked,” she explained in a more subdued voice.
He shook his head in amazement. “Looks like I owe you one.”
She offered a wry smile. Her eyes were still slightly glazed, but she seemed otherwise lucid. “I think it’s more like this evens the score, but if you want, you can buy me a drink later and explain just what the hell is going on. Just tell me one thing: is it Prometheus?”