I was halfway down the stairs when something loud and hard hammered my right leg, and I tumbled down to the first floor.
It felt like my right leg had been torn off at the thigh, rotated, and pushed back against my hip. The pain made me gasp. I ended up in a tumble on the floor. I moaned long and loud. The smell of burnt gunpowder was strong. I crawled, turned, and sat myself up without screaming. A pretty damn good accomplishment.
Up on the top of the stairs, Curt Chesak looked down at me, eyes ablaze, weaving back and forth, a pistol in his hand.
He tore at the front of his black turtleneck, revealing a Kevlar vest wrapped about his torso.
“Son of a whore… ” he gasped. “You think I’ve gotten… this far… without… precautions… ”
He fired again. I closed my eyes, flinched.
He had missed.
I started moving back, using my hands, scooting on my butt. My right leg felt as hot as molten lead and about as useful. I couldn’t find my Beretta. He took one step, and another.
“Broke a shitload of ribs… you did… ” he gasped again. “But… I’ll still walk… out of here… alive… ”
The living room. Moved toward the living room. Front door. Looked as big as a barn door, but I had to get outside. Had to.
He stumbled on the stairs, caught himself with his free hand on the banister. He let out a groan and fired at me again.
This round blasted through a window.
I came upon a coffee table. Wedged myself up using both of my arms and my good leg. I tried to forget my right leg. Tried to forget the roaring pain. The grayness of what I was seeing. I got up on my left leg, started hopping, dragging, gritting my teeth. Looked back. Saw a stream of shockingly bright red blood behind me. Wondered foolishly how so much blood got there in such a quick time.
“Cole!”
A couch in front of me.
I rolled over the back of the couch as another shot ripped out, striking my left foot. I screamed again as my right leg hit the back of the couch, then the cushions, and then the floor.
Music was still playing from the television. I was on the floor. The front door seemed even bigger but looked to be a mile away. I was in front of a fireplace. I dragged myself over to the front of the fireplace.
I heard a whimpered squeal from behind me, and then the same noise again, deeper.
My chest was pounding, I was panting, and everything about me grayed in and out.
Up at the fireplace, I grabbed a poker, flipped around. I didn’t faint from the pain.
A quick and good moment.
Curt Chesak staggered around the couch I had just flipped over. My blood was smeared on the couch and its cushions.
He stood still, weaving. “All this… this… for a kid you didn’t even know… and a dyke who’s a vegetable? For real? Christ… ”
I held the poker out. He laughed. “Last stand… of a good man… hmm? You got hit in the thigh, Cole… I could stand here… and just watch you… bleed out… ”
My hand wavered. It seemed like the poker was getting heavier with each slippery second passing by.
He grinned. It was one damn scary look. Shadows seemed to move.
Curt raised his pistol. “So… close… your eyes… if you please… ”
I spat at him. “To hell with you.”
His grin grew wider.
The pistol was now level with his eyes.
He stared down at me.
Stared.
Gasped.
Sighed.
His arm fell to his side, his pistol clattering to the floor.
From one moment to the next, his face turned the color of an old T-shirt.
Then he collapsed.
Revealing a short dark-skinned man standing behind him, wearing a black jumpsuit.
Suraj Gurung. The Royal Gurkha Rifleman who worked now as a driver for Lawrence Todd Thomas, late of the CIA.
In his left hand he held the wicked sharp curved knife called a kukri, which was dripping blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
He put the knife in a scabbard at his side, came to me quickly, knelt down. “Are there any others in the house, Mister Cole?”
“Just the two in the kitchen.”
A quick nod. “We have already met.”
“How… he had a Kevlar vest on. How did you get him?”
“I saw his shape from the rear. I severed his spine, just below the vest. Quite simple, it was.”
He had a small knapsack on his back, which he shrugged off. “You are bleeding profusely, Mister Cole.”
“Getting shot tends to do that.”
From the knapsack he took out a medical kit, some bandages and compresses. He had a small pair of scissors, which he used to quickly split open my pants leg. He expertly went to work, tied off something on my thigh, and said, “I have arrived here in time, luckily, is this true?”
“Quite true,” I said. “How in hell did you find me?”
His smile was wide and white. “Mister Lawrence, he is a very wise man, is he not?”
I remembered the super-duper spy cell phone he had given me back in Virginia. A phone that no doubted carried a tracking device.
“A very wise man. How long have you been following me?”
His hands worked quite fast on my leg. “Long enough. I was in the woods with you, watching you watching the house. I even saw those two huntsmen make water upon your back. You did very well, not moving.”
“Didn’t have a choice.”
“Do any of us?”
He sat back, as if to admire his job. “Excuse me for a bit, I have something to do. Please close your eyes and relax. I will be back most presently.”
I sat up against the fireplace, took his advice, gritted my teeth. I think I passed out, because it seemed like Suraj was back within seconds, kneeling in front of me. “I have a quandary,” he said, his voice concerned.
“Tell me what it is,” I said.
“Mister Lawrence, he told me that I was to follow you, to make sure the job was done, to bring back proof and to ensure you are not harmed. But, alas, you are harmed. And I am concerned to move you. If I do so, the bleeding will no doubt resume and put you in deadly peril. But if I were to call for medical assistance and stay with you, then I cannot complete my task. So it seems—”
I interrupted him. “Get out, then. Get out and when you’re far enough away, make the call.”
He nodded. “Is that fair to you?”
“Very fair. But will you do me a favor?”
“But of course. I will be honored.”
I pointed to the other side of the house. “In the woods back there, you’ll probably find a man with a beard, arms tied up, wandering through the woods. If you find him, set him free. Don’t harm him. Just free him.”
A pleasant nod. “It will be done.” He went back to his kit. “I have morphine.”
“Will it put me to sleep?”
“Most likely.”
“Then I’ll tough it out. I have a task to complete as well.”
Such a wide smile. “I cannot imagine what.”
“Then don’t worry. And get moving.”
He gently touched my shoulder, said, “Go with God, Mister Cole,” and then he stepped back. He picked up a heavy green trash bag, bulging at the bottom.
And the shadows moved, and he was gone.
I waited and waited, caught my breath, and I pushed myself up. Grimaced. The pain seemed to roar right up my right leg to my gut and chest and to the back of my head. I went through the living room, to a door that led — I hoped — to the garage. It opened up easily enough. I took another deep breath. I fumbled with my right hand, found a light switch.
Lit up the place.
I looked around.
There.
A gas can, next to a riding lawnmower.
I hopped over, gritting my teeth even more, grabbed the gas can and managed to do so without falling over. Back into the living room. To the drapes by the other side of the room. I tugged and tugged and they came free. They fell to the floor, and to my surprise and delight, I found my Beretta. The both of us had gone through a lot, and I hated the thought of losing it. I picked it up, tried twice to put it back in my holster, missed each time.