René let out a cry, his fingers clutching his rib cage. Muted sobs shuddered his shoulders.
Then he straightened up. His hands fell away. In his palm a flattened slug.
Evan’s head swam with impossibilities — René’s vampiric experiments had made him bulletproof? But then logic kicked in. Images assembled slowly in his mind, the way René’s jacket never wrinkled, how the fabric seemed to buckle rather than fold.
The suit was bulletproof.
Over the years Evan had heard of civilian clothing built with the same carbon nanotubes used in flexible body armor. And now he’d wasted his last bullet firing into an impenetrable navy plaid coat.
René coughed, doubling over and clutching his ribs. He glanced at the vast opening blown through the rear wall a few feet away. Grimacing, he forced himself upright.
Evan cast aside the empty Kimber and advanced on him.
Still holding his ribs, René hobbled for the hole.
Evan had only taken his first step when he heard movement behind him. Xalbador stumbled through the rear doorway; the explosion had blasted him right across the threshold into the hall. He looked ragged, dragging one foot. Blood crusted his earlobes, and he was making unintelligible noises. The Kalashnikov dangled around his shoulder from its strap.
With an injured arm, he tried to tug the AK up to aim at Evan. The barrel lifted a few inches, firing into the floor past the tips of Xalbador’s boots. He struggled to support the gun with his other hand, to raise it higher and bring Evan into the sights.
Evan halted in the middle of the ballroom, Xalbador behind him, René ahead. Xalbador managed to heft the gun closer to horizontal. The next burst chewed up the floorboards midway between him and Evan. The recoil knocked the AK from Xalbador’s hands. He clawed at it, drawing it up again from the strap.
Instinct surged in Evan to go for René. But if he did, he’d be leaving himself exposed, and Xalbador looked to be seconds away from steadying the AK.
Wheezing, René reached the edge of the crumbled wall. He cast a panicked look back at Evan and then slipped outside.
Evan turned and ran for Xalbador. Sweat greased the narco’s face. Biting his lower lip, Xalbador struggled to fight the gun back into position. His damaged arms couldn’t sustain the weight. As Evan closed in, the muzzle came up crooked, firing wildly to the side.
Evan kicked the gun free. Xalbador charged him, coming over the top of him, beating at his back with bony elbows. Evan held him low around the waist in a football tackle, Xalbador’s big gold belt buckle grinding his cheek. Gathering his legs beneath him, Evan unhooked the belt and reared back. He kicked Xalbador’s hip while tearing at the buckle, spinning the guard into an off-kilter 180, a string-pull top being launched.
Before Xalbador could reorient himself, Evan whipped the rodeo belt buckle at his face, clipping his chin. As Xalbador reeled back, Evan threaded the belt through the buckle, slung the makeshift noose over his head, and ripped him off his feet. Xalbador got a hand beneath the band of leather, his legs churning for traction.
Evan shot a glance at the blown-out back wall, his apprehension mounting. How many steps had René taken toward freedom by now? Twenty? Thirty?
Xalbador jackhammered himself back into Evan, and they tripped over a protruding floorboard, sprawling in opposite directions. Xalbador flung the belt off from around his head, but already Evan was on him, arm drawn back for the kill blow.
Electricity sparked at Evan’s neck, the charge knocking him off Xalbador. He convulsed on the floor, fresh-fallen snow icing his cheek. Twitching, he clawed at the shock collar.
Xalbador sat up, aiming the transmitter at Evan, his finger depressing the button.
When the explosion had thrown Evan across the vault, the bunched trash liner must have pulled free from beneath one of the contact points. Pain radiated, grinding through his collarbones, his ribs, the base of his skull. He forced himself to focus through the static dancing across his eyes, willing his body to move. A moment later his legs listened, scissor-kicking him into a spin on the floor, one boot weakly striking Xalbador’s arm. It was enough to dislodge the transmitter from Xalbador’s grip.
The jolt in Evan’s neck subsided. Snowflakes blew across his face, no salve for the burn circling his throat. Somewhere through the clouds of dust and ash, he registered the dogs’ barks. They sounded louder.
Louder was not good.
Evan shoved himself onto all fours, crawling toward the AK-47, his knees and hands skidding on the snow-slick floorboards. Behind him he sensed Xalbador rising, stumbling the opposite way after the fallen transmitter. Evan pulled himself forward with one hand, using the other to try to stuff the trash liner back into place. He had to put Xalbador down and get after René.
Evan got one hand on the AK when the shock hit. The pain was blinding, blurring his vision. He rolled onto his back, dragging the gun across his chest.
Xalbador strode toward him, pointing the transmitter. The first shock electrocuted Evan’s fingers, knocking his hand off the collar. The stinging intensified, lancing through his gums, searing his eye sockets. Evan dug deep through the pain, trying to get his brain to speak to his hands and make them obey.
He got them to clamp the gun. He could feel his mouth stretched Joker wide. His grip trembled, jogging the AK back and forth. Sweat drenched his face. Electricity crackled through his neck, a drumroll of needle points.
But he didn’t let go.
Xalbador quickened his step, rushing for Evan.
Across the ballroom the Dobermans spilled through the wreckage of the outer wall, sleek shadows coated with snow. Their heads oriented toward Evan, noses twitching, bat ears spiked.
Evan told his hands to firm the weapon. He told his arms to raise it. The tip of the AK wagged back and forth. He willed it another inch upward as Xalbador neared.
The dogs’ claws scrabbled across the wet floor.
Pain filled Evan’s head, turning the air opaque. He tried to see through the soup, tried to aim at Xalbador’s growing shape. His hands vibrated around the stock, the trigger.
Xalbador yelled, leaping for Evan.
Evan lanced bullets up his chest and tore the carotid right out of his neck. Xalbador landed in a heap at Evan’s feet, the transmitter skidding across the floor.
The circle of flame around Evan’s neck relented.
He hauled in a screeching breath, tasting oxygen for the first time in what seemed like days.
The Dobermans surged across the bodies toward Evan. For a second he considered shooting them so he could rush after René, but they were dogs and even bad dogs deserved the benefit of the doubt.
He dropped the AK, lunged for the transmitter. One of the Dobermans latched on to the cuff of his jeans, whipping his head back and forth. Evan kicked at him, twisting to grab the transmitter. The second dog landed on his chest. Evan barely had time to get an arm under the slender chin. Jaws snapped inches from his face, flecks of saliva spattering him. Even through the icy draft, he felt the heat of the dog’s breath. The first dog tore at his cuff, rattling the heel of his boot against the floor.
The fangs brushed Evan’s cheek. Holding off the jaws, he thumbed buttons on the transmitter blindly. At last he hit the red one, the shock collar unlatching from around his neck and sliding onto his chest.
Mustering what strength he could, he hurled the dog off. Snatching the open shock collar at the hinge, he wielded it like a weapon, the contact points aimed outward. The dog gathered himself and leapt. Evan jammed the collar into the dog’s open mouth and hit the shock button on the transmitter.
The dog twisted in midair, a fish breaking water, its yelp carrying up to the high ceiling and bouncing down again. His paws barely touched the hardwood before he bolted out of the ballroom, galloping for the safety of the hall. Leaning forward, Evan jabbed the live collar to the top of the other dog’s head, and the dog shot backward, releasing Evan’s cuff.