85

MILA’S HAND CLOSED OVER HER PISTOL. But she sensed Edward take a step forward. She looked up and Edward held a gun on her.

“You,” he ordered Mila. “Drop the purse. You’re not Scotland Yard. Honestly, couldn’t they find a British bird to play a British bird?”

“No.”

“Edward…” Yasmin started.

“Just a moment, love,” he said to her. His gaze bore into Mila. “Who are you with? Sam Capra’s bunch?”

“Yes.” Very carefully, her fingers pressed a button on a small device next to the gun in her purse. In her head she started a slow, measured countdown.

“And who exactly are they?”

“We work for Mr. Zaid.”

“Ah. Clear your hands from the purse. Then drop it on the floor.”

Slowly, Mila made a show of sliding the purse off her shoulder. Her gaze locked on Edward’s and the only time her glance wandered was to evaluate where she would strike him: the throat, the eyes, the base of his nose where the bone would spear into the brain if you hit it just right.

“Yasmin, get the guards on the radio.”

Yasmin stumbled toward the hallway.

“I told you to drop the purse, bitch,” he said to Mila.

Her purse hit the floor. Edward leaned down, keeping the gun fixed on Mila, dragging the purse toward him, and five seconds later its zippered opening exploded in a blast of dazzling light.

*        *        *

No welcoming committee was waiting at the stable when I parked the truck. I didn’t see a soul.

I grabbed my bag and got out, then dropped the gate of the pickup, took a bag of feed and half dragged another bag off the edge of the pickup’s rear gate; I needed to look like either an eager-to-please deliveryman or a deliveryman hurrying to finish one job and get to the next. I stepped inside the stable, slung the bag over my shoulder and waited. Zaid’s beautiful horses nickered, perhaps anticipating a run or an exercise. I was sorry to disappoint them.

Three minutes later, a truck topped the rise of the hill. Three men inside. An awful lot to receive a delivery. Either Mila had already failed, or they were cautious.

Three against one, and me already coping with injuries. I hurried to each of the stalls and opened the doors, led the Arab horses out via the back gate. I swatted them gently on the sides to urge them to run. Two broke and bolted past the corral, the others cantered. They were such beauties. I remembered my dad teaching me and my brother to ride, one humid summer when we were in Virginia, not melting in a third world housing project, and the joy you could feel from the wind in your face, from the bridled power of the horse.

I went back into the stable and waited. The truck stopped before reaching the building as the guards caught sight of the horses rounding the stables. One man, a redhead, jumped out to try and catch the horses. The other two, wearing holsters, kept the truck headed for the stables. They pulled up next to the Blue Lion pickup. Got out, but left their guns in their holsters. They moved like professionals and I wondered if they were just hired security or if they were part of Edward’s organization. I didn’t really want to kill rent-a-cops who’d just taken the wrong job patrolling a quiet English estate.

The way they fought would show me who they were.

As they stepped inside, I swung a heavy bag of feed into the first one’s face. The man toppled and as the weight of the bag spun I nailed the second guard with a kick below the throat that sent him sprawling out onto the porch. My shoulder ached from the weight of it, and I staggered after the kick.

The first man—thick-necked, with a blond burr of hair—rolled into a martial artist’s stance and yanked a small knife from a sheath on his belt. Not a cop-for-hire, then. That simplified things. He swiped at me with the knife and I hammered my palm into his face, then grabbed both his wrists and slammed them against the top of a stable door. They broke. He screeched and staggered backward, staring at his bent wrists.

The second man, a wiry African, coughing blood, lunged at me, drawing his gun, and yelled an order to surrender. I ignored it and rammed a fist into the man’s hand, knocking the gun to the floor. The bolt of pain shot up my arm to my wounded shoulder, and I was too slow pulling back. The African slammed three hard, brutal blows into my ribs. Bruises still fresh from Holland thundered into agony. I couldn’t fight for long.

I stepped inside the African’s swing and head-slammed him, and the man went to his knees; I gave him a kick, square in the groin, and I meant it. The African collapsed in huffing agony. He looked up at me as a man expecting to die, fear shining bright in his eyes.

I relieved him of his gun and yanked an earpiece from his ear. They were wired to check in, so reinforcements might be here soon. The man with two broken wrists looked at me in shock. I leveled a kick into him that drove his head back against a stall gate and he crumpled.

I pulled out my gun.

“Where’s the entrance?” I said. “To the underground rooms?”

The African shot me the finger. Honestly, I thought. I knelt down and twisted the finger back to within a millimeter of breaking it. The African howled.

“Are they paying you enough? Really?” I asked.

“The back… the kitchen.”

I yanked him to his feet, hustled him into the kitchen.

“Pantry,” he said. A bit more steel in his voice now. He was going to get cute. But I still needed him.

The small kitchen held a pantry at its back and I opened the door, keeping the gun aimed at the African. Another door stood behind the narrow shelving; made of new, reinforced steel. I tried pushing it. Locked.

“Open it,” I said.

“Door only opens from the inside.” He was right. There was no knob or bar.

“Okay.” I slammed the African into the pantry shelving once, twice, and the guy cracked his head and dropped, unconscious. I checked the window; no sign of the redhead. He’d be back in minutes, or radioing his friends who’d gone into the stable and wondering why they weren’t responding.

I opened my bag, found the strips of plastic explosive and the wires, and began to shape the charge around the door.