“Go after her,” Luke urged.
Ignoring him, A.J. tugged him down the bandshell stairs. “That’s not my job. Martin, we should herd the guests away from the pursuit.”
“Zone 3 and 5 get on that,” he ordered.
Trusting her team to carry this out, she pulled Luke to a jog beside her. He complied but not happily. “If she’s making a run for it, I’m not in danger,” he protested.
“She’s angry. You just shot her most cherished dream to hell. We don’t know she won’t double back and come after you.”
“What if she goes after someone else?”
“You’re It right now,” A.J. countered. “Along with yours truly.”
That silenced him as she thought it would. They’d reached the shadows nearest the sunken entrance to the kitchen. A.J. directed Luke to a halt. She wanted walls around him, preferably armored ones. She spoke into the transmitter.
“I have Olympus near entrance 4. Approach looks clear. Can anyone confirm?”
“You are clear,” a tech assured. “We’ve got CCTV coverage.”
They dashed inside. The kitchen door was open, the catering staff moving busily around the space. Rachel Fischer’s startled eyes met hers.
“Bar this door,” A.J. ordered, because clearly they hadn’t heard what was happening. “Nobody goes in or out until security okays it.”
She didn’t stay to answer questions. She knew where she wanted to go but not the best path to take. With its jumbled levels and sprawling wings, Luke’s house offered a confusion of options. Then again, she had Mr. Sneak Around with her . . .
“Lead us to your room,” she said. “Not by the most direct route.”
Luke immediately pulled her down a side hall.
“I see Wilhelmina,” Szymanski’s voice came over the radio. “She’s heading back toward the house. Christ, she’s frickin’ Flo-Jo out here.”
“Faster,” A.J. said to Luke. “And try to keep it quiet.”
They reached his suite almost too easily. A.J. darted her head inside then waved him in after her. His rooms were dark, but light filtered through the windows from the decorations for the party. Apart from a few last pops from the plane display, the grounds were quiet—eerily, actually. She wondered if the police helicopter was refueling. She couldn’t hear its rotors anymore. On a more positive note, the team must have succeeded in shepherding guests away. They weren’t making noise either.
“What now?” Luke whispered.
“Now we shut ourselves in your panic room.”
Luke drew a quick breath, studied her for a second, and then spoke. “You don’t want to do that. You want to be where the action is.”
She did, but it didn’t matter. “I won’t make the same mistake your guard at the premiere did. Martin and the others will handle Wilhelmina.”
“And her accomplice?” Luke asked. “Wilhelmina couldn’t have shorted out those lights. She was too busy watching us. What if Martin and the others haven’t realized she’s working with someone?”
A furrow pulled her brows together. She should have thought of this herself. She shook the irritation off.
“I stay with you,” she said firmly. “Your safety is my priority.”
“I’ll be safe. That closet is Fort Knox. A mouse couldn’t reach me there.”
“Even so,” she insisted, striving not to grind her molars. Luke was reading her too well for comfort. “Now shake a leg and get in.”
He sighed, but because he seemed to be complying, she didn’t object to him preceding her through his bedroom. The space was silent, no evidence of intruders lying in wait for them. Luke turned at the closet’s threshold. He raised his arms and braced them on the frame, effectively blocking her way in.
“Please,” she said. “No more arguing.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “That’s a waste of both our breath.”
SO WHAT if Luke only played action hero up on the silver screen? He was tired of being protected while others paid the price. Even more than that, he didn’t want to take an important asset like A.J. from the pursuit. He’d learned how the safe room worked from the firm that fortified it. The panic button was right inside the door. With full awareness that he’d catch hell for this, he slapped it and stepped back.
The heavy panel slid shut too fast for A.J. to squeeze in. It also locked itself.
“Luke!” she said, projecting well enough to be heard through the barrier. “Luke, open this right now!”
Without the code (which she probably knew) and a special key (which he was counting on her not having on her person) the safe room couldn’t be opened from outside. Evidently, he’d assumed correctly. Her fist pounded the door angrily. He winced at that but held firm.
“Go help your team,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly fine in here. Keep your eyes peeled for Sven! He’s probably the accomplice.”
He hoped she listened. In his opinion, Sven was the obvious choice for Wilhelmina’s coconspirator. A.J. suspected everybody on principal. Luke was perfectly willing to zero in on a single person, especially one he disliked. No way had Wilhelmina hired Sven for his skills as a masseur. Nor did Luke buy the common assumption that she kept him on because he appealed to female clients. Some women liked his physique but—with his phony hair and his fake accent—Luke knew others looked on him as a joke. No, Sven was useful because he was Wilhelmina’s creature. Maybe he loved her, or maybe the connection was practical.
Sven was smart enough to know he’d have no place among the glitterati without her sponsorship.
“Fuck,” he heard A.J curse outside.
“Go,” he repeated. “I want this over with.”
He guessed she went, because she didn’t pound again. Her footsteps were too quiet to hear if they went away. The safe room was nearly soundproof. Even noises inside it seemed muffled, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton.
“Shit,” he muttered, knowing he wouldn’t tolerate the sensation long.
He knew himself. He wasn’t claustrophobic but, given his past, he wouldn’t voluntarily shut himself in a room with only one exit. An entrance to Mayfair’s secret passages had been in this closet. Unwilling to give it up, he’d made his own modification to the security firm’s hardening. Through the second door he’d created, he could slip out with no one the wiser. A.J. would hate the idea, but—really—he didn’t risk that much. His live-in staff were unaware of the covert routes. He could creep almost anywhere like a ghost.
“Oh just do it,” he said aloud.
Urging A.J. to join the others—and knowing she’d be useful—didn’t equal having zero anxiety over sending her into the line of fire.
Decision made, he dragged a set of drawers away from the steel panel whose bolts he’d pre-loosened. Shifting the section made him grunt with effort, but the hidden door he wanted was behind it. From there, a click and a gentle push opened the access. Warm musty air rushed out, like a day by the sea let out of an old bottle. Luke grabbed the flashlight he’d stashed and paused for one last choice.
He didn’t have an earpiece like A.J. They’d decided he’d look suspicious wearing one. There was, however, an emergency phone in here. The question was should he call or not call her team. Whoever he reached would argue against him leaving. Also of concern was the chance he’d interrupt some crucial task. The techs were monitoring the cameras. They were the team’s eyes inside the house. Martin, at least for now, was their general.
Luke knew what Naomi always said: better to ask forgiveness than permission.
So be it
, he thought, stepping into the darkness without more delay. If there were the slightest chance he could help, he wouldn’t give it up.
*
A.J. didn’t waste time cursing . . . or not much. Luke shouldn’t have shut her out, but he was right about being safe where he was. Her best option was to help her team subdue the threat to him. The adrenaline flooding her system approved that course of action. Letting her colleagues know she was taking it—and why—was less agreeable.
“Olympus shut me out of the Mount,” she announced curtly, the
Mount
being Luke’s safe room. “I’m rejoining the pursuit.”
“What?” Martin said in her ear. “No. Never mind. Olympus is secure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. We believe the target is in the house, but we do not have eyes on her.”
“What about a status for her partner, Sven?”
“Unaccounted for. No one’s seen him leave the estate, so we’re assuming he’s still on site. And, yes, we realize they’re probably working together.”
“What about Christie and Eliza?”
“Both confirmed among the crowd of guests.”
That was a point in the women’s favor. A.J. paused at the next intersection, undecided which hall to take.
“Boss,” one of the techs cut in. “The cameras in the basement just went out.”
“I sent Szymanski to search down there,” Martin said.
“He’s not responding,” the tech informed him. “Either he’s radio silent or something’s wrong.”
“On my way,” A.J. said, willing to bet on the
something wrong
scenario. “Which staircase was he nearest?”
Luckily, the tech remembered. Deciding any sort of heels were stupid at the moment, she left her pumps behind her. Free then, she sprinted across the floor she was on, pausing only where necessary to remain stealth.
The stairs in question were on the kitchen side of the house. They were empty down to the ground level. She didn’t see the smears of blood on the wall until she’d jogged lower. That and the gouges in the paint told a story she didn’t enjoy reading.
“There’s been a fight here,” she murmured quietly. “I’m going silent. I don’t want to risk alerting our targets.”
The lights were out on the next half flight down. Little hairs rose on A.J.’s arms. Her vision hadn’t fully adjusted. She could only see dimly. She froze, thinking she heard breathing. The breathing didn’t change when she halted, which she might expect if someone were lurking in wait for her. Bracing for an ambush, she descended the last two steps . . .
Her hosiery covered foot hit Szymanski’s back.
He’d tumbled against the door at the basement landing. Heart knocking in her throat, she knelt and pulled out a small flashlight. Thoughts of Szymanski’s wife and what they might have to tell her tried to press into her mind. To her relief, her dread was unnecessary. Her colleague was unconscious but alive, the rising lump on his temple explaining his current state.
A.J. slapped his cheek but didn’t manage to rouse him. The skin on his knuckles was raw, so he’d gotten in some licks. Other than that and the blow to his head, she didn’t see evidence of wounds.
His earpiece was in place, which also was good news. Their enemy wasn’t listening in. On the other hand, his jacket was disarranged, maybe from the fall or possibly someone had searched his pockets. A.J.’s stomach sank as she checked his holster. It was empty. She glanced around. His gun wasn’t lying on the floor or the steps.
Was this Wilhelmina’s doing? The masseuse was strong, but Szymanski was bigger and professionally trained. A.J. supposed their target might have taken him by surprise . . . or maybe the masseuse was trained as well. A memory kicked in. Compulsory military service in Switzerland only applied to men, but women could volunteer. If Wilhelmina had served in her native country, she might be expert at more than relaxing sore muscles.
She
could have been the shooter from the premiere, and forget hiring one.
The idea of their perp having Szymanski’s gun was now twice as displeasing.
That, however, was a concern for a moment beyond this one. She tapped her transmitter on again.
“Szymanski’s down,” she said as quietly as she could. “Unconscious but okay, as far as I can tell. Call an ambulance and send someone to guard him till it arrives. I’m moving forward on this level.”
“Copy,” the tech answered economically.
She switched the receiver off, tucked her flashlight back in her bra, and cautiously pushed the door open.
The cellar had marginally better visibility. A.J.’s team had installed battery-powered strip lighting along the floor. Messing with a fuse didn’t shut it off.
No one was in view in either direction.
She knew she was too wired to make good decisions. She shut her eyes, drew a calming breath, and listened. Very faintly to her right, she heard a squeak followed by a soft percussion. She thought the squeak might have been hinges.
Glad she was in her stockings, she crept swiftly toward the sound. She was approaching the bowling alley, where she and Luke had spent their first night here. She didn’t have time to revisit those events, but feelings returned to her—especially her wary pleasure that he’d wanted to sleep with her in his arms. He was one of a kind: a wicked saint who, amazingly, had concluded A.J. was the match for him. She didn’t know why she was so lucky, only that she couldn’t deny it anymore.
A shadow moved. A.J. shrank back into a doorway. She craned her head to confirm the figure was Wilhelmina. She experienced a moment’s jealousy. The masseuse’s outfit was way more sensible than hers. Szymanski’s gun was shoved into the back waistband of her trousers, not the best spot for a quick draw, though it did free her hands.
As A.J. watched, the masseuse opened and shut a door. The room behind it seemed to dissatisfy her. What was she searching for? A place to hide from pursuit? Another stair to the higher floors? Maybe one where a fallen guard wouldn’t draw his colleagues to check on him?
The latter option struck her as plausible. Wilhelmina could have escaped earlier. Hiding seemed unlikely to be tops on her agenda.
Confronting Luke was a stronger incentive for returning to the house.
From A.J.’s study of its blueprints, she knew the next door led to the stairs the woman was looking for. Not about to let Wilhelmina find them, she pressed her tongue between her teeth and whistled.
Wilhelmina spun toward the sound.
“You,” the woman said, her attention caught. Her face twisted into the mask of rage that had outed her to Martin. “You ruined everything.”
A.J didn’t waste time chatting. She ran full out for her opponent, going aggressive and going fast. Real world fighting wasn’t showy or drawn out. Outcomes tended to be decided early, often by whoever attacked first. If you were on the defensive, you probably were screwed.