F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (66 page)

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Half
a dozen get-guards were through the door now, their machetes scraping against
the marble as they dragged themselves across the floor.

 
          
These
should be enough to make the point, he thought as he edged himself and Franco
away from them and closer to the patch of sunlight. They appeared to be in the
camera's field of view.

 
          
Now
.. . the moment of truth.

 
          
Questions
surged unbidden into his mind. Did he really want to do this? It would end
everything. No more Carole, no more Lacey. Wasn't this existence, hideous as it
was, better than no existence at all?

 
          
No.
Unequivocally no. He would not spend the centuries this half-breed existence
might give him as a creature of the darkness and twilight. Yes, he'd have more
time with Carole and Lacey, but he'd also have to watch them age and die.

 
          
Better
to make a clean break, better to end his personal horror by removing another
horror from the earth.

 
          
He
lifted Franco and tensed his muscles to hurl him into the light.

 
          
"Get
ready to burn, Franco," he whispered.

 
          
"No!
Please—!"

 
          
Just
then an elevator chimed to his left. The doors slid open and his heart sank
when he saw Carole. He didn't want her to have to watch his death throes. But
panic and rage exploded within him when he saw the grinning face hovering
behind her shoulder.

 
          
Barrett.

 
          
The
head
Vichy
propelled Carole ahead of him into the
atrium. The doors whispered closed behind them.

 
          
"Well,
well," he said, still grinning. "What have we here? I guess this is
what we call a stand-off."

 
          
"Carole,
are you all right?"

 
          
She
shook her head. A thin stream of blood trickled down her temple from her scalp.
Her eyes filled with tears.

 
          
"Joseph,
I'm so sorry."

 
          
"It's
all right."

 
          
He
made a silent promise: I'll get you out of this, no matter what it takes.

 
          
He
noticed that her arms were pulled behind her, which meant her hands were bound.
In a way, that was a relief. Barrett had no idea how lucky he was. If Carole
were able to get her hands into her pockets, she might have blown them both to
pieces by now.

 
          
"Let
her go, Barrett," Joe said.

 
          
His
eyebrows lifted. "You know my name? You have the advantage over me, sir.
And I'm sure I'd not forget a face like yours."

 
          
There
wasn't time to get into that.

 
          
"Just
let her go."

 
          
"And
why would I want to do that?"

 
          
"It's
the right thing to do."

 
          
"For
you maybe, but not for me. I'm willing to make a trade, though. Her for
him." He pointed to Franco. "Hear that, Bossman? I'm saving your ass.
And I expect something in return—big time. After I straighten this out, I want
to be turned. Immediately. We waive the ten-year clause. Agreed?"

 
          
"Yes,"
Franco rasped. "Of course."

 
          
"And
I don't want to be turned by some low-level drone, either. By you or, better
yet, by the guy who turned you, if he's still around. I want wings."

 
          
Franco
nodded. "Yes. Anything. Anything you want."

 
          
"You
want to be like them?" Joe pointed to the undead guards who were
continuing their inching crawl toward him. They'd be within striking distance
in a minute. "Look at them. Slithering along the floor. They're
vermin!"

 
          
"But
they're the vermin who're running the show."

 
          
"Not
for long. And then where will you be?"

 
          
"It's
over for us, Mister Melted Face. The New World Order has arrived, and though
it's not what anyone imagined, the choices come down to predator or prey. I've
never seen myself as prey." He smiled. "So . .. how do you want to
work the trade?"

 
          
"Joseph,
no!" Carole cried.

 
          
Barrett
grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. "No one asked you!
You're nothing but merchandise, so keep it zipped. I do the negotiating
here!"

 
          
Joe
took a step toward him. He wanted to kill Barrett, but slowly. Twist his head
around an inch at a time until it was facing the other way.

 
          
"Uh-uh!"
Barrett said. He held up an old-fashioned stiletto, pressed the button, and out
snapped a gleaming four-inch blade. He pressed the point against Carole's
throat. "Don't make me damage the merchandise."

 
          
LACEY
. . .

 
          
Lacey
stared at the Observation Deck feed. Joe's lips were moving and he was looking
away from the camera.

 
          
"Who's
he talking to?" she said.

 
          
Considine
shrugged. "Maybe Franco, maybe your friend. She should have arrived by
now."

 
          
The
scars made Joe's face all but unreadable, especially on this small, grainy
screen, but something about his body language set off warning alarms throughout
her brain.

 
          
"Do
you have other cameras up there?"

 
          
Leland
grabbed his mouse. "One other that catches the atrium." Windows
opened and closed on his computer screen, menus dropped down and rolled up.
"Here we go."

 
          
The
scene that flickered to life on the screen froze Lacey's heart. Carole ... held
prisoner by a
Vichy
.

 
          
"Barrett!"
Considine said over her shoulder. "Fucking Barrett. How'd you miss
him?"

 
          
"Who's
he?"

 
          
"Chief
rat."

 
          
Lacey
pulled her pistol from her belt. "I'm going up there."

 
          
"Not
alone, you're not," Considine said.

 
          
"Stay
here," she said. "We need that tape."

 
          
"These
guys can handle that. Going alone is what got your friend in trouble." He
was already heading for the door. "Let's move."

 
          
Lacey
followed him out into the hall. They were almost to the elevators when one of
them chimed. The UP light glowed over the second set of doors. Considine went
into a crouch and motioned her toward the near wall. Pistol fully extended, he
hurried forward and flattened himself against the wall immediately to the right
of the doors.

 
          
When
they slid open and a scraggly-haired head peeked out, Considine shot him in the
face from six inches away. Lacey heard someone inside the car shout
"Fuck!" as the shot man went down in a spray of red, landing in the
doorway. The doors tried to close but the body blocked them.

 
          
Considine
knelt and, without turning his head, motioned Lacey down to the floor. Seconds
later another
Vichy
burst from the car with a hoarse cry, spraying the hall with an assault
pistol. As the bullets screamed over her head, Lacey returned fire along with
Considine. She didn't know who hit him but suddenly he went into spin, falling
one way while his weapon sailed in another. He ended up huddled against the
wall, clutching his shoulder.

 
          
Considine
peeked into the elevator car, then stepped over to the fallen
Vichy
, picking up his assault pistol on the way.
He turned him over with his foot and—to Lacey's shock—shot him in his good
shoulder, then once again in the stomach.

 
          
"Not
exactly a kill shot," Lacey said as the Vichy screamed and writhed in
agony.

 
          
Considine's
face was a grim mask as he returned to the elevator and pulled the first body
clear of the door.

 
          
"Not
intended," he said.

 
          
"We
don't want to leave any live ones."

 
          
He
motioned her into the car. "That one we do. Between the messed-up
shoulders and the gut shot, he's out of the fight."

 
          
The
doors closed and he pressed the lobby button.

 
          
Lacey
stared at him. "You've got something personal going on here?"

 
          
Considine's
eyes remained fixed straight ahead on the doors. His voice was dead flat.
"Back in January two of this guy's buddies held me and made me watch while
he raped my wife. Said if I didn't cooperate they'd pass her around the cowboys
like that until they were tired of her, then she'd be turned and sent to kill
me."

 
          
Lacey
swallowed. The terror, the humiliation this man had had to live with .. . she
couldn't think of anything else to say except, "I'm sorry."

 
          
"And
now he's sorry. It should take him hours to die. If I'm real lucky, maybe a
couple of days, every minute of it in excruciating agony."

 
          
"My
kind of guy," she said. He glanced at her. "That is, if I liked
guys."

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
winced as he saw the point of the stiletto indent the flesh of Carole's throat.

 
          
"Don't
hurt her,"

 
          
"Then
stop dragging this out," Barrett said. "We make the switch and we all
walk away free and clear." He smiled. "Until I come and hunt you
down."

 
          
Joe
felt his strength beginning to slip. He glanced toward the observation windows.
He couldn't see the glass or anything beyond, only a featureless blaze of white.
The sun was nearing the point where it would suck off his energy and reduce him
to a crawling weakling like Franco and his get.

 
          
What
could he do? If there was a way out of this, he couldn't see it. He could
barely think.

 
          
So
close to success—ending Franco and all his get, no matter where in the world
they were. Ending himself.

 
          
Maybe
that was the answer: shove Franco into the sun, and while his screams caused a
distraction, make a leap toward Carole and Barrett.