Mercer mixed enough fact with fiction to make a credible story, but again he underestimated Aggie.
“My father has always liked you, and he knew I had a crush on you, so whenever he heard something about your career, he’d tease me about it. Your boyfriend did this or your boyfriend did that.” Her tone was flippant and self-mocking as she mimicked her father. “My crush was pretty transparent when I was younger. He told me all about what you did before the Gulf War, leading a team of commandos into Iraq to evaluate their uranium-mining facility.
“He also told me that there are some people in this world who, no matter how hard they try, can’t get out of the way of danger. He said you were one of them. I know you don’t believe that you were the victim of a mugging, and you know that I know it, too. I’ll leave you your cover story and let it drop, but next time you don’t want to tell me something, just say so. Deal?”
Mercer was inordinately pleased at the prospect that he would have a next time. In fact, he was mystified that she was here in the first place. He asked her why.
She lit another cigarette, more out of nervousness than nicotine addiction. When she spoke, her eyes were downcast. “I said some things last night that I shouldn’t have, burdened you with a lot of skeletons from my closet. I’m a little embarrassed.”
Apologies didn’t come easily to Aggie, that was plain to see. Her shy, elfin smile exposed beautiful white teeth and turned the corners of her eyes into creased points. But when she looked at him, her emerald eyes were almost imploring, exposing herself as surely as if she stood naked.
She laughed, cutting the sudden tension. “Just because I’m here and I apologized doesn’t mean I don’t hate what you do for a living.”
“I promise not to rape the planet until after you leave.”
They ate the Chinese food and talked for hours. They steered well clear of talking about themselves, in an unspoken understanding that too much had been said the night before. Despite the adversarial nature of their beliefs, they were highly intelligent and well-informed people. Even when their companionable discussion turned into debate, both enjoyed it immensely. By nine-thirty, they were sitting on the leather couch, their bodies almost, but not quite, touching. And just before ten, Aggie made the first move, reaching out to take Mercer’s hand. He was speaking when it happened, and his voice caught.
He paused, looking at her face. Her eyes had gone glassy smooth, and her pupils were dilated twice their normal size. Her mouth invited. Mercer read her expression expertly, cupping his hand behind her head and lifting her slightly so their lips would meet.
At that instant, Harry White’s graveled voice echoed through the house. “Hey, Mercer, you home? I thought you were going to Tiny’s to watch football today.”
The moment was lost immediately.
He moved away from her quickly. To delay would have meant he never would have stopped. “Harry,” he bellowed with frustration, “your timing sucks.”
“My timing? I’m not the guy with twenty bucks on the Steelers who didn’t show up to even watch the game.” Harry’s voice was getting louder as he made his way up the spiral stairs, his limp more pronounced with each footfall.
Suddenly the situation dawned on Mercer with a galvanizing shock. “Harry, how in the hell did you get in here?”
“With the key you gave me five years ago. What are you, stupid?”
“Take cover now!” Mercer shouted. “Aggie, get behind the bar and stay down.”
For Harry to get into the house without first confronting Agent Peters meant something had happened to Mercer’s FBI guard. Mercer ran from the bar, pounding up the back set of stairs to his bedroom. There was just enough light flooding over the balcony to see the ugly shape of the Beretta on the nightstand where he’d left it while he napped through the afternoon. He dove bodily across the bed. Just as he reached for the gun, the skylight above his king-sized four-poster exploded downward with the force of an automatic weapon, bullets shredding the down comforter in a storm of feathers, glass shards, and jacketed rounds.
Mercer torqued his body as he crashed to the floor, sweeping his pistol off the stand in the same motion. He landed on his back, his legs up on the destroyed bed, the gun aimed at the ceiling. It took only a fraction of a second to thumb off the safety before he started pulling the trigger, cycling through the clip as fast as the manufacturer said was possible.
He was back on his feet as the assassin fell through the shattered skylight, his lifeless corpse smashing into the bed so hard that the frame cracked, tumbling him to the floor and leaving crimson splashes on the covers. Mercer ejected the spent clip and rammed a new one home, cocking the slide with practiced confidence.
Adrenaline fizzed in his veins like agitated champagne, sharpening his senses to a fine edge. If Harry had gotten in un-challenged by Mike Peters, it was safe to assume that the agent was dead and at least one of the assailants was in the house downstairs. He could only hope that the man on the roof had been the sole backup for whoever lay downstairs.
Now that the backup was dead in spectacular fashion, Mercer had no idea what the partner would do. There was a chance he would flee, but it seemed unlikely. This was the second attempt on his life in twenty-four hours, and they would want to end it now. Since he knew the brownstone better than his adversary, his only chance was to go on the offense. He had to think about Aggie and Harry.
He stalked to the balcony, ducking his head over the railing to make sure the foyer below was empty before pumping three rounds into the marble floor, the bullets sparking off the stone like fireworks. He dashed from his perch, retracing his steps across the bedroom to the back stairs. Whoever was below him would assume that the shots were covering fire for a descent of the spiral stairs, but he planned to outflank, not charge in headlong.
The narrow back stairs were empty as he cautiously made his way down, the Beretta held at the ready, his finger no more than an ounce away from squeezing off a round. The doors to the two guest bedrooms were closed. Mercer guessed that his adversary hadn’t had the time to stage an ambush here, so he ignored them. The bar was a little farther along the hallway, and he was torn between forming a defensive position around Aggie or keeping on the offense. The question was answered for him.
“Come out, or your father dies.” The voice was heated with anger but commanding.
The library, thought Mercer. The guy has Harry in the library and thinks he’s my father. He raced down the back stairs, gliding so quickly that his bare feet barely scuffed the steps. Through the hallway that divided the kitchen and the billiards room and out into the foyer he ran, not making a sound but knowing he was going too slow. The attacker would expect an answer within a few seconds, and he’d already taken too long.
He came to the spiral stairs and started up, his gun trained before him. Just below the second floor, he heaved himself over the railing, hanging ten feet over the foyer and continued upward, his toes finding purchase on the outside of the oak steps. He raised himself to see into the library, a quick motion that would have gotten him killed if he’d stayed between the banisters of the staircase.
The gunman was positioned in the juncture of two book-cases, his back tucked into the corner, Harry held before him as a human shield. The motion of Mercer’s head ducking over the railing caught the assassin’s eye and he fired off a snap shot that went wide but would have drilled Mercer if he’d come up where expected. Mercer had only a split second to react; the next shot would compensate for his deception.
He launched himself off the staircase, lunging for the thick newels that lined the front balcony of the library, his body stretched far out into open space. He grasped the heavy oak in one hand, the momentum of his leap swinging him in a wrenching arc that felt as if it would tear his shoulder from its socket. The barrel of his pistol cleared the library floor. He fired too fast. The shot caught Harry White just below his knee, the impact of the nine-millimeter slug folding his leg under him. He took the gunman down with him when he fell to the floor.