She paused before the door. Her heart was pounding. You. She looked at it. Someone was inside. Whoever killed the servants. A ticking human bomb. Growing anger made her feel dizzy. She carefully moved to one side and raised her gun.
“I really wouldn’t do that,” said a sad voice right behind her left ear.
“Put the gun down and turn around slowly.”
She froze, then dropped the pistol and turned around. “Why?” she asked.
A nondescript man leaned against the wall behind her. He was unshaven, and although he was wearing a suit—standard for a courier—his tie was loose. He looked tired, but also content. “It’s about time,” he said.
His gun, Miriam realized. It was pointed at her stomach. She couldn’t identify it. Bizarrely complex, it sprouted handles and magazines and telescopic sights seemingly at random. It looked like a movie prop, but something in his manner said he had complete confidence in it. The sights glowed red, a dot tracking across her chest.
“It’s about time,” she echoed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The gunman grinned humorlessly. “The boss told me a lot about you. You’re the new countess, aren’t you? He’s got tapes, you know. And a disk.”
She moved toward him, froze as the gun came up to point at her head. “You were responsible for what’s in the cellar—”
“No, actually.” He shook his head. “Not me. He’s…Matthias likes to hunt. He stalks wild animals. Stalks his enemies, too, looking for a weak point to bring them down.” He looked worried for a moment, then he grinned. “He showed me the tapes he took of you. Looking for a weak spot.”
Her vision hazed over for a moment, turning black with a mixture of rage and the worst headache she’d ever experienced. “What do you fucking want?” she demanded.
“Simple. I’m the rear guard. Your arrival means the Clan rescue party is on its way, doesn’t it?” She didn’t say anything, but his grin widened just the same. “Knew it. You’re my ride out of here, y’know? Little pony. We’ll just be leaving by the back steps, then blow the house down. And I’ll ride out on you. There’s a meeting spot, ready and surveyed and waiting for me. Nice pony.”
“Listen,” she said, trying to focus through her blinding headache, “have you actually done anything for Matthias? Killed anyone? Planted any bombs?”
The gunman stopped smiling. “Shut the fuck up. Now,” he snarled. “Kneel! Move!”
Miriam knelt slowly. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Her head pounded and her stomach, even though it was empty, seemed about to make a bid for freedom through her mouth. “Whatever he paid you—” she began.
“‘S’ not money. Fucking Clan bitch. It’s who we are. Got it, yet?”
“You and Matthias?”
“That’s right.” He kicked the gun away. “Keep your hands on the floor. Lean forward. Slowly put your wrists together in front. I’ll kill you if you fuck up.” He carefully kept the gun on her as he pulled a looped cable tie out of a back pocket. “Nice pony, we’re going to go riding together. Over to Boston, and then maybe out west to the ranch to see some of my friends. You won’t like it there, though.”
“Shoot me and you won’t get away alive,” she heard someone say in the distance, through a throbbing cloud bank of darkness.
“What the fuck.” He yanked the cable tie tight around her wrists. “You think I give a shit about that, you bitch? Live fast, die young.” He grabbed her hair and pulled, and she screamed. “Leave a pretty corpse.”
Miriam tried to stand: Her legs had turned to jelly somewhere along the line. This is crazy, she thought vaguely. Can’t let him blow up the fort with everyone under it, or on the other side—She leaned drunkenly, almost falling over.
“Stand, bitch!” Someone was slapping someone else’s face. Suddenly there was a hand under her armpit. “Fuck, what’s wrong with you?”
“Three jumps, two hours,” she slurred drunkenly.
“Crap.” A door opened and he shoved her forwards. “Fucking get over it or I’ll start on your fingernails. You think your head hurts, you don’t know shit.”
“What do you want?” she mumbled.
“Freedom.” He pushed her toward the low leather-topped sofa opposite Matthias’s desk. “Freedom to travel. Freedom to live away from this fucking pesthole. A million bucks and the wind in my hair. The boss looks after his own. Drop the fort and deliver you and I’ve got it made. Loads of money.”
He pushed her down onto the sofa. “Now you and me are going to sit tight until your friends are over on the other side.” He waved at the CCTV monitor on Matthias’s workstation. “Then I set a timer and we leave by the back door.” He cleared his throat. “Meantime, there’s something I’ve been wondering. Do you give good head?” he inquired, leaning over her.
Something flickered at the edge of Miriam’s vision. She focused past his shoulder, saw the door open and Roland standing there with a leveled pistol. The gunman turned, and something made a noise like a sewing machine, awfully loudly. Hot metal rain, cartridge cases falling. A scream. Miriam kicked out, catching him on one leg. Then the back of his head vanished in a red mist, and he collapsed on top of her.
“Oh Miriam, you really are no good at this!” trilled Olga, “but thank you for drawing his attention! That creep, he makes me so angry…” Then her voice changed: “Dear Lightning Child! What’s happened to Roland?”
“I—” Miriam tried to sit up, but something was pinning her down. Everything was gray. “Where is he?”
“Oh dear.” Olga knelt in the doorway, beside something. Someone.
“Are you wounded?” she asked urgently, standing up and coming toward Miriam. “It was his idea to follow you—”
Miriam finally sat up, shoving the deadweight aside. Strangely, her stomach wasn’t rebelling. “Get. Others. Go across and finish off. I’ll look after him.” Somehow she found herself on the other side of the room, cradling Roland. “He’ll be alright.”
“But he’s—”
She blinked, and forced herself to focus as Olga leaned over her, face white. “He’ll be alright in a minute,” Miriam heard herself explain. “Scalp wounds are always bloody, aren’t they?” Somewhere a door opened and she heard Olga explaining something to someone in urgent tones, something about shock. “Aren’t they?” she asked, still confused but frightened by Olga’s tone. She tried to rub her sore eyes, rendered clumsy by her tied hands, but they were covered in blood. Then Brill rolled up her sleeve and slid a needle into her arm.
“What a mess,” Brill told someone else, before the blessed darkness stifled her screams.
Epilogue
Fourteen of them, you say?” said Inspector Smith, raising an eyebrow.
“Yessir. Nine coves and five queans all went into the shop mob-handed, like.”