The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) (25 page)

Thomas beckoned her to exit, but she hesitated. Desire to escape fought with the fear of leaving the security behind the metal bars.

They hadn’t seen what happened to the pig.

“Move,” Thomas ordered. “Now.”

She scrambled out on her hands and knees, trying to avoid the puddles of urine and droppings, her exposed back hunched in expectation of impact from above. Panic notched her breathing higher, and the ammonia smell made her gag, but she had to take the chance.

“Good girl,” the older man said.

“Head for the boat.” Stig slow-danced alone deeper into the room, drawing the Komodo away from the door. His eyes never left the lizard. If concentration mesmerized the animal, then Stig would save them with his complete immersion in the left-right glide. “Radio Wulf and tell him we’re leaving early.”

The wall at her back and Stig’s confidence gave her a burst of strength. Her rescuers had guns and presumably a boat. For the first time since the helicopter pilot had slid glassy-eyed to the deck, she felt hope.

Luc struggled with the door. “Shut tighter than an eighty-year-old virgin.”

Thomas pushed the older man out of the way and tried. “Fuck. We’re trapped.”

“The other door—” She slid sideways. “Stay tight to the wall, because there are four or five in the ductwork and they respond to sudden movement.” The Komodo young skittering above didn’t usually show themselves when the adult was out of its den because the mama would eat its offspring if it caught one on the ground. She’d seen that too.

“Do they notice sudden bowel movements? This is what my sphincter wants to know.” Luc flattened himself against the wall behind her, rifle pointing up as he scuttled after her.

Halfway to the other door, she thought they might make it.

Then the door slammed open.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The clang of metal hitting metal reverberated through Stig. Even his hair follicles, already standing at attention from the basilisk stare of the creature in front of him, jumped.

His dragon dancing partner broke the staring contest to take several steps toward whoever had entered, so he swiveled toward the new threat too.

Leif, in full armor like a baroque earl, held a second dragon, this one a measly seven feet long, on a chain. The absurdity of seeing the Viking in a shiny metal suit almost made Stig laugh, although he bloody well knew they weren’t getting past him or his pets to leave through the open door.

“Hallo, if it isn’t the world-class arsehole.” Stig’s voice brought the free-roaming Komodo’s triangular head whipping around to him. Longer and thicker than a leather belt, the tongue moved constantly. Living organisms shouldn’t have tongues like that. “What’s with the suit? Buy stock in a recycling facility?”

“Necessary precautions,” Leif said. “My pets bite.”

“If Sir Lancelot and a cosmonaut had a baby, it would be you.” He backed into a position where he could maintain eye contact with the larger dragon and also watch Leif, but it took him farther from the comparative safety of the wall and his companions. “Although I suspect it would be better looking.”

Draycott was leading Luc and Christina back to the original, now locked, door, with the spool of detonating cord in one hand and his semi-automatic in the other. Stig had to give them time to rig the lock, get out and run the circuit of the platform to the boat. Nothing to sweat about.

“I feel so underdressed,” Stig said.

“You’ll feel it more in a moment.” Leif allowed slack into the chain attached to the dragon’s body harness. It stalked forward, hissing at its rival.
“Hé tó forð gestóp dyrnan cræfte dracan héafde néah.”

“Appropriate, if I remember the meaning correctly.” No
ifs,
because Galan’s tale about the dragon’s stolen treasure had branded itself on Stig’s soul the moment Beowulf’s crew blamed the wrong man. “
The master of thiefcraft,
if you’ll indulge my poetic license,
left a footprint too near the dragon’s head.
”

“Too bad the only thing you’ll leave behind is a smear.” Leif smiled. “And your friends.”

“Excellent timing, but you need to project your voice if you want to nail the villain role. You seem tentative, like an understudy.” Stig had to keep Leif and the dragons focused on him, only him. “But then you always have been Unferth’s number two, haven’t you?”

His opponent’s cheeks flushed. “You know what my pets are?”

“Enlighten me. Tails are a tad long for a corgi.” The more Leif talked, the better the others’ chances.”

“
Varanus komodoensis,
commonly known as Komodo dragons.”

Stig didn’t have to see the other Viking’s chest under the armor to know it puffed with satisfaction. The wanker had always liked his Latin, all the way back to his years as a nasty little embezzling bishop. “Now would you like to tell me exactly how you plan to kill me?”

“You were never as hasty to judge as Ivar and Jurik, so I’ll let my pets have you. It’s kinder than the other choice.”

“Kinder.” The rifle was slippery in Stig’s hands and he could feel his thigh muscles knot from the length of time he’d been poised to lunge.

“It’s not merely their sharklike teeth—”

“Noticed those right off, yes.”

“—or the bacteria in their saliva.” As if on cue, the big dragon swiveled its head toward Stig. Thick mucus hung in multiple strands from its mouth, several reaching the floor.

“Happy I’m not your cleaning crew, old chum.”

Leif laughed, the sound a mockery of fright-house soundtracks, yet effective at scaring Stig. “My researchers identified anticoagulant properties in the venom. The smallest nick doesn’t clot for weeks.”

Draycott had the cord wrapped around the doorknob and hinges.

He’d bought enough time. “What say you we cut to the point?” He lifted his weapon straight at Leif’s chest, armored or not. “Point blank.”

Both dragons swiped their tails on the floor, the
boom, boom
reverberating on the metal decking. The chained one pulled so hard that it dragged Leif several inches farther into the room.

Leif’s smirk didn’t shift. “You should want me to continue talking. Gives you longer to live.”

“Sometimes living feels more interminable than other times.”

“Now!” Draycott called the play, and everything happened at once: the det cord explosion, Stig’s finger depressing the trigger fifteen feet from Leif’s armored body and the leashed dragon breaking free to lunge at the other. Raised on their hind legs, they grappled with thick-muscled forelegs and claws longer than his hand, fighting like Tokyo movie monsters while their tails thrashed.

Gunfire made no difference to the armored Viking, not because of immortality but because the rounds didn’t penetrate the breastplate. Instead Stig felt a ricochet sting across his cheek and ear.

“Frame’s steel,” Draycott shouted. “I’m out of cord.”

Stig’s magazine was empty.

All things considered, this would be an excellent moment for Wulf to show up.

Weight dropped onto his back, staggering him. A second later he registered the pain of multiple needle-sharp punctures in his shoulders where the vest’s protective plates left a gap. Instinct urged him to drop and roll to dislodge whatever it was, but hitting the ground would make him easier prey for the giant lizards, so he ran straight for the wall and at the last moment spun almost a one-eighty to slam the thing on his back into the metal.

It squealed and loosened its grip, but not enough.

Leif laughed, cool and unmoving on his end of the room. “See why I recommend armor?”

Stig folded at the waist and then whipped himself at the wall again. Less of a squeal, more a gurgle, and the weight shifted, barely hanging on to his clothing. Another slam and it was off, thudding next to his boot.

He kicked the miniature dragon, still the size of a giant poodle, toward the middle of the room. It wasn’t dead, only stunned, because it rolled and then began to crawl toward the cage that had held Christina.

While he’d taken his eyes off the big lizards, their dragon dance had moved toward the center. Now the only thing blocking that exit was Leif himself.

If he could get Leif to move, the others could escape.

Then the locked door burst open, startling all of them into turning to face it.

Damn, as if a flock of dragons and one twisted Viking weren’t enough, Halvdan stood silhouetted by light from the hallway.

“Leif,” the other of Unferth’s followers panted as if he’d dashed across the rig. Immortality had bestowed eternally youthful knees to carry around his extra five stone, but hadn’t gifted Halvdan with a better fitness level. “Message. Unferth.”

“So what?” Leif asked.

Because he and Halvdan had both joined Beowulf’s crew rather than be punished for theft, Stig had once felt kinship with the cook accused of stealing the king’s rare spices. All the crew had appreciated Halvdan’s hand with roasted meat, but the other thief was too easily led by promises of riches and a penchant for the easy path.

“He called.” Halvdan ignored the dragons, sounding more panicked by the return of their former leader than the sight of the battling creatures. “He’s coming.”

“Guess your promotion’s rescinded.” Stig laughed while he waved three fingers low along his thigh, signaling the others toward Halvdan and the open door. “I’ll wait to negotiate with Unferth. He appreciates art more than you do, Leif.”

“Nothing has changed!” Leif’s face turned red above his breastplate. “I’m in charge!”

“He won’t like this.” Halvdan waved his hand at Christina, Luc and Draycott, who froze flat along the wall midway between the doors. “I told you not to bring her here. This was supposed to be secret.”

“That’s the point.” Leif’s mailed fist struck Halvdan in the face, and the shorter Viking hunched his shoulders. He’d always been immovable.

“Were you breaking Daddy Unferth’s rules, Leif?” Stig raised his voice to get Leif’s attention away from the door, back to him and the center of the room. “Inviting girls to spend the night while he was away?”

The two dragons broke apart, the leashed one retreating to the corner with long bloody gouges on its shoulders. The large one whipped its head back and forth between Leif and Stig.

Stig tossed his empty pistol at the cage where the small dragon hunkered against the bars. Drawn by the clatter, the Komodo’s head turned, tongue flicking. Immediately its stubby muscled legs issued a burst of speed that propelled it like a torpedo toward the cage. Its triangular head fit through the door where Christina had exited, but its shoulders were too wide. The power of its thrust shoved the cage and the small animal inside it backward like a ball, and this set of squeals was higher pitched than the roar of the two adults.

Draycott exploited the moment when Leif and Halvdan both glanced at the struggle in the cage to raise his own semi-automatic and fire while he led the others straight at the door.

Blood blossomed on Halvdan’s unarmored chest. “You!” He staggered backward with red running between his fingers. “Why are you here?”

“Quality control,” Draycott said.

Christina and Luc disappeared out the door.

The adult lizard backed out of the cage. A tail as long as Stig’s arm and two twitching legs dangled from its jaws. Drool strung from its mouth to the floor. The Komodo lifted its snout toward the ceiling, then the legs disappeared down its gullet to become a dog-sized bulge midway along its throat.

Halvdan thudded to the floor, bloody froth dripping from his mouth.

“Useless.” Leif kicked his partner.

Then pain exploded in Stig’s left thigh, worse than any in his life, so sharp and intense it made each heartbeat an eternity that he begged to end. The Komodo that had eaten its own young had clamped on his leg.

Whether the dragon flipped him to the floor or he collapsed on his own didn’t matter. He was down. His senses closed into a dark blur, but he couldn’t find the relief of unconsciousness because the agony rushed from his leg to tighten his body into a screaming symphony.

The dragon walked backward, dragging him.

Fight. He had to fight. His free foot hit the beast’s snout. Feeble. Useless.

“Stig!” His name penetrated. Draycott in the door. Pistol. He lifted his arms.

The pistol flew toward him. Slow. Like the air was syrup. Very slow. It landed on his chest. Bounced off.

“Get it, man! Use your hands!”

He heard the instructions. But where was the gun? He raised his arms above his head, trying to find something to grasp, and his fingers brushed hardness. Without his command, they curled around it, lifted, great weight, but yes. It was the gun.

Point it. That was what he had to do. Point.

Clanging and shouting. Very far.

He squeezed.

The dragon didn’t stop. Nothing.

“Again, shoot again,” someone called. “Get closer!”

Bugger. Easier to close his eyes and quit.

A rally cry he hadn’t heard since the Battle of Agincourt reverberated through the room.

Knowing that Wulf was here gave him that jolt to go once more unto the breach and crunch his body forward, agony screaming in every muscle and strobing lights in his brain, but he managed to reach for his feet with the hand that held the pistol.

His vision was fluctuating, but he thought the muzzle tip was close to the dragon’s nose, or close enough, and he squeezed.

Boom.
The head exploded. The tubular scaled body collapsed, crushing his ankles to the ground. But its mouth opened.

Wulf filled the small circle of Stig’s remaining vision. Old friend. The blue eyes in the camouflaged face were upside down. Then Stig’s body moved, dragged the other direction. The lights on the ceiling grew and grew to the size of suns. He should be hot. So why was he cold?

He looked at the length of his body. Blood flowed from his leg. It always stopped within moments and healed, but this trail expanded in his wake. More blood. He couldn’t look away from the slick spreading across the floor. The structure must tilt, because his blood ran only one direction.

Darkness devoured the sun. A thief in the night. Always in the dark. The last thing he saw was Wulf, grim lips and cold eyes.

The last thing he heard were the words
not yet.

* * *

This was a bigger disaster than Draycott had imagined, because in all their permutations of large mercenary crews or failed explosives, none of them had conceived of the presence of giant venomous reptiles. He blamed himself. He’d known about a North Sea operation under one of Black and Swan’s corporate subsidiaries but hadn’t nosed out details during his employment. On the positive side, they’d reached the stairs over the raft, in varying states of more or less dead, and he was one of the less dead. The naked man propped against the wall appeared, like Stig, to be in the category of more dead. However, Draycott expected he was another of these unusual men and the condition would not be permanent.

“You’re in the best shape.” Wulf reached for Draycott’s weapon and indicated the raft below. “You’re point. I’ll take rear.”

Sixty-seven with a bad prostate, and he’d been anointed quarterback.

“Get in the raft. I’ll send the others. Go!”

The wind cut through him and he wished fervently for the coat and gloves he’d left inside the rig, but that was futile. The wet ropes chafed his hands and the ladder twisted, but adrenalin conferred a temporary fountain of youth permitting him to scramble as well as any forty-year-old.

Water sloshed in the bottom of the raft, but it was still right side up and floating. So far so good.

He landed lightly and put his center of gravity low before he pulled out an oar, ready to extend it if someone went in.

Christina came next. She had fight. She’d make it. If she didn’t, none of them would. He hadn’t been able to save Jane, but this he could do.

She tumbled from the end of the ladder into the raft but immediately scrambled to her knees and rested on the wood seat, panting. She’d put on a life jacket before her descent, the self-inflating one Stig had been wearing.