I rolled my eyes. “Are you still pissed about Zanzibar?”
He leaned close and I realized the Fisherman’s Friend smell was long gone. He smelled like old man. “You took my Nazi, Billie. That was my assignment, my mission. You were there as backup only. You were supposed to handle the art and fill in our cover story. That’s all. But you couldn’t help yourself. You rushed in and took her.”
“I saved your life,” I said quietly.
He slammed a hand to the table, causing the mugs to jump and the candle flame to flicker. “You really think I couldn’t handle one old woman? She got off one lucky shot and she wouldn’t have gotten another. I had everything under control. And you ruined it. The very last Nazi ever taken by the Museum. And you got the credit.”
“Vance, she’s dead. That was the mission. What does it matter who made the kill?”
“It mattered.”
“Enough for you to decide to plot my death four decades later?”
He grinned. “No. But enough to make your death completely acceptable as part of what happens now.”
“And what does happen now?” Helen asked quietly. “You kill us and take over the Museum?”
“Something like that,” he said. He rose, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “With Martin gone,” he said, flicking a glance to Martin, who flinched, “and Naomi on leave, it will be easy to institute a few changes.”
“Such as abolishing the other two board positions,” Natalie suggested.
“And rolling their functions into one job—yours,” Mary Alice finished.
He shrugged. “Downsizing. It happens to every organization sooner or later.”
He motioned for us to stand. “Up on your feet. It’s time.”
“It’s not the worst plan in the world,” I told him. “And you’d have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for us meddling kids.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestured around the room. “Four assassins and two guards, five more guards outside. And that’s not even counting me. Look, you played and you lost. There’s no shame in that. But it’s over now.”
He turned to go, leaving the wet work to the others. My gaze dropped to the phone on the table. Mary Alice’s. The Menopaws! app was open, the little cat circling as numbers counted down.
“Vance,” I called.
He paused in the doorway. “What? You got any last words?”
“Yeah.” I looked at the other three. Mary Alice. Helen. Natalie. Then I turned to Vance. I took a deep breath and smiled. “Assuming that because a person is sixty she doesn’t understand location services is ageist bullshit.”
Just then, the numbers on the app hit zero and the little cat on the app meowed. Helen’s phone meowed too, and at the same second, Natalie’s joined in. Outside, Minka had my phone, set to sync with the others, and as the four mechanical cats yowled in unison, we dove under the table just as the window shattered and the room erupted into flame.
The fight was over faster than you might expect. To begin with, we had the element of surprise. Mary Alice and Helen had screwed the tractor panel to the underside of the table, reinforcing it and buying us some time as we flipped it on its side and sheltered behind. The window blowing out was a nice little diversionary tactic thanks to Taverner’s prep with the potatoes and Akiko’s throwing arm. Each potato had been fitted with a firework, giving a nice little pop and a nasty amount of smoke as they came flying through the window. Taverner had built Akiko a snug bunker in the garden, and the plan was for her to keep lighting and hurling while he lay in wait for whatever guards Vance had sent ahead. I suspected Taverner had brought a few toys he hadn’t shared with me, but he would be lethal enough with just the boning knife from the kitchen. Minka stayed with Akiko, lighting and pitching. One of them hit Nielssen squarely in the face, and he charged outside, one hand clapped to the bloody crater where his eye used to be. A quick gasp told me Taverner had finished him.
That left Wendy Jeong, Carter Briggs, and Eva Nowak. Martin had ducked out through the smoke and confusion, and I wasn’t sure where Vance was. Nat grabbed the oilcloth and dragged it off the table, catching one container of coffee creamer in midair. She pitched it directly at Eva, the powder exploding as it hit her faux Chanel. Mary Alice followed with the lit candle and the whole thing went up like the Fourth of July. (Most people don’t realize exactly how flammable nondairy creamer is. Consider this a PSA.)
Nielssen had left the back door open as he ran, and we had a clear line to it as long as we stayed behind the table. With a heave, we lifted it in front of us like a Spartan shield, running as fast as we could as Wendy and Carter emptied their guns at us. Bullets ricocheted around the room, and one of them winged Carter. Just then, Wendy’s gun jammed, and as she worked the clip, Mary Alice noticed the small bit of powdered creamer burning near her shoe. Her aim wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. The bottle of cooking oil she threw smashed at Wendy’s feet, splashing her up to her knees. Carter had transferred his gun to his nondominant hand, and he emptied another clip. The table was giving way, the wood splintering to hell, and I knew it wouldn’t stand another round.
I looked around for something to throw, but before I could lay hands on anything, Mary Alice snatched up a heavy iron skillet and swung it like she was batting cleanup. There wasn’t much left of his head after the second swing, and she turned to Eva, finishing her off where she’d fallen while Nat took care of Wendy. Helen looked shell-shocked, but I grabbed her hand and hauled her outside, my other arm around her waist.
“It’s almost over,” I promised her.
Just then a bullet winged through my hair, clipping the very bottom of my earlobe. It was Vance, coming through the garden at us. I shoved Helen aside, and she stumbled back into the house. Mary Alice and Nat were putting the fire out, and Akiko must have run out of potatoes. God only knew where Taverner was, and I realized it was probably always going to end like this.
I stood up, shaking with adrenaline and fatigue because, let’s face it, I’m not as young as I used to be.
I squared up to Vance, blood dripping down my shirt. “Goddammit, Vance. That was silk.”
“Smartass, right to the end,” he said, raising his gun. He squeezed and nothing happened. He didn’t try again. He tossed the gun aside and reached inside his pocket, coming up empty. He must have miscalculated or misplaced his backup because he had nothing, and as he straightened, he stripped off his jacket and cracked his neck.
And then the bastard smiled at me. He smiled the same smile I’d seen a thousand times, a hundred thousand. The smile that said, I know best. The smile that said, I’m better than you. The smile that said, I’m safe here and you’re not. The smile that said I have a dick, so I win.
Rage rolled up in me like the sea and I felt it sweep over my head, threatening to drown me. And then I heard a voice, small and still, a voice I hadn’t heard in forty years. I closed my eyes and listened.
It isn’t your anger that will make you good at this job. It is your joy.
The rage ebbed and, in its place, only happiness. Fierce, rampant happiness.
It wasn’t the prettiest fight I’ve ever been in, but it was the most ferocious. I hit him with everything I had and he damned near won. We were on the grass, wet with dew and slippery, his legs locked around mine, his hands squeezing my throat until my vision was going dark. He’d managed a few good hits to my ears and they were ringing so loud I couldn’t hear anything except my own heartbeat.
I could tell he was surprised I’d held my own for so long. But then, Vance always did underestimate women.