Castle of Sorrows Page 18

  Nicky’s knife.

  As she turned toward him she caught a clear glimpse of the implement—Good God, like a miniature sickle. The thing reminded her of the fillet knife her grandpa had once used to clean the smallmouth bass they caught in his stocked pond, and though Nicky looked up in time to see the blade whistle down at him, he didn’t have time to block its diagonal trajectory. The curved blade sliced his left nostril in half, proceeded down through his upper lip—cleaving deeper as it descended—then created a fine slit from the corner of his mouth all the way to his jaw. As he gaped at her and pawed at the slit, she watched the blood, which looked as black as crude oil, first fill the gash and then pour out of it. Nicky’s eyes widened in horror. He rose to his feet, swaying, and stared down at the blood dripping out of his mouth, first pattering on his open palms, then spilling over his fingers as the flow grew steadily more severe. He glanced at her as though he couldn’t believe she could behave so violently. Then he staggered sideways, teetered like he was about to fall.

  Reached down for something on the floor.

  Jessie gasped as she realized his intent. Even in his badly wounded state Nicky was still very much a dangerous predator. He lulled you into believing you were safe, even using his gushing blood as a ruse. No wonder he’d killed so many people. No wonder he’d raped so many women. He was made for killing, a heartless machine who reveled in pain, who’d destroyed who knew how many lives.

  But not this time.

  A feral grin stretching her lips, Jessie strode over to him, and before he could raise the gun, she gripped the knife with both hands and slashed down at him. There was muted snicking sound as the fillet knife tore through the side of his neck. Then a noise that reminded her of gentle rainfall as his carotid artery spurted blood over the studio floor. The gun in one hand, he stood and gaped at her and placed his free hand over the gushing neck wound. The gun began to rise, but she anticipated it, snatched the gun away with her left hand while with her right she swung the fillet knife. A glistening black smile opened in Nicky’s throat. The fluid ran in a sheet down his front, his eyes huge and glassy. He stumbled into her, his blood soaking her tank top. With a grunt, she sidestepped and gave him a two-handed shove into the doorway. She thought he’d fall then, but was shocked to see him still walking, zombielike, toward the stairs. The only part of him that seemed fully alive were his hands, which were clawing madly at his gushing jugular.

  Gun outstretched, she followed him, wondering how far he’d get before he fell. She knew she should shoot him. There was gunfire below again, and her duty was now to lend Morton aid. But she wanted to see Nicky bleed, was fascinated the dying slimeball could still move.

  Nicky had made it halfway down to the fifth floor before he pitched forward and landed face first on the unforgiving stone steps. She thought he’d simply lie there and bleed to death, but his momentum carried him down, his legs and ass flipping over his bloody front so that he somersaulted forward, his boneless body tumbling toward the landing. Jessie followed, wishing she’d retrieved her own gun—who knew how reliable Nicky’s was?

  When his body finally hit the landing and sprawled into the fifth-story corridor, Jessie was about six feet behind him and still obscured by the landing wall.

  But the sound of Marvin Irvin’s heartbroken wail reached her without problem.

  Ben looked up, his thoughts muddled. The man who’d slugged him was one of the largest he’d ever seen. Sure, Ben was a big guy, the type most considered a huge guy. But if Ben was huge, the man looming over him now was a colossus.

  The giant stepped through the doorway and groped for him. Ben let the giant grasp him two-handed by the shirtfront, allowed the giant to lift him off the ground. He thought at first the man might toss Ben onto the grass like a toy that had displeased him, but instead he righted Ben, getting him into position.

  Face to face, the man reared back.

  Ben jerked his head aside just as the haymaker whooshed by his face. He seized the man’s shirt, whipped his head at him. Ben’s forehead crashed into the huge man’s nose.

  The giant didn’t cry out, scarcely made any sound at all. Nor did he let go of Ben and go reeling away. Despite the pain the head butt must’ve brought on—hell, Ben’s forehead felt as though it had been struck with a mallet—the man didn’t loosen his grip on him. Looked, if anything, more resolute than he had previously. The man leaned back, slammed his head into Ben’s.

  The pain was astonishing.

  But rather than dimming his consciousness, the blow brought Ben fully alive, the agony of the blow like the world’s worst brain freeze. The giant seemed to understand he’d hurt Ben because he swung at him again, this time from the shoulder. Ben only partially dodged this blow, the giant’s ham-like fist smacking Ben in the ear.

  This pain was somehow worse than the brain freeze had been, and it made him angry. Jaw tight, Ben swung low and pounded the giant in the ribs. He felt the huge man’s body jolt, and though the giant still did not release him, Ben thought he’d finally succeeded in hurting the man. Ben reared back, blasted the giant in the side again, Jesus, like hitting a slab of cold meat.

  The giant thumped Ben in the ribcage, the blow so fierce he was lifted off the ground. Ben had never been more muscular, but the man seemed to find Ben’s weakest point—right in the side, where his ribs weren’t sheathed in muscle. The giant walloped him again, and again Ben’s feet were lifted off the ground. The giant reared back to strike him a third time, but Ben grasped him by the shoulders, pivoted and swung him toward the castle façade. The huge man left the ground and hit the wall shoulder first. As the giant rebounded off the unyielding stone, his face finally betrayed some emotion. Grimacing, the giant squeezed the shoulder that had crashed into the castle, leaving his right side exposed.

  Ben moved in, swinging in looping sideways arcs. The sensation of punching a slab of meat recurred, but then the giant shifted, covering his battered ribs.

  Ben was ready. He aimed a roundhouse right at the man’s face, bashed him right in the cheek. The giant’s head whipped sideways, spittle flying out of his mouth. Ben swung with his left arm, but the punch wasn’t as accurate and only glanced off the giant’s jaw.

  Gunshots sounded from above and Ben suddenly remembered the others. They might all be dying while he brawled with this huge bastard on the castle lawn.

  Ben made a move toward the castle, but the giant thrust out a big foot, tripped him. Ben stumbled forward, sure the giant would shoot him in the back. Ben had no doubt the man was armed.

  He swiveled his head expecting to see the man holding a gun to his face, but the giant was evidently still interested in fighting with his fists.

  Ben decided to comply.

  He lurched forward, away from the man’s grasping fingers, and when the giant followed, Ben spun, planted, then launched his body into the giant’s midsection. The giant uttered a low grunt, pushed against Ben, but Ben had leverage, dug his heels in and drove with his legs until the giant was backpedaling, encircling Ben’s lower back in an attempt to leverage him off his feet. Ben wrapped the giant up around the man’s thick middle, then picked him up, took another couple steps and slammed him onto his back. Despite the cushion of grass, the man’s breath whooshed out, his face crinkling in an expression of surprise and pain.

  The sweat was trickling into Ben’s eyes now, but he ignored it, pushed up to his knees. Half on top of the man, he rammed down with his right fist and caught the giant in the eye. A furious, wounded cry issued from the giant’s mouth as he tried to cover his face.

  Grinning, Ben rained blows on the man’s head, battering him until he dropped his hands. Blood sprayed from the man’s face, his big body going limp.

  Ben pushed to his feet, stood panting over the giant. He knew the man wasn’t dead—not even close to it—but he had to get up to the fifth floor, where he was certain the battle was taking place. There w
as still gunfire, but not as much of it now. He hoped Teddy was still alive, hoped the bastards hadn’t killed Jessie.

  The giant twitched, reached for something under his shirt. Ben stood immobile for a moment, caught between making a run for it and stopping the man’s grab for his gun.

  Ben grabbed for the gun. He barely made it there, the giant moving nimbly despite the beating Ben had given him. The big handgun rose toward Ben’s face, but Ben seized the man’s wrist, redirected the gun toward the woods a moment before the deafening blast erupted, stealing Ben’s hearing and filling the air with the stink of graphite. Ben pinned the man’s wrist to the grass, but the giant was feisty, aiming a haymaker at Ben’s face with his free hand. The blow didn’t have much behind it, but it angered Ben nonetheless. Ben reared back, pounded the giant in the face. When the giant’s left hand batted at him again, Ben jabbed him in the nose. Still, impossibly, the big man was raising his right hand, the one with the gun, with Ben’s hand still clutching his wrist. The big bastard was immensely powerful, and Ben realized he wasn’t going to escape this lawn without one of them dying.

  The giant mouthed something, but Ben couldn’t hear it. The only thing he picked up with his ringing eardrums was a distant roar that reminded him of the ocean.

  Teeth bared, Ben muscled the gun back down, swatted the man’s bloody face with a fist. God, the guy was strong. But now, absurdly, he was mouthing words again, choosing this of all times to attempt communication with Ben.

  “What the hell do you want?” Ben shouted.

  The man gripped Ben by the shoulder, hauled him lower. Ben began to fight at first before he realized the giant was trying to say something into Ben’s ear.

  But all he could pick up were the words island and ghosts.

  Frustratedly, he thrashed the man’s gun hand on the grass again and again, but the giant would not relinquish his hold on the gun.

  The giant yelled again, and this time Ben heard him well enough. “This island is full of ghosts!”

  Ben glared into the giant’s eyes, their faces only inches apart. “Let go,” Ben shouted into his mess of a face.

  “Uh-uh,” the giant shouted back. “Not until you kill me.”

  Ben was so surprised by this that for a moment he forgot to struggle. The gun immediately jerked up, but it wasn’t toward Ben’s face that it flew—it rested against the giant’s temple.

  “You do it,” the giant said. “I don’t wanna go to hell.”

  Ben thought of telling the man he’d probably go to hell anyway working for a guy like Marvin Irvin, but decided now wasn’t the time.

  The man was blubbering, his saliva mixing with blood. “I saw ’em when we docked tonight. I saw all the people I ever killed. None of the other guys did, but I saw ’em. Lined up on the beach waiting for me. Just staring.”

  When Ben only gaped down at him, the giant grabbed Ben’s hand, placed it over the handle and trigger, then covered it with his own big paw. “Please,” the giant said. “You gotta! I can’t do this anymore.”

  Gunshots sounded from above. Ben stared into the man’s grimacing face, felt the incredible strength still thrumming through the man’s body. If Ben didn’t kill him, he’d keep fighting. If Ben died, the giant would certainly kill others.

  “Please,” the giant whispered, red spit bubbling on his lips.

  Ben closed his eyes, turned away, and squeezed the trigger.

  The boom was muffled this time, but that was probably owing to his already compromised hearing. Blood and other matter splattered everywhere. Ben rose, taking care not to look down at the man’s ruin of a face.

  Ben moved away from the twitching giant and began scanning the tall grass for his gun. Just when he was sure he’d lost it, a dark object near the castle wall caught his eye. Blowing out a relieved breath, Ben retrieved his Ruger and made for the door. He half-expected another one of Marvin’s henchmen to be waiting for him inside Castle Blackwood, but the back entryway was empty.

  The gun gripped in one bloody hand, Ben sprinted for the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  Jessie watched it all unfold as in a nightmare.

  Her triumph at having bested Nicky faded the moment she saw the expression on Marvin’s face. The man and the blond-haired crony attending him had dragged a squat wooden table out of one of the rooms and were hunched behind it. Marvin was still clutching the Bushmaster, the blond guy with him just looking dismayed by it all.

  Morton had managed to get the others to safety, apparently. He was leaning out of Christina’s door, drawing a bead on Marvin, about seventy feet between them.

  Jessie continued down the steps after Nicky, whose tumbling body had finally come to rest half in, half out of the long hallway.

  But there was enough of him visible for Marvin to know what had happened.

  “Nicky?” Marvin whispered.

  Marvin rose up behind the overturned table.

  Jessie saw Sean Morton’s SIG-Sauer come to rest on Marvin.

  Morton fired.

  A splash of liquid plopped out of Marvin’s shoulder. Morton had been aiming for the heart, but Marvin had staggered a little as he made his way around the table. Morton squeezed the trigger again, but this time there was only a dull click.

  She could see, drawing closer to him, that Morton was reloading frantically, his body language making plain how angry he was with himself for committing this error and for missing an opportunity to kill Marvin.

  “Nicky?” Marvin asked as if he hadn’t just been shot.

  “Get down, Sean,” Jessie called.

  But Morton didn’t, instead remained in that half-crouch, reloading his SIG-Sauer.

  “Nicky?” Marvin called. As the short man drew nearer she saw his forehead crease and his bottom lip begin to quiver. “Nicky? OH GOD NICKY!”

  Marvin swung the Bushmaster up and began to unload.

  Rounds pinged off the inner wall of the hallway, tossing fragments of stone and dust everywhere. Marvin’s aim was even wilder than before, his face contorted by grief. Jessie was still a good fifteen feet behind Sean Morton, but she couldn’t wait any longer. Stepping sideways to get Morton out of her sightline, she brought Nicky’s gun to rest on Marvin, squeezed the trigger. Marvin spun, the Bushmaster spraying bullets around the corridor, taking bites out of the ceiling, the outer wall, shattering a window, then uttering that agitated vrrrrrr that told her he was out of bullets. She fired twice more, and this time Marvin went down. Then Nicky’s gun clicked empty, and she had no ammo with which to reload.

  For just a moment she realized Morton had been watching her and Marvin going at it, but now Morton’s trance broke, and he rose, gun trained on Marvin’s prostrate form.

  It was at that moment that Jessie saw the figure rise up from behind the table down the hall.

  She’d forgotten all about the other one, the blond guy with hair like some sort of punk rocker, the one who’d done nothing but cower as the firefight raged on, the one who was now inexplicably moving to his feet, a gun rising from his side.

  “Get down, Sean!” Jessie screamed. But Morton did not get down, did not even appear to notice the other one, so focused was Morton on his fallen foe. Marvin lay on the floor, sobbing and grasping his shoulder.

  Morton leveled the gun at Marvin. The blond guy beyond Marvin strode forward, gun extended. Jessie took a big step to her left, hoping to pick the gunman off before he could shoot Morton, but she was too late. The blond guy had already squeezed the trigger. Morton doubled up, then crumpled to the floor. Jessie fired, but the blond guy had begun running in a stooped position. Jessie fired again, missed. The guy skidded to his knees and threw an arm over Marvin Irvin, like that would protect him. But his other arm was held out, the gun spitting fire at Jessie now. Jessie hit the ground, crawled forward to get to Morton.

  Morton’s wound was bad, Jess
ie could see that right away. Not only was blood sluicing over the fingers clutched to his gut, but there was blood pooling on the floor, blood trickling from Morton’s lips. He was dying, dying right here in this hallway, and it was the blond guy’s fault. He’d stayed out of the fray until everyone forgot about him, then he’d made his bullets count. The bastard.

  “Get him into the room,” a voice shouted from behind Jessie. She gasped, whipping her head around to see who it was.

  Ben Shadeland, looking as though he’d been through hell. Ben Shadeland with a gun aimed beyond her at the pair of gangsters. But it wasn’t a pair of gangsters any longer, she realized as she glanced back at Marvin and the blond shooter. There was a third now, and this one, like Ben, was painted with gore. Had Ben and the new gangster gone at it? And if so, how had the fight ended without one or the other dying? The new gangster—it was Ray Rubio, she realized—fired on her. The bullet bit the wall to her right. A fleeting memory of Rubio’s horrific file flashed through her mind, and despite the adrenaline coursing through her she experienced a momentary chill.

  “Here,” Ben said from beside her. “I’ll get Morton, you cover us.”

  Jessie nodded. Ben knelt, scooped up Morton like he was a small child and raced for the master suite. Jessie shot at the gangsters, who returned fire. She backpedaled and threw a quick glance over her shoulder to confirm that Ben and Morton had made it into the room alive. Jessie fired one more time before lunging through the doorway behind them.

  “How is he?” Jessie asked, locking the door.

  “Terrible,” Ben said.

  Jessie waited at the door, listening for gunfire. But there were only muttered oaths and the sounds of a brief argument. Then the voices receded from the same direction they’d come.

  The gangsters had departed.

  Chapter Nine

  Five minutes later, after they’d all collected in Christina’s room, Teddy heard footsteps outside the door. Teddy reached out, plucked his gun from the table. Agent Gary had hers ready too.