Elevator doors above and to my left. They seemed miles away, but I had to go for it. Flailing, knuckles smarting against rungs, I tried to ignore the bullets that tore around me. The cable behind flapped and I knew someone was coming.
Four inches of space at the elevator door, barely enough for my clodhopper boots to find purchase. Another round grazed my calf and the ricochet buried itself into the heel of my boot, almost hurtling me off the ledge into the darkness of the shaft.
There! My fingers found a grip and adrenaline lent me strength, allowing me to force the doors open … and push through … falling into an empty hallway, battered and bleeding. Behind me, the door dimpled outwards with rounds that sounded like hammer blows. I breathed a sigh of relief that it was taking what had been meant for me.
Not much time … All my training kicked in and I rose to my feet, wounds throbbing but almost forgotten. Fear and anger fought for control in equal measure, but it was the voices of every man and woman I had the honor to serve with that spurred me into action: “Get off your ass, you sonofabitch and take the fight to the enemy!”
Right.
A priest is a man of peace as well as a man of God. The teachings of Christ provide the foundation of our beliefs, but I’ve always known that deep down, I could take the life of an evil person if I deemed it necessary and now it seemed very necessary. I’d started with Annabeth, goading her with kindness into becoming angry enough to drop her guard once within reach. Where it would end, well … I wasn’t sure, but I knew it would get bloody.
Behind me the doors to the elevator began to open and a grimy hand thrust through, followed by a shoulder, then a head. A tall man with sallow features … the Sicarius I’d shot in the belly. I guess that skintight outfit had a bulletproof torso. He saw me a split second after I moved, too late to bring his gun to bear. My kick took him in the hip and I shoved as hard as I could, sending him hurtling down the shaft. The doors closed on his shriek of dismay. His chest might have been bulletproof, but it wasn’t splatterproof.
Eyes burning with tears, I turned and ran down the empty hall, every step ringing out the same word: murder … murder … murder …
I knocked on door after door. I kicked and screamed and no one answered or screamed back at me to get lost. For some reason the floor was deserted and the knowledge I was running out of time weighed heavily on me.
Stairs! A way out. Hand on the knob and shoulder to the door, I rammed it open. Shouts echoed from below and the thuds of hurried footsteps came my way up the stairwell. No good. Up, however, seemed clear. I guess I didn’t have a choice.
Thudding up the stairs, one floor then two … and I made the decision to keep going, back to the floor I’d just come from, reckoning they wouldn’t search for me there. Soon, panting and bleeding, I came to what I believed was the floor I had fled. Next to the steel door was a sign that read 53.
I put my ear to the door and heard nothing, so I went through. Nothing. All quiet. Through the door into unfamiliar surroundings. Left or right? I flipped a mental quarter and went left.
Good thing because I quickly came upon blood smell, the source of which was smeared on the wall. I located the suite by the blood still wet on the door handle.
I cursed then crossed myself. The door was locked and I had no key card, but the point became moot because down the hall, around the corner, one more of the Sicarii boys came into view. Options flickered through my mind in less than a second, moments before his eyes would rise to see me standing by the door.
The best option was also the most dangerous, but I was sick of running away. So I ran toward.
Muscles cried in agony and bruised bones added their voices to the cacophony of pain that rang in my ears. The Sicarius looked up as I raced toward him. Almost in slow motion he went for the pistol Velcro-ed to the chest of his black one piece, a look of surprise flitting briefly across his face.
Closer, fifteen feet and his hand reached the pistol.
Ten feet … the weapon ripped free with the sound of paper tearing.
My feet left the carpet as I dove at a dead run, the pistol rising to meet my eyes.
Click.
I hit the man full on, shoulder in his midsection, the pistol with safety on flying from his hand as I drove him backward to land in heap, both of us kicking and scratching, punching and biting.
We rolled, grappling, the Dagger Man’s teeth buried in my shoulder, and I screamed in hot pain as his bicuspids tore into soft tissue. My knee came up, but he expected the play and twisted so I hit his thigh. A calloused knuckle rammed my jaw, followed by an elbow that had me seeing stars. That elbow made a comeback and I turtled, letting it hit the top of my skull. I sagged as my neck compressed and the Sicarius screamed.
I rolled away from the noise as the Sicarius kept at it, holding on to what I assumed was a broken elbow. People always said I was hard-headed and the proof lay moaning on the hallway carpet.
I kept my back to the wall, using it to support me as I stood shakily, every nerve in my body firing at once. The Dagger Man finally came to grips with his pain and also came to his feet, a grimace of hate on his long youthful face.
Sweat stung my eyes as I watched him reach into a pocket with his good hand and pull out a butterfly knife, which he opened one-handed with the ease of constant practice. My foot lashed out but he dodged the halfhearted attack with ease. The assassin might have been injured, but he still had skills.
So I dove for the pistol, hoping that my battered body would prove quick enough. It didn’t. The Sicarius kicked, catching me in the stomach-folding me in half and wrenching my midsection-then he fell on top of my writhing body with thrust a knee to the kidney that momentarily paralyzed my body in torment.
But I had the gun.
He grabbed my arm and through the haze of suffering that clouded my eyes, I saw the light of understanding reach him. Despite his one-handed grip, I was stronger. As breath struggled to enter my lungs, my thumb stroked the safety and I pulled the trigger. Twice.
Blood. Brains. Bone. All sprayed upwards and settled back down to coat my face as the body of the Dagger Man settled on my chest.
Oh, Lord, forgive me.
Sobbing for the dead man, mumbling prayers for his soul, I clumsily searched his body, my tears wetting the black one-piece. My eyes strayed to the small, round holes on his forehead, knowing that the exit wounds had torn the back of his head off. Eventually I found a key card in a hip pocket. No use trying to hide the body, the hall gave plenty of evidence as to what had happened, the walls being decorated in red and pink. Sluggishly, I trod toward the door to the suite. My hands were on fire with pain; metal slivers and friction burns had tattered the palms into raw meat. My blood slicked the pistol, dripping down the barrel.
Heart thumping madly with guilt and relief, I swiped the key card at the door. I needed to get clean. I needed to tend my wounds, needed to rest, if only for a while. The door opened and I stepped inside.
A man stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the night. At the sound of the door shutting behind me, he turned.
Boris smiled.
Oh, hell.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Morgan
“Did I forget to mention that this idea of mine is seriously insane?” I shouted at Cain over the din of the rotors. Fear ate at my guts.