chapter Forty-eight
Randy Pinkerton stood several feet outside the door. Casey swung the door shut, but a booted foot stopped it. The door pushed open, knocking her backward, but she righted herself and waited for the man to come forward.
Les Danvers, the second man in that long-ago photo, stepped into the door. He was middle-aged now, mostly gray, and paunchy. His eyes were wide-set and bloodshot, and his nose had those tiny little spider veins all over it. He hadn’t aged well.
“How cute,” he said. “If it isn’t the little lady who was looking for us in Whitley. Just stay calm, sweetheart, and nobody gets hurt.”
Casey threw a front kick into the guy’s crotch, and he froze for a moment of pained surprise before slowly crumpling to the floor. Before he hit, Casey followed up with a side kick to the chin, and his upper body shot backward, blocking the door.
“Hey!” Randy Pinkerton leapt over Danvers, fists up. He looked better than Danvers, still in shape, his hair thinning but still with some color, and his eyes clear.
“Get back,” Casey ordered Eric.
“But—”
“Get the hell back!”
She heard the office chair spin and hoped that meant he had grabbed Wayne and gotten him out of the way, too. She glanced quickly to the side and saw the empty chair. She shoved it back as Pinkerton approached, shuffling forward in baby steps. There was nothing for her to use as a weapon. The only things close to hand were the TV remote, bed linens, and the chair, which would be more of a hindrance than anything. It would have to be hands and feet.
“Come on,” Pinkerton said, “let’s talk this out.”
“You killed an innocent woman.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
He smirked. “Technically, I didn’t kill anybody. He did.”
Marcus Flatt stepped over the still-moaning Les Danvers and stood behind Randy Pinkerton. His entrance brought a chill to the room, and Wayne let out a moan as anguished as Danvers’. Flatt’s expression was like his name, as flat as a night lake, and the look in his eyes just as dark. His arms hung loose at his sides, and he stood with his legs shoulder-width apart. A quick study of his clothes gave Casey no indication that he was carrying a gun, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure.
She held up her hands, as if in surrender. “We can be civilized here, can’t we? We all have things to trade.”
Pinkerton smiled. “I’m not surprised to hear you say that. Marcus often brings out the cooperation in people. Shall we talk, then?”
Casey took a step forward and held out her hand. “Truce. For now.”
Flatt’s eyes widened in the split second it took Pinkerton to take Casey’s hand. Casey yanked Pinkerton forward and spun him around, twisting his arm behind his back so he wouldn’t even think of moving. He gasped, and his head arched back over Casey’s shoulder, his pelvis thrust forward as he tried to escape the pain. It wasn’t working.
“Get out, Marcus,” Casey said.
Flatt smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Casey was reminded of the man called Bone, whom she had killed only weeks before. This deadly killer type was cropping up way too often, and she was growing weary of it.
“I think I’ll stick around,” Flatt said.
His voice sent shivers up Casey’s spine.
“Marc,” Pinkerton gasped.
“Quiet, now. I’m negotiating.”
Pinkerton wiggled, and Casey yanked his arm up higher. He let out a shriek.
Marcus shook his head. “What happened to negotiating?”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s why you’re really here.”
His smile grew. “I guess you know more than I thought.”
“And we know about the night you shot Cyrus Mann. And how you killed Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I don’t think you know all about any of that.”
Danvers was up on all fours now, breathing hard. He struggled to his feet and pointed at Casey. “You…I’m going to get you.”
Flatt held his arm up, bent at the elbow, like he was indicating a right turn. “You stay put, Les.”
“But—”
“Stay.”
Danvers sulked, his lips pushing out like a little boy’s. His eyes narrowed, and the nostrils on his bulbous nose flared.
“You stay, too.” Flatt pointed behind Casey. “Push one button on that phone, the woman dies. Give it to me. Now.” He waggled his fingers, and Eric’s phone went arcing past Casey. Flatt stuck it in his pocket.
Pinkerton squirmed again, and Casey reached up to find some pressure points in his throat. He stilled.
“Where are the blueprints?” Flatt said.
“Not here.”
“I figured that. That’s why we’ll leave one of you alive.”
“Why do you even need them anymore? It’s been forever since Cyrus came up with those, and it’s not like blueprints alone could put you in prison.”
He didn’t reply, and the last thing clicked into place.
Casey tried not to show her surprise. “You actually made one of the boats.”
Flatt’ eyelids twitched just the slightest bit.
“You made a boat, but it got seized.”
Pinkerton made a sudden try for escape, but the way he jerked and the way Casey gripped his arm brought his shoulder right out of its socket. The pop was audible in the small room, and he screamed.
“My God, Pink,” Flatt said. “You need to shut up.”
Pinkerton slumped, but Casey grabbed him under the chin and squeezed her arm around his throat.
“Tell me,” she said. “You were making a run and the boat got captured? But that can’t matter anymore, either. The stuff would be long gone—drugs?”
Flatt shrugged as if saying, “what else?”
“So there has to be something else. What?”
Flatt’ eyelids lowered even further. “Why don’t you keep guessing. It’s more fun that way.”
“You crossed another drug smuggler who’s out for revenge, and you think the blueprints will give you some leverage.”
His only response was the slight lift of his eyebrows.
“You want to build another one.”
No.
Eric’s voice came from behind her. “Someone died, didn’t they? When the boat was captured, there was an attack, and someone got killed.”
Flatt went still.
“But that’s not all,” Eric continued. “It wasn’t just another guy. Another drug smuggler. It was law enforcement.”
Casey remembered the conversation she and Eric had had when they’d first discovered the importance of the blueprints. The early nineties. The smuggling. The violence. It made sense.
“Those blueprints could be the end of you guys,” Casey said. “They could tie you to the boat and to the deaths of those cops.”
Flatt held his hands out. “So now you see. There’s no way we’re leaving without the blueprints. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just told us where they were?”
“Easier for you, maybe, because then you could just leave us for dead, like you did with Cyrus Mann.”
“It would have been easier for Elizabeth if she would have told us. But then, maybe she really didn’t know what we were talking about. That would be a shame. All that pain, and nothing to show for it.” He shook his head. “But at least we had a little fun first.” He smiled. “Like I’m going to have with you.”
Eric made a sound, and Casey held up a hand, sort of like Flatt had done to Danvers. The last thing she needed was Eric trying to be a hero.
Danvers’ face had grown stormier and stormier as they talked, and Casey could see he was about done with waiting. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his feet shifted.
“Eric?” she said.
“All right.”
Danvers launched himself past Flatt, hands outstretched, going for Casey’s eyes. Casey swiveled, throwing Pinkerton back into Eric, then swung forward, sweeping Danvers’ hands up with her left arm and serving him a roundhouse with her right. He spun backward into Flatt, who grabbed him and tossed him toward the door like a ragdoll. Danvers crashed headfirst into the doorjamb and fell, out cold.
Casey took a deep breath and let it out, allowing her body to relax. It all came back to her, just like it had at the dojang the other day. Her. Flatt. Her heartbeat. That was all there was.
And then he pulled out a knife.
Sweat sprouted instantly on Casey scalp and her breath hitched.
“Not a knife fighter?” Flatt said. He turned it in his fingers and held it upright, like they do on choreographed movie knife fights. Not like a real fighter. Not like the thug in Louisville had been. That was something, anyway.
“I haven’t got a knife,” she said.
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
Flatt took a quick stride forward and jabbed toward her stomach. She sucked in her middle and rolled across the bed to the other side, but that trapped her between the mattress and the wall, and left Eric over on the other side with Flatt. Casey grabbed the pillows from the bed and flung them at Flatt. He batted them away, but she used those seconds to somersault across the bed so that she was on his far side. He lunged toward her, knife swinging sideways. Casey crouched and exploded upward, banging his arm with her left and following through with a jab to his face. She connected, and he stumbled back.
He recovered and moved toward Eric. Eric shoved Pinkerton between them. Pinkerton howled with anguish.
“Flatt!” Casey threw the TV remote at his face.
He ducked, then came back at her, knife raised. He swung the blade at her head. She blocked his arm with hers and threw herself into his stomach, shoving him back and to the side. He had a lot more heft than she did, so he didn’t go far, but it was enough to place him on the side toward the door, away from Eric. He fell to his knees, but was up instantly, rushing at her.
Casey grabbed the desk chair and swung it, cracking his knees and sending him face first onto the bed. Casey leapt on his back and grabbed the wrist of his knife hand. She drilled her knee into his back as he writhed, trying to turn over. He was so much bigger, so much stronger.
“Casey!”
She turned just in time to see that Danvers had awakened and was lurching toward her. Eric dumped Pinkerton on Wayne and ran forward, leaping over the chair. Flatt used the distraction to flip onto his back and yank his wrist from her hand. He raised the knife and thrust it down. Casey spun from his grip just as Danvers and Eric each lunged for her, and Flatt’s knife found its mark.
“No!” Casey screamed.
Everything froze, Casey staring at Flatt’s hand, that still held the hilt of the knife. Eric’s eyes were wide and staring, and Flatt gaped at what he had just done. Danvers’ mouth flapped open and shut, and then he fell face forward on top of Flatt.
Casey pulled Eric away, feeling frantically for a wound, but Danvers was the one the knife had found. Flatt yanked the knife from Danvers’ chest and came up off the bed, swinging for Eric’s back. With a roar, Casey hit Flatt’s hand with a roundhouse kick and knocked the knife from his fist, splattering Danvers’ blood over the bed and carpet. She followed up with a side kick, smashing Flatt’s nose, then a front heel, bashing his chin and tossing him back onto the floor. She was winding up for another when arms gripped her from behind, lifting her off the floor. She fought to get free, but it was Eric’s voice in her ear, saying, “Stop, Casey. You got him. He’s done. Stop.”
She batted at his hands, and he let her go. She rushed to stand over Flatt, but her last kick had knocked him out. Danvers lay on his back, gasping for breath, red bubbles foaming out of his mouth. Pinkerton lay on the floor by Wayne, holding his arm and crying.
Eric was right. They were done.
When Casey had regained her breath, she reached into Flatt’s pocket and pulled out Eric’s phone. He used it to call the cops. Within minutes they heard sirens.