While trying to keep Joana distracted, Jade was feeling around with her free hand. She found the shoe on the bed and slowly brought it closer as Joana leaned in.
“I want your hand now,” she said.
The stiletto, with its metallic tip, made a perfect arc before striking the Croatian’s temple, knocking her to the side of the bed. The killer cried out and collapsed on the floor. The letter opener had only grazed Jade in the process.
Jade grabbed the blade and cut herself free. She wasn’t out of trouble yet. The house was probably full of the gardener’s friends. The woman was curled in a fetal position on the rug. Jade pressed down on her carotid artery to slow the flow of blood to her brain and prolong her state of unconsciousness but stopped short of killing her. She tied her up and gagged her.
Adrenaline was pumping through her now, and her mind was crystal clear. She walked across the room and looked out the window at the deserted grounds. She was on the second floor.
Jade headed toward the door and gently cracked it open. Music was coming from the end of the hallway. Too risky. She didn’t have much time. She’d try the window.
She dug through Joana’s handbag and took out her identity papers, undoubtedly fakes, and her cell phone, which would have key information about her contacts. She got dressed quickly, then went in the bathroom to splash some water on her face. The reflection in the mirror was frightening. She looked like an escapee from an asylum.
She didn’t have time to make herself more presentable. On her way back across the room, she picked up the letter opener. Everyone would understand. How could a moral compass hold up in the face of people who tortured and killed without remorse? She pointed the blade at Joana’s belly. A few inches, and the bitch’s life would be over. Sophie’s laughing eyes flashed in her mind. The hate was brewing. It wouldn’t take much more to get her revenge. Jade had killed before in the line of duty, but never anyone who was powerless.
She pulled herself together. No, she wouldn’t become a killing machine. She was better than that. But frustration lingered in her mind.
Jade looked around and saw a stone sculpture on a side table. It was some sort of stylized column. She weighed it in her hand — at least ten pounds. She raised it above her head and slammed it down on the woman’s right wrist.
Joana came to with the searing jolt of pain. She screamed into her gag. Her eyes filled with tears. She twisted her body in an attempt to get free, but Jade sat on her legs.
“I have a dark side, too. I’m not a nice little girl. You’ll be a cripple the rest of your life. I’m not quite done, though.”
She immobilized the broken wrist with one hand, and brought the sculpture down on Joana’s fingers. She was methodical and precise. The woman’s eyes filled with hate.
“You’ll never use your hand again. In case you wondered, one of my instructors taught me that little trick. He learned it from a Congolese army officer. It’s customarily used to punish thieves.”
Before she got up, Jade slapped the woman’s face.
“And that’s just to humiliate you. The problem with us girls is that we’re taught to repress our urges. It feels good to let go from time to time, don’t you think? Adieu, bitch.”
Zewinski checked the bonds to make sure Joana couldn’t escape and then went to the window and climbed out. The grounds were silent. She grabbed the cornice and in less then a minute landed softly on the gravel. Two men, probably armed, were walking along the gate, blocking the way out.
Jade slipped toward the greenhouse and crawled about three hundred feet under the windows. When she reached the other side, she raised her head and peeked through a window. The gardener was inside watering a strangler fig. He was talking to it. The image of the poor tortured man came to mind, and the taste of anger filled her mouth. She didn’t have time to kill him. She needed to get out of there and reach Marcas.
The gardener interrupted his monologue and turned toward Jade. Her heart skipped a beat. He looked in her direction for a while, his ears pricked, and then went back to watering his plants. Jade let out a sigh of relief and stole into the woods at the edge of the property.
54
Marcas’s phone vibrated. The screen indicated an unknown number. He answered and heard a woman’s voice.
“Marcas, I need you to come get me right away.”
“I know, Jade.”
“What do you mean you know?”
“You think I’ve just been waiting around for you? You stand me up and don’t answer my messages. I check your place, and it’s been trashed. Your car’s on the street — with a parking ticket, I might add — and you think I’d go back to the office and sit on my hands until you whistle for me like I’m some chauffeur?”
“I was kidnapped by Sophie’s killers.”
“I had your cell tracked. We located the estate where they took you, and I’m watching the gate right now. The cavalry’s on the way. At first I saw only two guards, but things are definitely picking up in there. Where are you, Jade?”
“In Dampierre. It’s a nearby village. It looks completely deserted. Good thing I memorized your number. Hurry. They’re going to be after me.”
Her tone was urgent.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Marcas?”
“What?”
“You called me Jade.”
“Chalk it up to the adrenaline rush.”
55
The gardener looked down at the tied-up woman, his eyes full of disdain. What incompetence. She had endangered Orden. His men had searched the estate, in vain. The prisoner had fled into the woods, and the chances of getting her back were slim. He had just three men to secure the château, not enough to organize a search party. And he had more urgent issues to tend to. Orden would have to erase any trace of its presence before the police arrived.
Each of Orden’s properties had an emergency evacuation plan. The staff here did a timed test run twice a year. Phase one: retrieve any papers from the safe and activate the fire system. Phase two: take out the six bodies kept in freezers, and put them, along with their fake identity papers, in the bedrooms. Phase three: leave the grounds, using the station wagons parked in a garage. In the last drill, the team had accomplished everything in exactly twenty-five minutes.
The gardener freed Joana.
“That bitch destroyed my hand! Give me some morphine.”
The man didn’t respond. Had it been up to him, he would have put a bullet in her head — the usual procedure for incompetents. She was responsible for bringing down a house of Orden and letting a hostage escape — someone who could identify those in the mansion, including him. But she was one of Sol’s protégés, the daughter of a board member. Untouchable.
“Hans will bring you a shot. We leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll report your failure. Because of you, Orden is losing a precious base, and I’m losing my little dearies.”
Joana’s hand was killing her.
“Your dearies?”
“My darling plants. They’ll die in the fire. I’ll never get over it. I’m very sensitive.”
Joana fell back, looked at the ceiling, and let out a laugh.
“You’re a madman. You cut people up with pruning shears and cry over your damned plants.”
The gardener glared at her and turned to leave the room. “Fifteen minutes, no more,” he shouted. “That’s when the fire starts.”
Joana pulled herself up. The gardener wouldn’t spare any details in his report. She knew her errors wouldn’t be forgiven, and her injuries would keep her from doing what she liked best: killing. She didn’t expect any pity from Orden. Only weak people showed pity. That was what Sol preached. Her only chance of salvation lay in her father.