86
THE BLAST WAS MORE LIGHT and dazzle than heat and, as Edward screamed and staggered back, Mila drew her baton from the small of her back. The first blow grazed Edward’s jaw, the edge of the baton bloodying the skin. Mila slashed again, aiming for Edward’s chest, but he caught her arm and twisted her forearm savagely. She slammed the heel of her other hand into his face. A fist hammered into the soft of Mila’s throat and she fell to her knees, Yasmin attacking with blows and kicks. Edward grabbed Mila’s hair, spat in her face, pounded her head against the table twice, then a hand wrenched the baton from her grip.
Yasmin, panting and mewling, smashed the baton across Mila’s head, and Mila fell onto the fine Persian rug.
“She hurt me,” Edward said. Blood welled along his skin, dotted his shirt. Mila looked up, and Yasmin Zaid leveled a gun at her. Her thin mouth—with a stitched lip—jerked, wavered, slid back to a mostly straight line. The hand shook slightly. The eyes were blank of feeling. Whatever personality that once ruled this woman was gone, hollowed out and replaced with an emptiness that twisted Mila’s stomach.
“Stand up,” Yasmin ordered.
Slowly Mila stood.
“Where’s Sam Capra?” Edward said.
“Gone. Hunting that wife of his.”
“She got away from him? I’m supposed to believe that? And you just came here to confront us? Please. Do I look moronic?”
“You don’t look smart,” Mila said.
“Is Sam Capra here?” Edward asked.
“No. I came alone.”
“These people you work for, who are they? Are you CIA? Or are you MI5? What?”
“You should be so lucky,” Mila said. “We’re worse. We’re focused. You won’t know how to fight us.”
Edward backhanded her. She held her ground and her strength seemed to enrage him.
“I am not breakable, you pathetic small freak,” Mila said in a hoarse whisper.
“We’ll see. Yasmin, bring her with us. Where are the guards?”
“They went to see about a delivery at the stables.”
Edward froze. “Have they come back?”
“No.”
“Radio them. You, come with me.” He grabbed Mila, put the gun close against the cool of her throat. He hurried her down a hallway.
“Your friend, Piet. When I killed him,” Mila said, “it was like beating a crying sack of flour.”
Edward didn’t slow. “You did me a favor.”
“Ah. Yes. You slaughtered your own people back in the brewery.” Mila turned her head and spat in Edward’s face. Edward slammed her into the wall, drove a brutal fist into her stomach.
“You’re trying to delay me. It won’t work.”
“I know what you are,” she said to Edward. “You worked with a slaver. You’re no better than he is.”
“You don’t like that Piet was a slaver?” Edward laughed. “When I’m done with you, when you’ve spilled every secret about who you work for, I’m going to sell your ass to a man I know. You’re not too old to be broken into the trade.”
“We don’t need her,” Yasmin said, coming up behind them. She centered her gun on Mila’s forehead.
“I feel sorry for you,” Mila said, and Yasmin’s aim wavered. “Whatever he did to you, time can undo. I know people who have been through worse than you and you can recover.”
“What he did was set me free.”
“If there’s a shred of Yasmin Zaid left under the brainwashing, you know that’s not true.”
“I am what I wanted to be, always—free of my father,” Yasmin said. But her mouth wavered, her hand shook.
“You traded one bully for another,” Mila said.
“Don’t shoot her,” Edward ordered. “I want to talk to her. Did the guards report any problems?”
“Some horses got loose,” she said. “They’re chasing them down.”
He frowned. “I don’t like it.”
Yasmin, gun now to Mila’s neck, hurried her to a wall hanging. Edward pushed it aside, pressed a release, and a door opened. Dim light showed stairs going downward.
“Churchill planned to use the estate as a base for a resistance, if needed,” Edward said. “The resistance is here all right. It’s just not the one he envisioned.”
He shoved Mila through the door.
The explosive felt soft and claylike under my fingertips, and for an odd moment I thought of playing in the mud along a river in Thailand with my brother Danny when we were young.
I heard the sound of a footfall behind me.
“I’m holding high explosives,” I said. “So you probably don’t want to shoot.”
No bullet came. I’d given him room for doubt. I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw the redhead aiming a gun at my back.
“Put the explosives down.” He spoke with a Serbian accent.
“You’re the smartest guy I’ve met here.”
“What?”
“Put the gun down. You’re making me nervous. You don’t want me nervous. You can only kill me. I can kill us both.”
An edge cut his voice. “Put the gear down, stand up, hands on your head.”
The gear was in place and I slid the triggering device into my sleeve.
“Now!” the redhead yelled. He looked at me like I was the prize, a promotion, or a bonus. Normally I applauded ambition. Not now.
Slowly I stood, turned, locked my fingers on the top of my head.
“Move back from the door.”
I obeyed, taking five steps.
“Where’s the trigger?” the redhead asked. He was the smartest, after all.
“In the gear bag.” The edge of the triggering device lay cool against my wrist. I took another step backward, getting the redhead between me and the door. The guy was doing it all wrong but I wasn’t going to correct him. Not my place.
He knelt by the gear bag. Explosives apparently made him nervous, as they would any sane person.
“It looks like a silver cylinder,” I said, and it was true. But the guy didn’t do what I hoped; he picked up the bag instead of searching its jumble and gestured at me with the gun. “Let’s go outside.”
“Don’t jostle the bag.” I made my eyes frantic-wide. “Not at all. Because it’s a sensitive button, it gets pushed, then it’s boom, boom.”
The redhead stopped, so I turned and I pretended to stumble over the outstretched arm of the unconscious African, dropped one hand and the detonator device slid into my palm.
“Then you come find it. Not me. I’m not touching this again.”
“All right,” I said and I covered my ears and head as I dropped to the floor and pressed the detonator.
The blast juddered the heavy door and blew it off its hinges. The noise thrummed my bones as I leaped up and slammed a fist into the redhead’s face. Already concussed and dizzy, the man collapsed.
I bolted through the mist of grit and down a set of stone stairs into the darkened tunnel.