Beating Ruby (29 page)

He didn’t react to her threat, just looked straight ahead at me, and his lips pursed. I realized that seconds ago, Alex had made a similar face. As March would later teach me, there are a few things a gentleman should never forget when getting ready for work: a small knife strapped to your ankle; mini antibacterial wipes in your pocket—that one might have been a matter of personal taste; and, of course, a couple of steel pins in your cuffs, in case of an emergency. Even then, getting rid of hinged handcuffs remained a somewhat tedious business, especially under watch. Nothing more annoying than having to interrupt your efforts constantly. Thank God, Sahar’s evil little show did a great job capturing her audience’s attention . . .

In any case, she hadn’t expected March to grab the hammer from her, with a right hand that should have been still properly handcuffed behind his back. He didn’t strike her, though; Alex did. Here again, I’m pretty sure she hadn’t anticipated receiving a brutal punch in the face at the same time that the hammer flew across the room and rammed between Baldie’s eyes. His head was thrown back under the force of the impact, blood splattered on me, on the floor, and I felt his grip around my arms weaken as he tumbled backward into the tub.

The whole thing had occurred in the space of a heartbeat, and the three remaining men in the room looked completely disoriented for a couple of seconds at the sight of their dead colleague’s upper body sinking into the reddened water, while Sahar sat on her ass and clutched her jaw with a loud wail. I knew from prior experience that those two seconds were more time than March needed to start a bloodbath. I heard Alex yell for me to get down. I crawled as best I could as someone started firing, and the last thing I saw clearly was March taking a silenced gun from the younger guy, who lay on the ground, his own hunting knife planted in his bloody throat.

I guess Sahar and her goons had missed another critical point. Here in this confined space, and with their colleagues on the other side of a closed door, it wasn’t March trapped with them—it was them trapped with March . . . and Alex, who had gotten rid of his remaining handcuff bracelet and helped himself to Baldie’s gun as well. By then, it was too late for the two remaining guards. There were more gunshots, one of the guys was hit in the stomach with some kind of sharp barrel-making tool, and it was over.

Loud thumps echoed on the other side of the door, making it tremble and creak. I figured the rest of Sahar’s men were trying to come to the rescue. Either March or Alex had turned the iron key in the door’s ancient bar lock, momentarily blocking access to the cellar. I saw Sahar crawl on the floor, trying to reach for the key and unlock the door. I scrambled toward her, pulling on one of her ankles to stop her. Her other leg flew to kick me, and I rolled away just in time to avoid getting stabbed in the face with a five-inch heel. Alex saw us and lunged at Sahar, shoving her away from the door while March picked up his bulletproof jacket off the floor and threw it on me.

Blood pumped so fast in my veins that I thought I was seconds away from heart failure. I so wished there’d been time for him to hug me, tell me everything was going to be okay, but someone shot repeatedly into the door’s aged wood with an automatic rifle and it burst open, several men barging in with a terrible din. I curled up in my corner, shielding myself under March’s jacket, and saw little of the chaos that followed.

There were gunshots, screams, the sounds of bodies being rammed against the walls. I only peeked a few times, but all I caught were scenes I’d rather forget: Alex wrestling with one of Sahar’s guards, the muscles in his forearms straining as he drowned the guy in the tub’s reddish water with loud, sickening bubbling sounds; then knees, knees that dropped to the ground before the rest of the body followed, and wide-open, teary eyes gazing at me. A guard was dying, a pool of dark blood growing on the ground under his chest, and he was watching me. Or was he already dead? Part of me knew that this was an ill time for sentimentalism, but I couldn’t help the chill that spread through my body, carrying a wave of nausea.

When March and Alex finally helped me up, the room spun for a while. I eventually looked around. There were now eight, maybe nine bodies on the ground. So much for March’s retirement projects. Cries and barking sounds reached us from a tiny cellar window above us.

I gripped his arm. “Sahar? Where is she?”

“She got away,” Alex said, picking up a magazine and a rifle from one of the dead men.

March’s hands cupped my face, his thumbs wiping dirt from my cheeks. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”
Not really, no.

“Take this.” Alex handed me a semiautomatic pistol.

March glowered at him but made no attempt to take the gun from me. I didn’t want to use it either—and had no idea how to—but I could understand Alex’s decision, given the circumstances. I took it, shoving it in one of March’s jacket pockets.

“They’ll be here soon. We need to go!” he hissed.

We ran through the cellar doorway and into the corridor that led to it. Above our heads, heavy footsteps were already echoing on the floor, along with orders in German. I didn’t understand everything, but I gathered that Sahar wanted me alive to tell her about Thom’s plans, whereas a deep voice discussed the merits of making
“Jagd-Trophäen”
of March and Alex’s heads—that’s hunting trophies, for those of you who chose to have sex in high school rather than taking German.

March shot the lock to one of the corridor’s doors and kicked it open, sending shards of rotten wood flying all around us; Alex and I followed him into a darkened room. This part of the basement was just as humid and moldy, only much more cluttered. Discarded paintings rested against the stone walls, there were spiderwebs and sheet-covered furniture everywhere, along with an incredible amount of bric-a-brac, ranging from dusty tankard-shaped lamps to Dschinghis Khan vinyl discs dating back to the eighties. A pleasant smell of detergent floated in the air, which I connected with an old washing machine, apparently still used to clean those sheets and some worn gardening clothes.

I think the three of us experienced the same sort of relief when it became clear, judging by the narrow windows, that this part of the basement granted access to the gardens. Behind us, though, beams of white light tore through the darkness. Voices. The sound of guns being armed. The lights vanished; I figured they counted on their night goggles to help them.

Alex pulled me against him to hide behind a huge portrait, while March glided toward our assailants like a shadow. I saw him disappear between two sheets, a ghost among ghosts. The men started spreading out in the room, making little hand gestures to each other. One of them walked right past Alex and me, so close I could see the pockets on his combat gear and smell some sort of smoky cologne. A squeak almost escaped me, but Alex’s hand clasped over my mouth before it could come out.

I’m not much of an expert at these things, but by then I more or less understood March’s tactics of choice. For example, he’d often rely on surprise—such as smashing a guy’s face with a hammer to spark the chaos in which he swam like a shark in water. In here, however, outnumbered and with limited visibility, he’d probably wait and let the guards place themselves where he needed them for an optimal shooting angle.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw one of the guards approaching the long sheet hanging from a canopy bed. He hadn’t realized that March stood behind it, right next to the statue. I experienced an odd combined feeling of power and helplessness when I realized this guy would be the first to be shot, no matter what happened. This was like looking into one very dark crystal ball. I knew he was going to die, and he didn’t.

Alex’s hand had let go of my mouth, but all I could produce were shallow intakes of air anyway. A muted thump resounded in the room, at the same time that the man near the statue fell to the ground, as expected. My chest tightened, but I held on to Alex and struggled not to make a sound when the rest of the guard’s teammates started firing relentlessly at the canopy bed. I covered my ears, watching the bed disintegrate into a haze of shredded white fabric and wood splinters. Alex pulled me down and forced me to crouch, to avoid getting hit by a random bullet.

All that shooting was useless anyway. March hadn’t been facing the guard he had killed, he had been on his side, and he’d already flitted farther away, somewhere on the group’s right flank. Unfortunately for those guys, two of them had to reload, and they stopped firing. Not the kind of luxury you can afford when you’re standing less than three feet away from “the South African.”

Across the room, I saw the sheet covering a long table billow slightly, as if caressed by a gentle breeze. Several black holes appeared one after another in the pristine sheet, at the same time that three men fell to the ground. The fourth and last guard took cover behind a wardrobe and started firing in March’s direction, reducing the table to the same shredded mess the canopy bed had been turned into earlier.

The shooting stopped as March’s adversary adjusted his goggles to search the room. He hadn’t noticed us yet. Against me, I felt Alex shift.

“Hey!”

His gun wasn’t silenced, and the single detonation rattled down my spine. The man collapsed before I could fully process that Alex had leaped out from our hiding spot and killed him.

A shadow rushed between a bookshelf and a medieval wooden statue. March appeared. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” he whispered, as we made our way through destroyed furniture and lifeless bodies.

Near the washing machine I had noticed earlier was a small wooden door. March opened it, revealing a dank passage at the end of which the garden’s lights shone bright in the darkness, casting a faint golden hue on the darkened lawn. There was a recess in the stone wall, leading to a small room that was used to store gardening tools and some chemical products. The three of us hid in there, enjoying a brief reprieve until Sahar’s goons found us. Some barking echoed in the distance.

“That could be a problem,” Alex said.

“Two dogs,” March confirmed.

I shrank, shielding myself behind their broad backs in case yet again another overequipped guy popped up, intent on stuffing our heads and hanging them in his living room.

“They took Sahar to safety. Second floor, maybe?” Alex mused.

March nodded. “Possibly.”

“She told me that she had her own nerd ‘up there,
’
” I ventured.

Amazing how those two ignored me while playing super tough pro or whatever. Alex spoke to March, without even sparing me a glance. “Worth a try. What about Island? We can’t leave her alone.”

March turned to Alex and for the first time addressed him as he would have a partner. “Can I entrust her to you while I go entertain these gentlemen?”

“You can.”

Spurred by frustration, I felt my energy come back. I kicked Alex’s leg to finally gain both men’s attention. “No, you won’t! You two have lost your minds!”

“Baby—”

“Biscuit—”

“I’m no one’s baby or biscuit!” I hissed. “And if you’re seriously thinking of taking on the rest of these guys, at least be efficient: do it together. We’re right under the left wing; I could go hide in the greenhouse. It looked empty when we came in, and they’re all focused on the garden and the upper floors. That way, even if they catch you, Sahar still won’t have me.”

I had a point. I could tell by the frowns on their faces.

March shook his head. “It’s too dangerous—”

“You mean,
more dangerous
than following you guys in your shooting spree? Or
more dangerous
than wrestling with dogs and paramilitary clowns on your own out there?” I said with a heartfelt glare.

Alex’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “All right. Once you’re outside, we’ll distract them. Run to your left. Don’t stop; don’t look back. Use your gun if you have to, but mostly, just
stay hidden
.”

“And for the love of God, do
not
try anything!” March added.

In the jacket pocket, my fingers gripped the handle of the semiautomatic pistol. “Got it.”

THIRTY-TWO

Beaks

“This thing is gonna bite us, and we’re all gonna die a horrible death!”

—
Uninvited
, 1988

Honestly, I had no idea Alex was so much into gardening, and when he said he’d distract Sahar’s men, I hadn’t imagined it would involve using a bag of nitrate fertilizer and an old lawn mower’s gas tank to construct a homemade bomb.

It did work, though.

There certainly was a lot of distraction when the powerful explosion destroyed most of the lobby’s windows and sent half a dozen men flying to the ground, some severely burned. I covered my ears with my hands and raced toward the greenhouse door without looking back. It was unlocked. I tiptoed in and knelt behind some kind of exotic plant in the darkness, watching the wreckage of Alex’s bomb burn on the lawn, my breath coming in short pants.

He and March had benefitted from this “distraction” as well. Gunshots had started to resound near the manor’s entrance, and whatever they were doing, I just prayed they’d make it out alive. I could hear windows breaking, men screaming, dogs barking—no doubt after Alex’s balls for unearthing some of the bones they had hoarded. I sat crouched in soft earth, shivering with every distant detonation, and reconsidering my promise to not leave the safety of the greenhouse. I knew I’d be useless on such a battlefield, though. I curled into a ball and waited.

After a few minutes, I gathered March and Alex had made it inside, since the garden had become quiet, and the gunshots now seemed to be coming from inside the manor. I had been too focused on the rampage outside to notice until now, but a variety of strange sounds echoed in the deserted greenhouse. Some rustling, water splashing—and something halfway between cooing and groaning.

I got up and looked around the dark jungle of plants and flowers surrounding me. The noises seemed to be coming from the other end of the greenhouse. I padded toward their source, stopping every now and then to listen for potential danger, every sense on high alert. As I walked through what I recognized as rosebushes, the splashing sounds became louder. I inched closer, until my knees met something hard. Glass. I laid my hands on the glass balcony circling a huge pool. Maybe the sounds came from some sort of fountain? No. Something was moving in there, alternatively wriggling and slithering. I squinted my eyes, making out one, two, then an entire group of slick, dark shapes, the size of small dogs.

I bent over the balcony to take a better look . . . and nearly fell into the water when all the lights came on. Once I had recovered my balance, I got a better view of the strange creatures frolicking down there. Platypuses. Dozens of them, swimming, playing in a well-landscaped pool, surrounded by nice flat rocks, plants, small trees. I looked up at the ceiling in mild panic. Had someone turned on the lights accidentally? Had I been found?

“Stay where you are, bitch!”

Sahar.
I stepped away from the balcony slowly. Indeed, standing in a small clearing, among banana trees and exotic flowers, was her curvy silhouette. Her black and blue hair was a mess, the silvery dress had been torn in several places, and she was pointing a gun at me. I gulped. I could see no guards with her. Maybe March and Alex had wreaked such havoc in the manor that she had lost her personal guard in the process? Or had she been looking for me? Over her head, in a corner of the ceiling, the blinking of a red light I hadn’t noticed before tipped me off: there were goddamn security cameras in that greenhouse!

“You’re coming with me,” she announced, her index finger tightening on the trigger.

I thought of my own gun, still tucked in March’s jacket pocket. She’d kill me if I tried to aim it at her, right? Without thinking, I staggered back and reached in the pocket. Either she saw the gun or she guessed its presence, because she marched toward me and the pool.

“I told you to stay the fuck where you are! Pull out the gun—slowly, or I’m blowing your face off!”

I knew that technique—I had witnessed March use it on other guys. She was shouting at me to increase my stress levels and make me do something stupid. It worked. I pulled out the small black pistol and held it out by the barrel in what I hoped was a gesture of appeasement.

“Throw it in the pool!”

“W-What if one of the platypuses gets smacked on the head and—”

“Stop
fucking
with me or you’ll be their next meal!”

Fear thrummed in my ears and temples, making my skull hurt. I threw the gun as I had been instructed, hearing it land in the pool with a splash. A few platypuses grunted at the intrusion. No, it was more like . . .
growls
. “D-Did you say they were going to eat me?”

She cocked the gun with a sneer. “They’re carnivorous.”

“I know . . . they eat worms and shrimp—”

“Look closer,” she ordered.

I glanced at the pool, never daring to lose sight of the gun Sahar was still pointing at me.

Shit.
Bones. Or more exactly ribs, and possibly a femur. There were goddamn
human bones
lying on the rocks. And a shoe. I clenched my fists as hard as I could in an effort not to tremble.

She let out a cruel laugh. “It took them a week to completely finish Van Kreft.”

“But th-they’re not supposed to have teeth! It’s just the spurs, right?”

She shrugged. “Van Kreft said it was an incredibly rare subspecies. They were his passion, and Wille was kind of obsessed with them too.”

I racked my brain for memories of my dinner with Wille. I think he had talked about ornithology and Australian endemic species, but I had been zoning out at the time. I should have listened. I so should have. Because I was now facing the horrifying truth: there
was
such a thing as killer platypuses. I knew about the poisonous spur on their leg already, how a single sting could cause unbearable pain that would last for months, even years. But teeth. These monsters had killed their own master and eaten him! And eaten his shoe too.

“You said that it took a week for them to finish Van Kreft. Was he . . . alive?”

Sahar sighed dispassionately. “No. The venom killed him after a few hours. But their teeth are really small, so it takes a while for them to eat their prey. I’m planning on having them trashed. I prefer sharks.”

Sh-sharks?
. . . By then I was completely petrified, and my breathing had all but stopped. My knees were shaking, and I dared neither run away nor follow her as she had requested. All I could see was a choice between getting shot or getting eaten alive by a pack of bloodthirsty platypuses.

“Now come here—we don’t have all night,” Sahar ordered.

There was nothing rational about my decision. But then again, was there anything rational about this whole situation? My legs stopped shaking for a second, which was all I needed to flee in terror. Of course she shot at me, as I ran along the pool’s balcony and toward the greenhouse’s garden door. With each detonation resounding behind me, I envisioned myself collapsing to the ground in a pool of my own blood.

She was taller than me, with a more powerful build, and even as she swore and almost stumbled because of her heels, I could feel her closing on me. I registered a whiff of overly sweet perfume and acrid sweat, and her body rammed into mine, flattening me to the ground.

Her nails dug into my sides, my arms, and I just fought back for my life, driven by pure adrenaline. I kicked and scraped and bit and screamed, wiggling under her weight, batting her hands every time she tried to pin me. She lost the gun at some point; I saw it fly and land somewhere on our right, near the pool. I rolled away and crawled to reach it, my arms straining desperately toward its barrel. Sahar was quicker, dashing to pick it up and aim it at my head.

She leaned against the balcony with a smirk, her breath coming in short pants. “I can’t wait until you’ve talked . . . so I can finally get rid of you.”

This statement triggered my most primal instincts. I was cornered; she’d torture me and kill me anyway. Nothing mattered but survival. Under my right palm, I felt for one of the many decorative stones peppering the greenhouse’s ground. When my fingers met a particularly large one, I grabbed it. With the war cry of a prehistoric beast, I jumped to my feet and threw it at Sahar, at the same time that she fired.

The bullet missed me, landing in a banana tree a few feet behind. My stone, however, hit her square on the forehead, and to my horror she staggered backward. I saw her eyes widen as she lost her balance, her hand reaching out for me in a silent call for help. My brain told me to grab on to her fingers, in spite of everything, but my feet remained glued to the ground under the effect of stress. She fell over the balcony and into the pool.

There was this huge splashing sound, her yelp of surprise, then, right afterward, the ghastly swarming of an entire pack of hungry platypuses charging her. I managed to overcome my fear and ran toward the balcony. There are no accurate words to describe what I witnessed: Sahar’s face looking up at me, like reddish putty distorted by a grimace of agony, her screams of anguish, all the blood tainting the once clear water as the creatures plunged their—admittedly small—teeth into her flesh. I feared it might already be too late, but I decided to help. I couldn’t watch this abomination without doing anything. I removed March’s jacket, and, under it, what was left of the dress one of her men had cut in half: a damp rag. With great caution, I approached the balcony and threw the garment in her direction, holding on to the end of one sleeve and hoping she’d manage to catch the other so I could pull her up. She couldn’t even seem to reach her end of this improvised rope. I watch her struggle toward it, one of her arms rising weakly out of the water.

Now, I’d like to stop right here and seize the opportunity to praise the remarkable training provided by both the Lions and the CIA to their professionals. When March and Alex burst into the greenhouse via a second door, guns in hand, they demonstrated a level of focus and self-control that was simply superhuman. They saw me half-naked trying to pull Sahar out of a pool of berserk platypuses trying to devour her, and they barely blinked before running to our aid with cold-blooded efficiency. March jumped on the rocks and pulled Sahar out of the pool, while Alex shot twice into the water to disperse the platypuses—for some reason he didn’t seem to want to harm them.

March cradled Sahar’s trembling, bruised body in his arms and hauled her back to safety, assisted by Alex. They laid her on the ground. She had bites everywhere, but also large patches of crimson, swollen flesh on her arms and legs where the platypuses had stung her. She had stopped screaming—probably no longer could—and emitted a series of whimpers, lolling her head softly.

March placed a hand on her forehead. “She needs medical attention. When will they be here?”

“Less than an hour or so,” Alex said, before turning to me. “What about you? Are you all right?”

“Yes . . . just cold. Who are you talking about?”

March examined my body anxiously—perhaps looking for platypus bites—as he spoke. “Mr. Morgan was able to contact his colleagues stationed in Geneva. They’re coming to clean up.”

“And we found something you’ll like in Sahar’s bedroom,” Alex added with a wink.

March’s lips quirked. “Indeed. Let’s take her to the second floor with us. We’re going to need your help, biscuit.”