Nothing. We’re alone. Which really means that I’m alone, because I’m pretty sure this guy is dead.
Crap, crap, crap!
This was not part of the plan. I could try dragging him away to an alley somewhere, but I won’t have time to clean up the blood. Do I go back, find a way to break into Avery and Lin’s building, knock on their door, start over fresh in the morning? Or do I continue on, really turn this into a suicide mission, doing everything in my power to kill Lecter tonight?
I go on, grabbing only the dead guy’s gun, which thankfully clattered away in front of him, several feet out of range of the blood.
I leave the body, dashing into the night, being more careful, peeking around corners before turning them. The second quadrant disappears behind me and I don’t stop to observe the patrols in the third quadrant, because at any second someone might raise the alarm that there’s a dead Enforcer in the streets and a crazed, disgruntled, chipless citizen on the loose.
It might be luck, it might be fate, or it might just be that the entire patrol had to take a bathroom break, but whatever it is, I don’t see a single Enforcer in the third quadrant.
And just like Avery said, there was no chance I’d miss Lecter’s house. House is a loose term—it’s more like a mansion or palace. Not quite as grand as the Nailin Palace—after all, it’s still as sterile and white as everything else in the city—the presidential quarters are surrounded by a head-high brick wall—easily climbable—with a tall, glass sheet above it—impossible to climb.
I creep along the wall, looking for a break, a gate, something.
There’s nothing on the side I’m on, so I turn the corner and head down the next section of wall. Ahead there’s a blank spot in the wall. An entrance?
Tucking my stolen pistol under the waistband in the small of my back, I stride toward the gap, like it’s the most normal thing to be doing in the middle of the night. When I risk a quick glance through the entrance, I see a guard station. There are three guards this time, each toting black weapons.
Things are about to get even messier.
I turn the corner, advancing without caution, like I belong. One of the guard’s shouts and then there are three guns pointed at my head. “Hiya, boys,” I say.
“How the hell did you get onto the streets?” one of them asks, a tall brute with a chest like an iron statue. There’s no way I’ll be able to take him one on one.
“A little gift from Borgie,” I say, rolling the made up pet name for Lecter off my tongue like syrup. “He made it possible so I could pay him a little visit.” Although I know I’m just playing a role, my own words make me want to spew up the half-dinner I ate.
“No one told us,” the second guard says, a guy with a face so wide it almost looks stretched.
“He doesn’t always tell us,” the third guard says, his dark skin like chocolate, his white teeth flashing with each word. It’s music to my ears, not that I’m surprised. I’d expect a man like Lecter to take advantage of every last bit of his power. Maybe he likes the young ones the best. The only question left: Will they buy it?
“Lecter’s not even here,” Iron-Chest says. “Something happened. He rushed off with his guards.”
My heart sinks. Now I’ve got myself a real problem. How to talk my way out of here, away from these guys, who are still pointing their guns at me, although they’ve dropped them a little, more toward my legs. But should I talk my way out?
“We’ll send someone to escort you home, ma’am,” Wide-Jaw says, the polite one in the group.
I make a decision. Screw getting away from here. I’m only going to have so many chances. “Maybe I could wait inside,” I say. “Borgie won’t like it if he doesn’t get a chance to see me tonight.”
White-Teeth’s mouth flashes open to speak, but I hurry on. “I could even keep you boys company. We could take turns.” Vomit, vomit, spew, vomit. I let my thoughts hurl—no pun intended—through my head, but my face is relaxed, my lips pouted out slightly, as I look at them through lowered lashes.
“Ma’am, I think we’d better get you home,” Wide-Jaw says.
I close my eyes. Either I have zero sex appeal, or Lecter’s chosen, trained, and paid his guards well, because these guys aren’t falling for it. Which leaves only one option. Brute force.
The moment Wide-Jaw steps within my circle of reach, I snap a kick hard and high, rocking his monstrous jaw back, his teeth clacking together as his open mouth bites shut. One of the other guards shouts something, but I’m not listening because I’m already drawing my pistol, aiming it at Iron-Chest’s bulging left pec, pulling the trigger…
BOOM!
The gunshot rocks the silence like an explosion, and even as he’s raising his gun he’s falling back, a red hole in his chest, which apparently isn’t made of iron after all.
I dive to the side, because I know—I know—that when you fight three guys, the one to be the most worried about is the third.
Bullets whine through the air around me, ricocheting off of the brick wall and the cement walkway. I scrape against the ground, the impact stinging my arms and legs, feeling a particularly sharp burst of pain where Avery stabbed me with a freaking fork earlier, but I ignore it because it’s nothing.
Turning, I fire three shots, each of them into White-Teeth’s gut. Even as his eyes widen and his mouth opens to reveal his pearly whites, he raises his arm to take a final shot. I’m a sitting duck and it’s all I can do to turn my body, hoping to get hit somewhere that won’t kill me, like an arm or a leg, just not the head…
There’s a thud. No gunshot. Just a thud.
Slowly, I roll over. White-Teeth is down, his fingers still closed around the trigger, even though they didn’t have enough strength left to pull it.
Nearby, Wide-Jaw is groaning and rolling around. Blood’s pouring from his mouth, from his teeth—which are probably broken and shattered—and his tongue—which he might’ve bitten off.
Images of bodies…children and men and women…
Lying dead in the desert…
Grinning soldiers, mugging for the camera…
I shoot Wide-Jaw in the head.
And then, even as voices and lights rain down from the building above me, I run past the guard station and dart along the side of the structure, into a narrow space between the outer wall and Lecter’s house.
In the shadows, I stop, because I’m shaking and breathless and freaking crying uncontrollably, my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. What did I just do? When did I become a cold-blooded killing machine? Is this what my mother and Tristan’s mother were hoping for when they chose me? Is this what my father intended when he trained me?
Back against the wall, I slide to the ground, trying to get control, trying to justify my actions. There are bad people and good people. Those were bad people, right? Do I know that for sure? Do I know anything for sure? But they were polite and they didn’t even try to take me up on my lewd offer…
Tristan. His name pops into my head and at first I cry harder, but then I grab onto him. He’s something I know for sure, and if he was here, I know he’d trust that what I did to those men was necessary. Anyone carrying guns for Lecter is undeserving of mercy. I use the back of my hand to wipe away the tears, grit my teeth and clench my fists and pull every last muscle in my body tight.
I. Get. Control.
There are voices in the front now. Scared shouts and calls for help. They’ve discovered the bodies. They’ll be searching the premises. I have to find somewhere to hide.
And Lecter’s not even here. Where could he possibly be? What could be so urgent that he’d rush off into the night? Did they find the Tri-Tribes? Will we get an announcement about another massacre in the morning?
I have to believe we won’t.
Above me, the building rises three stories. Those searching for me will check the lower floors first; the higher I can get the better. I start to climb, starting with a windowsill and then grabbing onto a pipe, tightening my feet around it and pulling myself up. My muscles are still burning from all the cleaning I did this morning and my arm hurts like Avery is still jabbing it with the fork, but all of that is just pain. I bite it away.