No Kiss For The Devil

45

Riley heard a sound at the door and struggled frantically. It could only be Fedorov coming back to continue where he’d left off. The only question was, how long would it last before he tired of his sadistic game?

‘Hello, Cinders. Time to go home.’

‘Palmer?’ She jerked her head up and saw him smiling down at her. He looked rumpled, his clothes dusted with what looked like grey flour, and he was holding a length of steel pipe in one hand and one of her shoes in the other. She was puzzled about the shoe, then memory flooded back and she remembered losing it as Pechov had bundled her along the corridor and into the washroom.

‘Stone me,’ Palmer muttered, and coughed at the tang of bleach. ‘Did they have you doing some housework?’

Riley was choked with overwhelming relief, unable to reply. She felt a tear run down one cheek and turned her head away. If she broke down like a big girl in front of him, she’d never forgive herself.

Palmer put down the pipe and took out a small penknife, gently cutting through the tape and peeling it away. He wasted no time talking, but concentrated on the job in hand, his head cocked to one side, listening for the sound of footsteps.

As the final strip of tape fell away, Riley stood up and shrugged her jacket back into place, overcome by the sense of freedom. But she promptly cried out as the material brushed against the burns on her neck, sending her nerve-ends jangling, and her legs wobbled, the muscles unwilling as circulation was restored.

Palmer caught her before she fell.

‘Pins and needles,’ she muttered quickly, hating the catch in her voice. She flexed her wrists to divert his attention. ‘If I ever meet Pechov again, he’s dead meat.’

‘Too late. Been there, done it.’ Palmer’s eyes were carefully blank. He could almost have been telling her he’d taken out the rubbish. ‘Who did this?’

‘Fedorov. He probably pulls legs off spiders in his spare time.’

‘He’s on my list, too. Can you walk? We need to get out of here.’

She nodded, but the movement make her cry out again. Palmer put a gentle hand under her chin, studying her face and neck with care. She hoped she didn’t look as scared as she felt. Palmer always maintained that fear wasn’t so bad. Fear, he claimed, can make you run faster.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said finally. ‘Hell — these people don’t know who they’re dealing with, do they?’ His voice was calm, solid and reassuring, as always. Typical Palmer at a time of crisis — trying to deflect her attention away from bad news. Yet there was something in his voice, and she noticed he was standing between her and the mirrors.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said softly. ‘But thank you.’ She felt some of the tension ebb away, his calmness reassuring and contagious. God, it was good to know he was here, and on her side. ‘I’m good. Really.’

‘You will be, I promise.’ He stared into her eyes, willing her to take in every word, to cut through whatever she was feeling. ‘I’ve seen stuff like this before. It’ll heal, I guarantee.’ He glanced towards he door. ‘Now, shall we break out of the asylum?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve had it with this place.’

‘Good. Now listen. You’re going down the emergency stairway. You’ll be in decent light all the way, so don’t stop, don’t look back. When you reach the main lobby, head straight for the front door. Go out and keep going. Szulu is out there waiting for you. Got it?’

She nodded dumbly, then reached out and took her shoe from his hand. She took the other one off and held them both. She could run easier without them. ‘What will you be doing?’

Palmer smiled enigmatically. ‘I’ve got some clearing up to do.’ He took a gun out of his pocket and inspected it. ‘It’s a cheap bit of Czech rubbish, but for what I’ve got to do, it’ll be fine.’

‘Palmer-’ Riley wanted him to leave it, to get him to come down the stairs with her away from all this. To leave Fedorov and his thugs for someone else to deal with. She’d never heard him talk this way before, and was frightened for him.

But he placed a finger against her lips and gently shushed her, and she knew there was no changing his mind. Since hearing about Helen, there never had been.

‘No arguments, kid,’ he said firmly. ‘We don’t have time. Don’t worry — I’m not going to do anything daft. Well, not too daft, anyway. How’s the cat?’

‘He’s fine. Built like he is, why was I worried?’ She held onto his arm and flexed both legs in turn, the numbness and tingling gradually receding. If she could blank out the pain in her neck and face, she’d be fine. ‘Varley’s here. Vasiliyev. And Fedorov has two other men at least.’

‘I know. Don’t worry — I’ll chase them round the building until they get tired.’ He led her over to the door and opened it a crack, listening. Then he glanced back. ‘You ready to roll?’

She nodded. Palmer opened the door and stepped outside. Silence. He motioned her forward, leading her towards the emergency stairs. When they reached the door, he pushed it open and pointed downwards, mouthing the word, ‘Go’.

Riley hesitated for a second, then did as she was told. When she reached the bottom of the first flight, she glanced back. The door was closing and Palmer had already gone.

She turned and continued on down. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud in the confined space, and her head was pounding. The burns were a constant fire under the shifting clothing, each movement of her arms and shoulders bringing a further bout of torture. Too much noise, she thought, dully. Too much… bloody noise. They’d hear her coming from Belgium at this rate. On the other hand, she told herself fiercely, if anyone tried to stop her, they’d get a two-inch heel in the eye for their troubles. If only she still had Palmer’s baton.

She spun past the next landing, sobbing against the fire in her skin, and kicked open the door. Too hard; the restraint was broken and it bounced against the wall, reverberating through the building like a twenty-one gun salute. Damn. Too late to worry now. She had to get out of here or Palmer would think she was a real wuss.

Down to the next floor. Bits of grit on the stairs, digging into her bare feet. She caught her ankle against a sharp edge, and felt the skin break. She ignored it. No time for pain. The alternative was far worse. Still no sounds of pursuit, but she had the ground floor to negotiate, which was the most dangerous part of the building. It would be like running across a bare, well-lit landscape.

She charged down the final flight of steps, through the fire door and saw the door to the basement facing her.

And a body lying bundled into the corner.

She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she guessed by the cheap suit that it was one of Fedorov’s thugs.

She hesitated, momentarily forgetting Palmer’s instructions. The words NO ENTRY stood out in big lettering on the basement door, a tempting invitation. Then his words clicked in again. Good advice, she thought; too many people in films went right up to the roof or down to the cellar, and promptly met disaster.

She turned and ran towards the main doors. And skidded to a stop.

A tall figure was standing with his back to her. He turned.

It was Vasiliyev.