Betrayal (39 page)

Distantly, Penelope heard a vague, one-sided
conversation. “Hurry,” she said in a low voice, and beckoned him as she walked around behind the steps.

“Are you okay?” He ran the rest of the way down, joined her, and with his gaze followed her pointing finger. For a long second, he hung suspended by amazement. Dropping to his knees, he touched the bottle with the same reverence she had shown. “Nonno’s bottle of wine. You found Nonno’s bottle of wine.” He looked at her as if she illuminated his soul.

“I did.”

“Look. It has Massimo’s name on it. But how…” Noah was talking to himself now. “Nonno hid it in the step itself. We looked all over the floor, all over the walls, but we didn’t look
in
the steps. And his note said, ‘up.’ And when it was turned over, it said, ‘dn.’ ” Turning to Penelope, he took her shoulders. “You’ve saved me.” Noah looked into her face, his own features hidden by the shadows of the stairway, and the gleam in his eyes made her heart swell with love.

“Call them,” she said urgently. “Tell the Smits, or the Propovs, or whatever they call themselves. Tell them to come and get it, and remove that damned bomb from your throat.”

“Noah!” Eli called from the top of the stairs. He sounded tense and angry, in the grip of a crisis that had intensified yet again.

Noah turned his head with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Chloë called. She and Brooke were on their way down toward town on our narrow little highway. They saw four people in a car headed this direction, trailed by another car with two people.”

Noah went on alert.

Eli continued. “Both cars were taking the curves too
fast, like they were on a mission. Chloë called Rafe to warn him. Brooke turned back and tracked them.”

Noah and Penelope scrambled out from underneath the stairs.

“Damn it!” he said. Those women were going to get themselves killed.

“The car dropped two people off in a wash that leads into the property. The people remaining in the car gunned their way across the lawn and—” Eli turned and looked toward the front door.

Penelope heard it open.

Eli shouted, “They’re here!”

Chapter 64

N
oah heard a shot.

Nonna screamed.

Eli smacked the side of the upper door, stumbled forward, then tumbled down the stairs.

“Eli!” Noah leaped up the steps, catching Eli halfway down.

Feet thundered above.

Another shot.

Nonna. They’d killed Nonna.

Eli was limp, unconscious, a deadweight in Noah’s arms.

Penelope ran toward the stairs to help.

Noah said, “Hide!”

Absurd. She had nowhere to hide. But he couldn’t stand to see her just die.…

Already he’d lost Nonna.

Nonna, who had loved him his whole life…

And Eli, whose crimson chest bore witness to the fact that the Propovs were shooting to kill. Lifting him, Noah swung around and jumped off the stairs. He deposited his brother out of the way at the edge of the stairs.

Penelope jumped, too, landing next to Eli. She ducked and got under the steps.

Thank God she listened to him. Thank God she was hiding.

Noah looked into her eyes, saw the strength and compassion there. Their hands touched, clung; then Noah released her. He straightened. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs, where he faced his death.

Hendrik stood at the top of the stairs, his Glock held at the ready.

Noah held his arms wide, baring his chest, inviting the shot. “Do it!”

“No way. I’m not letting you off that easy. You’ve got”—Hendrik consulted his watch—“eight minutes before your head blows off. I want to watch you squirm as every second of your life ticks away.” His cold, killer eyes took on a cruel sheen. “But look at you. Isn’t that cute! You tried to disarm your collar.”

Noah took one step up. “How do you know I didn’t succeed?”

“We’ve been listening.” Hendrik laughed with all the pleasure of a man at the height of his powers. “Grieta fixed the microphone. You know she’s good at what she does.”

“Yes. I know.” Noah’s mind raced. When had they fixed the microphone? How much had they heard?

Hendrik took a step down. “You doomed the Di Lucas with your touching confession of your youthful adventures with us. Because of you, we’ll search everyone
down, kill them one by one, until we wipe the blot of your existence from this—”

Liesbeth appeared in the doorway behind him and gave an exasperated sigh. “Stop the melodrama, Hendrik, and move. Let me talk to him.”

Hendrik turned on her. “You’re not in charge anymore, old woman.”

With one large, strong hand, Liesbeth gripped Hendrik on the muscle between his neck and his shoulder.

Hendrik twisted and went down on one knee, his pistol drooping in his hand.

“That was dumb,” Noah said. During the robbery of the famed painting, Noah had seen Liesbeth use her pressure points on servants and security people; they always crumpled. But never had he seen her use one on one of her own.

But then, he’d never heard Hendrik speak to her like that, either.

Hendrik believed the power had shifted.

Liesbeth corrected him. Holding Hendrik helpless, she looked reproachfully at Noah. “Why did you do that? Why did you tell the Di Lucas? I warned you what would happen if you did.”

Noah didn’t know whether she was being deliberately obtuse, or if she put new meaning into the word
clueless
. “I told them because I didn’t want my head to blow off, Mother.”

“Six more minutes!” Hendrik called out.

Liesbeth gave his neck another twist. He writhed and groaned.

Noah kept his gaze at the top of the stairs. If he could get up there fast enough, remove the pistol from Hendrik’s hand, gain control of the situation…

Liesbeth’s gaze shifted to look over his shoulder.

He half turned to see Penelope rising from under the stairway, the bottle of wine in her hand. “Penelope. No,” he said.

Penelope paid no attention to him. Her focus was on Liesbeth and Hendrik. “There’s still time to stop the timer,” she said to them.

“No,” Noah said again. Didn’t she see? Those two wouldn’t make a deal. Not while they held the power.

But Penelope held the bottle sideways on her palms, offering it to the two at the top of the stairs as if they were gods. “Disarm the bomb at Noah’s neck and this is yours.”

Liesbeth let Hendrik go.

Hendrik got to his feet.

Both of them stared at the bottle, eyes agleam with greed.

“That’s it?” Liesbeth pushed past Hendrik and clattered halfway down.

“You’re shitting.” Hendrik’s voice was rich with disbelief—and hope.

It was too late to back away from Penelope’s offer, so Noah said, “You know it’s the right bottle… if you were listening in.”

“We lost transmission.” Hendrik took two steps down. “I guess when you came down to the basement.”

“This is it, the genuine article.” Penelope spoke in a soothing tone. “It was in the staircase.” She retreated, one slow step at a time.

Noah did the same, never looking away from Liesbeth and Hendrik.

As if pulled by a lure, Liesbeth came the rest of the
way down to the basement. “Where was it?” she asked. “Where was the bottle?”

“In the bottom step.” Noah pointed.

Liesbeth looked at the long, narrow open coffin in the bottom step. She turned on Noah, her green eyes sparking with indignation. “How could you not have found it sooner?”

“I didn’t find it at all. Penelope did,” he said.

“You can have it if you’ll remove the bomb from Noah’s neck.” Penelope sounded so hopeful… when there was no hope.

Hendrik lifted his pistol. “I can have it anyway.”

Penelope retreated again, her hands steady, and she spoke to Liesbeth, not Hendrik. “Are you really going to let him kill your son? Your only child?”

Was Penelope playing them one against the other? It wouldn’t work, but… it was the only chance they had. “Mother, you always said the Propov family was the most important thing in your life. Everything you’ve done is to advance the standing of the Propovs.” Noah injected spirit and strength into his voice. “Penelope is carrying the next generation. She’s carrying your grandchild.”

“I don’t care about Liesbeth’s grandchild,” Hendrik snarled. “And I’m the one with the firepower here.” Yet he didn’t shoot. Not yet. He held the Glock steady on Noah as he walked down another three steps.

Beside the stairway, Noah saw movement.

Eli was alive. Noah could suddenly breathe more easily. His brother was alive!

Now… to keep him that way.

Liesbeth looked sideways at Eli; so she’d seen the
movement, too. She glanced at Hendrik, but said nothing.

So. What Noah had suspected was true.

Liesbeth and Hendrik were no longer a team.

Desperate to distract Hendrik, Noah asked, “How much longer do I have? How soon will I be dead?”

“Not much longer.” Hendrik’s mouth curved in a cruel smile.

Eli’s bloody hand crawled toward the stairway.

“Maybe I won’t kill your girlfriend,” Hendrik taunted. “Maybe I’ll just wound her. There’s a real pleasure in screwing a woman while she writhes in pain.”

Penelope flinched.

“You’re going to die,” Noah vowed, and started toward him.

Hendrik lifted the pistol, pulled back the hammer, and pointed it at Noah’s forehead. “What was it you said to me this morning? Oh, yes, I remember—run!”

Instead, Noah prepared to pounce.

“Catch it!” Penelope shouted.

Hendrik and Noah turned, surprised, confused.

Penelope tossed Massimo’s bottle high in the air. The long green glass rose in a curving arc toward the stairs, toward Hendrik.

Too many things happened at once.

Hendrik lunged for the bottle.

Noah lunged for Hendrik.

Liesbeth shouted, “No!”

Hendrik shot—at Penelope. He caught the bottle in the other outstretched fist.

The two men collided in midair, then hit the concrete floor, the dull thud of flesh against flesh knocking the air out of them both.

Something in Noah’s shoulder tore.

Didn’t matter.

Hendrik had killed penelope. Hendrik wanted to kill them all.

The bottle was positioned between Hendrik’s body and Noah’s body.

Hendrik still held the Glock.

They rolled.

Noah smashed his head into Hendrik’s face. Blood spurted. He grappled for Hendrik’s ear and yanked. More blood.

Hendrik howled and slammed his pistol into the side of Noah’s head. The metal grip made contact.

Noah saw stars.

Hendrik tried to pull his hand back far enough to aim the gun.

Noah moved in close, punching with all his skill and fury and anguish. He used moves Hendrik himself had taught him, moves he’d learned in every self-defense class since he’d left the Propov gang, moves he made up now in the heat of battle.

They rolled into the wine rack.

Hendrik brought his elbow up under Noah’s chin. Noah’s head snapped back. Bottles clattered. Fell. Shattered. Glass flew.

Something stung Noah’s cheek. A sharp shard sliced him open. Warm blood coursed down his face.

Yet… this wasn’t right. Noah couldn’t figure it out.

He was taking a beating. He was. But Hendrik, faster, more skilled, more practiced, should have already killed him.

Then Noah realized—Hendrik was using one hand. In the other, he held the bottle of wine.

The second Propov rule: Always bring home the treasure.

Noah’s ire cooled to the ice-cold reasoning of a condemned man. Without Penelope, without their baby, he didn’t give a crap about the pain, about the breaking bones or the blood splattering the floor. He sure as hell didn’t give a crap about Nonno’s bottle or the diamond contents. He let Hendrik strike again and again with his free hand, and when he saw his chance, he grasped Hendrik’s wrist. He used the pressure point that his mother had taught him all those years ago, twisted, and snapped.

Hendrik jerked, kicked, struggled, dropped the pistol.

But he also dropped the bottle. It thunked on the concrete and rolled. Somewhere in the distance, Noah heard someone yelling a protest.

He caught a flash of someone dashing down the stairs. An old man. Grabbing the bottle.

But Noah couldn’t take his gaze from Hendrik’s bloodshot eyes as the two men rolled on the floor, brutally punching and kicking.

Hendrik no longer cared about watching Noah die from the bomb around his neck. He lived to kill.

But Noah had three minutes left in his life.

And if it was the last thing he did, he was going to protect what was left of his family from this monster.

He owed Nonna.

He owed Penelope.

And one thing he knew without a doubt: He was smarter than Hendrik, and he had more at stake.

This time when Hendrik grabbed for him, Noah whimpered and tried to crawl away, toward the stairway.

Hendrik laughed.

The dumb-ass laughed.

Getting to his feet, he grabbed Noah’s ankle in his good hand and dragged him backward.

Noah twisted and begged, rolled and fought, an actor in the role of a lifetime.

They reached Nonna’s wine rack against the long wall.

Noah staggered to his feet and faced Hendrik, hands loose at his sides.

Bruised and bloody, Hendrik laughed again and charged.

On one foot, Noah spun in a circle. He used his momentum and his hand on Hendrik’s shoulder to propel that brutal, grotesque face into the bottles protruding from the rack.

The rack shuddered from the impact.

Hendrik backed away, staggering, shaking his head, trying to clear his brain.

But Propovs were bred for fighting.

Even before he recovered, he attacked.

Grabbing two of the bottles by the necks, Noah smashed them against the sides of Hendrik’s head.

Glass shattered.

For a split second, Hendrik remained on his feet, staring at Noah. But the wide green eyes were vacant, seeing nothing. Then he folded like an accordion and dropped face-first on the concrete.

Noah stood, gasping, waiting for Hendrik to rise again.