Hot Streak

CHAPTER 37

W ith every room at Le Retour lighted, Carey knew Egon had finally arrived. Without discretion he and Molly entered the house. Standing in the center of the entrance hall, he shouted, “Egon! Goddammit, get dressed!”

Then, grabbing Molly's hand, he swiftly moved toward the stairway leading to the third floor. “Pretty polite guy,” Molly said, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up to him.

“No time for etiquette. Besides, Egon's used to me.”

And that casual statement made Molly wonder how many times they'd shared the intimacy of amorous escapades. When Carey pushed open the door into Egon's room without so much as a knock, Molly hung back, uncomfortable with the idea of barging into someone's bedroom.

“Get your ass out of bed Egon, pronto. Sorry,” he briefly apologized with a nod at Mariel who was clutching the bedsheet to her chest. “But we've got to get out of here-now!”

“They might not come.”

“And I'm the Virgin Mary. Get your clothes on.”

Carey's sudden appearance brought thoughts of Rifat flooding back to Egon's mind. “Have you seen them?”

“No, not yet. We might make it out. Meet you downstairs in three minutes. Here.” He tossed Egon's slacks to him and walked out of the room.

“Let's see what we can find for weapons,” Carey said, taking Molly's hand again and moving toward the stairway. “The study's downstairs.”

“What was the girl like?” Molly asked as they descended the stairs. “Did she seem frightened at your appearance?”

Carey glanced at Molly, his expression bewildered. His thoughts were focused on the need to protect themselves. “I didn't look at her. She'll be down in a minute.” He pointed toward a room at the base of the stairs.

“Can Egon handle a gun?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” Carey said, “if the damn things aren't rusted shut.” He was feeling extremely vulnerable at the moment with two women to protect and Egon's stability in question, though he'd seemed remarkably in control. One point for our side, Carey thought. When Egon was in command of his nerves, the man was prime. Like the time they were trap shooting in Austria, and he and Egon had both melted the bores on two shotguns, matching scores all afternoon. Egon had a good eye.

He glanced swiftly at Molly, as if to reassure himself. She smiled at him, and he squeezed her hand. She was so normal and rational, so fiercely lovable. Damn, she shouldn't be here. But then there shouldn't be brutality and injustice in the world, either… he couldn't control the universe.

After an inspection of the rifles and shotguns in the glass-doored cabinet, he found only two unusable. The others, while not modern assault weapons, were custom hunting rifles and shotguns capable of lethal damage. He was stacking ammunition on the large, polished desktop when Egon and Mariel appeared on the stairway. “In the study,” he shouted.

Egon held Mariel's hand when he introduced her, and none of the blasй indifference was in his voice. Carey looked at her with interest; she was fresh-faced and unpretentious, with innocent eyes. A decided change from the European models Egon normally chose to amuse himself. The ones who pretended so much and so often, they were no longer sure exactly who they were. This young woman apparently knew who she was.

“So you're Molly,” Egon remarked enigmatically when Carey introduced her.

“And you're Egon,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “We've been tracking you for hours.”

“I see why you married Sylvie,” Egon quietly said. It wasn't the boredom of location in Yugoslavia, after all. Although dissimilar in physical details, there was a distinct general similarity between his sister and the woman Carey had called for so often when he was sleeping off some overindulgence during his enfant terrible stage. Egon had heard the name “Molly” quite regularly in those days.

“I'd love to sit and discuss my marriage to your sister,” Carey said with a sardonic grin, “but with Rifat's gunmen close on our heels, I suggest we save our skins instead.”

At Mariel's frightened expression, Molly soothingly said, “Carey's pessimistic by nature. I'm sure everything will be fine.”

She should write messages for Hallmark cards, Carey thought, recalling Egon's sports car blown up on his doorstep. “Since there is a possibility of danger, the sooner we leave Le Retour, the better.”

Mariel looked to Egon for explanation. “We'd better leave now to be safe,” he said. “I'll explain on the way to the airport.”

“Are you in trouble with the law?” she queried. There was no reproof in her voice, only concern.

“No.”

“Which is why we have to hurry,” Carey interjected. “The law at least might offer some security. You take this rifle, Egon. I'll take the other, and let's hit the road.”

They were halfway down the outside staircase, the car no more than ten yards away when the AK-47 opened up and blasted the ornate balastrade a foot below them. Mariel screamed. Molly bit back her own cry as Carey whipped his rifle up and fired into the trees where the stream of red tracers originated. “Get back in the house,” he barked, swinging around for a second to see if anyone was hit. “I'll keep them down. Go!” he ordered, and Egon herded them back up the steps while Carey emptied both five cartridge magazines into the trees. He heard the door open and thanked the darkness for saving them. Although the moon was out, sufficient shadow remained to make a moving target hard to hit at that range.

The familiar sound of gunfire had called all of Carey's old reflexes into action. He'd fired into the vortex of the red tracers-dйjа vu, like a vivid movie in his mind. Even the warm, sultry night was the same, only the hordes of mosquitoes were missing. Where the hell were Ant and Luger when he needed them? he thought, crouching down behind the shattered stone railing to load the cartridges he'd stuffed into his pockets.

Reloaded, he scanned the tree line beyond the lawn, watching for movement in the suddenly quiet night. And he knew they were waiting to see what he'd do. For one thing, he'd better change out of this white T-shirt. He gauged the distance up the stairs to the door, slightly ajar now, with a portion of Egon's blond hair visible in the narrow aperture.

Sighting over the warm sandstone, he squeezed off five rapid shots, and then sprinted for the doorway. Egon fired across the lawn into the concealing shrubbery as Carey raced up the stairs in a crouching run, followed by a bursting explosion of flying sandstone as Rifat's men opened fire. Ricocheting bits of stone accompanied Carey's dash inside, and Egon slammed the door shut against the barrage.

“I hope she was worth it,” Carey muttered, pulling Egon away from the door. Even the six solid inches of teak wouldn't stop the AK rounds at close range.

“She was,” Egon replied, his smile brilliant for a man under attack by bloodthirsty brutes who'd kill a man and eat a good breakfast five minutes later.

“It might be your fucking last fuck,” Carey growled, frustrated by the damn timing. Another few minutes and they'd have been gone. “How the hell can you smile like that?”

“I have found bliss,” Egon said. “I recommend it.”

“Great. Glad to hear it. But I don't think the others in this crowd empathize with your current mood.”

Mariel and Molly were huddled against the wall under the stairway, their faces ashen.

“But if some bloody miracle occurs, we might be able to blast our way out of here. How many did you see?”

Egon sobered immediately when he detected Mariel's fear. “I fucked up again, didn't I?” he said, the familiar pain back in his eyes.

Carey was immediately contrite. “Look,” he said with a quick shrug, “maybe it's not so bad. I only saw three I think. How about you?”

Egon sighed. “Three. It's always the same… you have to come and save my ass. I'm sorry, Carey.”

“Hey, hey,” Carey said, taking his arm, “don't bum out on me now. We might manage if there's only three.” Only three, he thought, am I the world's biggest optimist or what? They're fucking Rifat's front line. But he needed Egon functioning, not tripping out in his own little world. “Remember the shoot at Erhard's outside Linz? We paced each other all afternoon. Maybe we can keep them pinned down and pick them off. These custom rifles of your dad's are good for long distances with these full-size cartridges. Hell these are special competition rifles. Can you follow me?”

“Sure, Carey.”

“With conviction now. I want to waste these suckers.”

Egon's smile was faint, but hopeful. “I'll follow you, boss.”

“Good, now let's get the women upstairs and we'll go stalking. Our great advantage is we know this place and they don't. I want to find their car.”

After a swift detour into the study, the women were escorted upstairs past the bedroom floor into the attic. Handing Molly a shotgun and a rifle, Carey said, “These are for protection if you need them. But,” he went on quickly, seeing the apprehension appear in her eyes, “you shouldn't. Just maybe.”

“I can't stand waiting for a footstep on the stairs. Let me come with you.”

Carey's first impulse was to brusquely refuse but that approach never worked with Molly. “Darling,” he said, holding her lightly with one arm around her shoulder, “Mariel's about to lose it over there.” And they both glanced at Mariel shivering in Egon's embrace. “I'm not saying you're not a great shot and we couldn't use you, but we need you here with her.”

“I don't suppose she'll stay here alone.”

“From the looks of it, she's going to fall apart pretty soon, and then Egon's going to get all emotional and I'd prefer that not happen. He can help me flush those guys out of cover; he knows this place inside out. Come on, Honeybear, be a dear and whip that female into shape… Please?”

“They're not going to just go away, are they?” Her words were mild despite their significant content, and she wondered for a moment if she was in shock. Is this normal when being stalked by killers, this unearthly calm?

She must be in shock, Carey decided, she was taking this much too serenely. He'd seen it before, when men started talking about their favorite songs or their girlfriend back home as shells started exploding. Shit. “Are you going to be all right? I've got to drag Egon out of here.”

“I'm fine.”

Oh Christ, he thought, looking at her standing there with a weapon in each hand, a pleasant smile on her face and that damn placid voice. He loved her more than anything, and he had to leave her here whether she could handle it or not; if he didn't move real fast, it was going to be over. “Thanks,” he said in lieu of dragging her into his arms and never letting her go.

It took another few moments to persuade Egon to loosen his embrace. With an imploring glance over Egon's head, he silently asked Molly for help. Setting down the guns, she walked over and put a hand on Mariel's shoulder. “Egon, Mariel and I will be safe here.”

“We'd better go,” Carey declared, placing a heavy hand on Egon's arm. “We won't be long,” he added with theatrical confidence. “Let's hit it.” He felt like a goddamn coach at halftime, but the conclusion of this game was slightly more terminal, especially if he didn't pry Egon loose soon.

At last, Egon slowly relinquished his hold.

“Hurry back,” Molly said with a bracing smile. Now she knew how the eternal female felt sending her man off to war.

“Take care,” Carey murmured so only she could hear, “and don't let anyone in that door.” The intensity of his tone was steel hard.

“Don't worry,” Molly replied, warring impulses battling within her. “Good luck,” she softly added as the door closed behind the men.

While she didn't consider herself some Amazon warrior, neither did she relish the idea of passively waiting to see whether Carey and Egon were killed. Certainly with three enemies outside they could use another weapon on their side. Although life and death situations were distinctly foreign to Molly's repertoire, she'd always prided herself on responding well to crises. She could help; she knew she could. And she was going to.

“Mariel, I'm going with them. They could use another rifle. Can you shoot this if you have to?” Surprised at her solid conviction, Mariel's answer was unimportant. She was going.

When Mariel nodded, it was as though the movement confirmed Molly's resolution. “If it will help Egon, I'll do it,” she said in a very small voice. “They're after him, aren't they?”

“Only because he owns a munitions factory,” Molly clarified. “Otherwise he wouldn't be involved with men like those. Here, now look, this is all you have to do.” And she placed the semi-automatic gun in her hands. “If a stranger comes through that door, pull the trigger.”

Straightening her shoulders, she called on all her reserves of strength. “I'll manage. Now go, before you lose them.” And, pulling up a dust-covered chair, she sat down and aimed the gun barrel at the door.

Molly glanced back once before she left and gave her an encouraging smile. Mariel was rigid as a mannequin, but the determination on her face was resolute.

With her adrenaline and heart pumping at maximum speed, Molly ran down the attic stairs, hoping Carey and Egon hadn't gotten too far ahead of her. But if they had, she'd already decided to exit the house through the study doors facing the veranda. Maybe she could serve as backup if Carey and Egon flushed the men out of hiding. The rifle felt solid in her hand as she paused on the second floor to listen for sounds. Nothing. The silence held an ominous quality; she knew that predators could be closing in, and were perhaps already in the house.

She was more careful descending the staircase to the main floor, keeping close to the wall. Her ears were alert to any noise. At the last step she paused before leaving the protection of the wall. Her approach to the study across the open area of the entrance hall was not conducive to stealth. With the shiny black-and-white marble of the floor, her footsteps would be audible. Certainly she'd be an easy target once she stepped out into the open foyer.

Apprehensively she took her first step away from the wall and listened, her rifle held defensively, her finger on the trigger. Utter silence. Even the outdoor night sounds of frogs and crickets were muted by the thick stone walls. Just as she was about to make her dash across the large expanse of marble to the study, she heard a man's voice, and she moved back one step to the protection of the wall. She waited another slow count of twenty, but the sound was not repeated.

She couldn't stand pressed against the wall forever. Gathering her courage, she raced toward the study across the thirty feet of marble, through the partially open door into the sights of two rifles poised to fire.

Catching a glimpse of the rifle barrel and two shadowy forms, she dove for the floor just as she heard Carey mutter, “Oh, Christ…”

As she lay on the floor, he stalked over and stood silently over her, making no effort to help her up.

“You could have been killed,” he growled.

“So could you,” she replied. She knew damn well she'd come within a hair's breath of being shot; her pulse rate was still loud as a gang war in her ears, and she was bordering on hysteria.

He'd put a hunting jacket over his white T-shirt so he was dressed all in khaki. The only color catching the moonlight was his pale hair.

“You don't follow orders very well.”

“I don't follow orders at all.”

“I don't have time to watch you.”

“You don't have to, and Mariel's in control.”

He sighed and put out his hand to help her up. He didn't have any more time to argue. “Welcome aboard,” he gruffly said. When she placed her hand in his, he pulled her up without effort.

“Thank you,” Molly said. Standing before him, she was dwarfed by his size, but felt a new competence. “I'm a very good shot.” She wanted to tell him she had a girl scout badge in marksmanship and was always a tomboy, but knew how ludicrous it would sound under the circumstances. So instead she said, “I can help.”

He laughed, a dry humorless sound. “They don't say ‘Take 2' if things don't go right, you know. You're risking your life.”

“You are, too.”

He shrugged. “You should think of Carrie.”

“So should you.”

“Okay, Honeybear. We'd better make sure we do this thing right, then. She needs us.” And, putting his arm around Molly's shoulder, he gave her a hug. “Egon,” Carey said, “we have backup now.”

“Mariel's doing fine,” Molly assured him. “She's determined to be brave and help you.”

Even in the dim light Molly saw Egon's expression change to one of tenderness. “She's a remarkable woman,” he said.

“Great,” Carey said, wanting Egon to keep his mind on the problem at hand. “Now, if we're all ready.” He looked at Molly. “You'd better take one of these jackets. You'll need it for your ammo.” He passed it to her, and reached over for a handful of cartridges. Filling her pockets, he gave her a quick kiss and a shove in Egon's direction. “Follow Egon, he's going to lead the way around the house from the servants' entrance. I'll follow you. We're looking for their car first, in case they left a driver there we don't know about.” With Molly between Egon and himself, he could protect her best. But her presence set his already taut nerves on edge.

They slipped out the back door without incident. Concealed by the shrubbery growing close to the stairway, they descended the steps. Every receptor on alert, they crept along the shadows of the kitchen garden wall, passed through the gateway separating it from the south lawn, and immediately stopped. The car was parked at the edge of the lawn where the rose garden boundary began, perhaps thirty yards away.

“I'm going to check the car out.”

“There's no cover,” Egon warned.

“They won't be watching the car. You two keep an eye on that tree line.” And he was gone before the arguments could start. Carey operated best on intuition and impulse-always had. Racing forward, he instinctively tumbled into a rolling dive milliseconds before the barrage of tracers reached him. He'd felt it like a sixth sense and dove for cover behind the car as if his guardian angels were still on full alert.

They wouldn't be firing like that at the car if they'd left a guard inside, so he could take a quick breath. They wouldn't attack in the open, either. Rifat's hired killers weren't looking for dead hero status. He wanted to look inside the car, though, hoping to get his hands on an assault rifle. It would even the odds considerably.

Egon and Molly watched with horror as the pattern of tracers sailed toward Carey, the flash and clamor erupting in the tranquil evening air. Then they fired into the trees in an attempt to protect Carey. The sharp retort of their rifles was distinct from the rapid barrage of terrorists' weapons.

But as suddenly as it began, the fusillade ended, as if in a freeze frame of time. All the participants waited and watched, poised to determine the next move. Normal night sounds and scents once again filled the moonlit scene of open lawn and car and bordering foliage: the low, muted whir of night birds and insects, the rustle of leaves stirred by the ocean breeze, the sweet fragrance of roses incongruous in this drama of death.

Ceci, Deraille, and Reha waited to see if others would join Count Fersten. He'd been recognizable by his size and gilded hair-and by his competence. Ceci was more cautious now. Count Fersten was an altogether different adversary than Egon. Had he brought reserves with him? With a brief movement of his hand Ceci indicated an extremely cautious advance toward the car, keeping well hidden in the shrubbery bordering the lawn.

During the pause Carey had crawled to the south side of the car and opened the back door. Raising himself a scant six inches, he glanced inside and was profoundly delighted. An assault weapon lay partially assembled on the floor. Risking another six inches of elevation, he reached for the pieces and carefully drew them forward. The process seemed endless in the intense silence of the night; in fact, eight seconds elapsed.

Then Carey scanned the area for movement. Assured they weren't within yards yet, he braced himself against the car and began working frantically assembling the weapon. As he snapped the pieces into place, repeating the never forgotten litany like a nursery rhyme from childhood, a flashback of horror materialized in his mind.

Charlie had overrun the perimeter wires in screaming waves at three A.M., and everyone was scrambling for their weapons, firing like maniacs, trying to stay alive when their minds were still sluggish from sleep. Carey had been firing at oncoming VC from a spider hole he'd found, but they just kept coming. The stack of belts at his feet was diminishing. He aimed a head shot at the enemy charging at him, and his M-16 jammed. Dropping down into the blackest corner of his hole, he'd feverishly broken his weapon down, trying to unjam the firing mechanism. He was halfway through, screaming in frustration and rage, when a VC came over the top firing. At the advice of a special forces cowboy he'd met one night in a hot tub in Saigon, Carey whipped a deadly knife out of his shoulder sling. He caught the attacking Charlie just under the rib cage with his blade and ripped him in half clear up to his head.

The assault had abruptly ceased moments later, as though Carey's victory had signaled retreat.

Shoving the magazine into place, he shook the disturbing images aside. Forcing away the bloody sights of death, he felt pleased Rifat's men had chosen a Kalashnikov. They never jammed.

Egon saw the small flurry of movement first. Molly nodded as he silently pointed out its location. “See them?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I'll take the last one, you take the other.”

Their rifles poised and tracking, they followed the slight stirring as a branch shifted and a shrub quivered.

Carey was just rotating the selector to full automatic when Deraille and Reha opened fire on him. He rolled away from the rounds kicking up the lawn around him, scrambling backward and shoving the indicator onto automatic hard. Half-seated, he fired in a sweeping arc at the distant foliage just as Egon and Molly emptied their magazines into the trees. There were screams, but no one was able to determine their origin as everyone desperately reloaded. There was no time for conversation, no time to think; only speed and accuracy mattered now. Molly's hands trembled as she forced the new magazine into the breech. She was almost as fast as Egon, he noted as he whipped his rifle in position again and sighted in.

If he'd taken a second longer in his reloading, he would have been too late to see Ceci step out of the bushes behind Carey.

Egon's scream tore through the sultry night like a machete through gauze, a high-pitched, piercing wail of rage and appeal. “No-o-o-o!” And it echoed above the report of his rifle shots as he ran across the open lawn firing.

Ceci swung round at the cry and aimed automatically at the running figure, allowing Carey the split second he needed to redirect his weapon at Reha and Deraille as they came out of the woods at a run. It was his nightmare over again, and he held his finger solidly on the trigger as they came at him-a VC flashback of death and terror.

Egon staggered backward. Hit in the shoulder, the bullet had passed through his lung with the impact of a freight train. His arms flew outward as he slammed into the ground as if he'd been thrown by some giant hand.

Molly watched in horror as the man behind Carey who had just shot Egon, took careful aim-this time at Carey.

Focused on Deraille and Reha's assault, firing at the two killers who seemed to keep coming at him despite an onslaught of bullets, Carey was unaware of Ceci's objective.

There was no time for finesse or even thought; she barely had time to superficially sight in. Not realizing she was shrieking above the deafening roar of gunshots, Molly fired.

He fell, but like a marionette on strings, he pulled himself jerkily upright and stumbled back into the black shadows of the trees. She emptied her rifle into his back, but he wouldn't fall. Like a scene from a horror movie where ghoulish creatures survive every conceivable means of death.

When her ammunition ran out, she finally halted her own shrill cry. The silence was almost more ghastly than her wild howl.

Egon was spread like a crucified Christ on the manicured lawn, the bloody wound on his chest visible even from her position yards away.

There was no sign of Carey.

No sound.

And Rifat's men could be waiting in the trees.

Gulping back the suffocating sob caught in her throat, she forced herself to reload her rifle.

She counted her remaining magazines aloud in a low murmur to still her fear, as if the sound of her voice was protection from the danger surrounding her, as though the sound of her voice would guarantee Egon wasn't dead and Carey wasn't dead and nothing she saw would be real. She could create her own reality with her voice and ignore the one before her eyes.

As she counted the six remaining magazines, she looked up briefly to steady her nerves. Her fingers were shaking. She saw the pale glisten of Carey's head slowly appear above the automobile hood.

Dropping the rifle, she ran toward him without thought or consideration, without heed for his shouted cry, “Go back!” He's alive! The words clamored through her mind with such deafening fanfare, all else was obliterated. Perhaps she had a guardian angel, too, or perhaps her intuition was as splendid as Carey's. Without care for Rifat's men, she ran past Egon and past the spot where Ceci had stood only moments before. Falling to her knees beside Carey, she threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely.

Carey hugged her back with one arm only, with the other he slowly swept the foliage with his assault rifle.

“You're alive,” Molly whispered between sobs and tears and damp kisses. “You're alive!”

“You took a helluva chance,” he murmured gruffly. “We don't know where they are.” Carey was cold-eyed and tensely alert, though the feel of Molly next to him was sheer heaven.

“Egon's shot,” Molly said, her voice suddenly unsteady. “He may be dead.”

Carey didn't answer, his gaze still on the trees. Were Rifat's killers waiting for them to stand up and become better targets, or were they dead or wounded? His decision to stay quiet a few moments longer reminded him of all the rotten choices he'd been obliged to make day after day in Vietnam. They were wretched choices like this, selfish and cruel and pragmatic. The kind that kept you alive.

“In another minute I'm going to stand up very slowly and we'll see if they're dead or gone or still around.”

“Don't,” Molly pleaded.

“I'll take it real slow. We've got to help Egon… he saved my life.” Carey hadn't seen Ceci until Egon's scream warned him, and without that alarm he'd have been cut in two with rounds. Taking a deep breath, he slid his arm from around Molly's shoulder. “Don't move,” he cautioned. And very slowly, inch by inch, he raised himself from the ground until he was standing. “Stay here,” he ordered, “while I check for bodies.” And in the shuddering aftermath of the nightmare she'd just lived through, Molly didn't raise her voice in dissent.

Carey had to be sure. Even though Egon may be bleeding to death, he couldn't take a chance they were using Egon for bait. He stepped into the shadows of the trees and disappeared.

The minutes Carey was gone seemed like a thousand terrifying lifetimes as Molly sat huddled by the car, alone in the silent, moonwashed night. She strained her ears to catch some sound of Carey's direction, but it was as if he'd left her alone in an alien world, and she felt fear creeping closer like an unseen enemy.

It seemed like terrifying hours, though it was only minutes later when Carey reappeared, carrying two extra weapons. “Two dead,” he said, “and a trail of blood down the mountain. The third man.”

Egon felt like he was suspended in air, his whole body floating somewhere above his head. His collapsed lung only allowed slow little sucks of breath, and he waited for the blackness to descend-the kind he'd always heard described before death. The low murmur of Carey's voice drifted across the lawn. He tried to shout to him, but he couldn't draw enough air into his lungs. Then, as he lay there waiting to die, and no blackness or dazzling light appeared, it occurred to him that perhaps he wouldn't die. And a spirit of hope possessed him. He moved his hand slightly, feeling the damp grass. But when he tried to move his legs, they wouldn't move, and the effort brought choking blood into this throat and mouth. He thought with despair: I'm going to bleed to death. The silence became alarming instead of comforting. Was Carey dying, too? And Molly? Would Rifat's men find Mariel and kill her also? In agony he lay bleeding into the grass, unable to move, suffocating from lack of air in his lungs.

He closed his eyes. When he looked up again, Carey was kneeling over him, his face a mirror of despair.

“I can't feel my legs,” Egon said, but his voice was so weak Carey had to put his head next to his lips to hear him.

“It's all right, Egon,” Carey said. “You're going to be all right.” And he looked away so the lie wouldn't show in his eyes. Egon's right shoulder was torn apart, and the sound of his lungs was like so many he'd heard in Vietnam before the blood choked off all the air.

“I did fine this time, didn't I?” Egon whispered. “I stood up to Rifat.”

“You were great,” Carey said, tears welling in his eyes. “You saved my life.”

Molly knelt near Carey, tears streaming down her face. Wanting some miracle to make Egon whole again, she watched him struggle for air.

“You… owe me… now.” Egon's words were the merest whisper of sound, and the smile he attempted the most stirring act of courage Molly had ever seen.

Carey nodded, not capable of speaking.

“Mariel-” Agitated, Egon tried to say more but, gasping for air, he fell silent.

“I'll take care of her,” Carey promised. “My word on it.”

And the panic on Egon's face subsided. “Love you,” Egon whispered.

“I love you, too,” Carey murmured, his voice husky with emotion. As Egon's eyes closed, a strange anger overcame Carey… as though he could fight death or stay its hand. He wasn't going to let Egon die. He'd breathe air into his lungs if need be, and replace his blood with his own. But he needed a doctor most. Galvanized into action, he stood in an abrupt movement. “Stay with him,” was all he said as he ran toward the house.

He got a call through to Jess, and said, “Get a helicopter. Egon's wounded. Bring a doctor. He'll know where Le Retour is. Hurry.” And he hung up, slamming the receiver down and reaching for a drapery at the same time. Pulling the curtain down with a rough jerk, he tossed it over his arm. Grabbing a tablecloth off the dining room table, he ran back to Molly.

Outside, Carey tore the cloth into strips and began bandaging Egon's bleeding shoulder. Molly watched him gently pack the wound and bind it tightly until the worst of the bleeding was under control. Then he covered Egon with the heavy velvet drapery to prevent shock. While he dressed Egon's wound, he kept looking up, listening for the chopper, pausing for a second in the hope they'd hear the sound of its approach. “You'd better get Mariel. They could be here soon,” he told Molly.

When Molly brought Mariel down, she knelt beside Egon, took his hand in hers, and prayed. He was no longer conscious. His breathing was shallow and labored, his skin completely drained of color.

No one spoke.

In the aftermath of the horror she'd witnessed, Molly felt drained and lifeless. Carey held her in the security of his arms. She leaned back against his chest, letting the emptiness in her mind calm the memories of the awful destruction. When she began to shake, Carey's arm tightened around her, his voice soothing. “It's over. Hush, hush, it's over.” Carey placed his other hand over Egon's, as if he could pass his own energy into his friend, as if he could protect both people he loved with his own powerful strength.

He looked like some great white hunter in khaki jacket and shorts, both stained with Egon's blood. His feet were bare, his tanned body sweat-sheened from his exertions, his gilded hair in spiked disarray under the tranquil tropical moon. He was disheveled and bloody, but steady, and cool, alert for the sound of Jess's approach.

For a disquieting moment she thought: I don't know this man, this unflagging, proficient killer who can go through all this untouched. She sensed the inherent power he possessed, like some inhuman machine without feeling or sentiment.

But it wasn't true. His face ached from the powder burns, and he was exhausted now that his adrenaline had stopped pumping. And bloody images haunted his mind-all the killing ones from Vietnam.

He heard the faint rhythm first. “Jess is here,” Carey said. Releasing Molly, he bent low over Egon. “The doctor's here, Egon, You hear, brat? The doctor's come.” He thought there was a glimmer of movement beneath his eyelids, but when he looked again there was only quiet and the face of death.

Sylvie was the first one off the chopper. When she came within range, Carey shouted, “If you're not going to help, get the hell away.” He didn't want any scenes or screaming tears or questions. He didn't care why she was here or how she'd arrived. All that mattered was grabbing at the slim chance Egon had at life. “And if you know how to pray,” he added, as she halted in midstride, shocked at his brutal tone, “you'd better start.”

Continuing past her, he helped unload the oxygen and stretcher. He answered the doctor's questions in succinct phrases, and wordlessly aided the doctor when he eased Egon onto the stretcher.

Subdued by Carey's warning and the sight of Egon's grave wounds, Sylvie was remarkably quiet. She only said, “We'll follow you,” when Carey informed her he was bringing Egon to Miami. Her private jet which had landed in Montego Bay, was parked near Carey's.

The flight to Miami was funereal. Carey wouldn't talk, but sat with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands. Mariel had found a rosary somewhere, and the doctor and two nurses who'd joined them at the airport spoke in the hushed tones of a death watch.

Carey seemed remote from the man Molly had loved long years ago in their heated summer of passion. Even the sweet, caring man she'd rediscovered short weeks ago had disappeared. She found herself with a silent, merciless gunslinger, a competent killer who had taken control with quiet efficiency as though he stalked hired assassins every day of his life.

The flying bullets had been too real, as were the deadly tone of Carey's voice and the ice in his eyes. She felt a small shiver of fear travel down her spine. Did she really know him at all?

Their arrival at Jackson Memorial Trauma Center didn't alleviate her feelings of uncertainty and doubt. Carey Fersten, a VIP of the first magnitude, was treated with deference by everyone from the admitting clerk to the head surgeon.

Although Carey was concerned for her comfort, Molly found him curiously detached, as if he found it odd to see her still beside him as they entered the trauma center. And much later, when the team of doctors had stabilized Egon's shocked and damaged body, he'd said in a cool voice, “Would you excuse me for a moment, darling? The doctors want to brief Sylvie and me on Egon's condition.” And he walked away with his beautiful ex-wife. His head was tipped low in conversation, giving every appearance of being deeply attached.

Mariel, who had scarcely said a word or looked up from her rosary, patted Molly's hand in comfort.

Molly silently cautioned herself against reading erroneous interpretations into Carey's tenderness toward Sylvie. Good Lord, she chastised herself, he loved Egon, and the next hours could see his young friend gone forever, could see Sylvie's only family disappear forever. They needed each other now, and she'd be the most unfeeling monster to deny them the solace they found in each other.

At last everyone re-assembled in the waiting room. While Molly, Sylvie, and Mariel sat and listened, Carey asked questions about Egon's condition.

The doctors didn't have much hope. Egon had been given last rites. Even if he survived, there was a possibility his paralysis would be permanent. A bullet had lodged near his spine, and was in too precarious a position to attempt removal. Continued pressure was aggravating the paralysis, but surgery now could be lethal.

“I'm so sorry,” Molly said softly.

Mariel cried without uttering a sound.

And Sylvie threw her arms around Carey's neck and wept.

They stayed at the hospital through the night. Carey arranged rooms for them, but no one could sleep with Egon near death. Carey, Sylvie, and Mariel took turns at his bedside.

When he wasn't with Egon, Carey prowled like a caged tiger. I'll kill him for you, Egon, he silently vowed, his need for revenge terrifying in its violence. And later, when he sat by Egon's bed again, watching him struggle to breathe, all his anger and frustration was directed toward Rifat. “Live, Egon, just live,” he whispered to the still, quiet form attached to all the machines and tubes and tanks. “I'll kill him, I promise.”

Rifat's greed had to be stopped, his senseless brutality brought to an end. Carey had never considered himself a crusader; he avoided politics and causes, always contributed anonymously to charities, not wanting the publicity. Even his impulse for soldiering in Vietnam had been inspired by family tradition, rather than patriotic zeal.

But now a black and savage vengeance overcame Carey, a murderous rage that demanded retribution for what Rifat had done to Egon. People like Rifat preyed on weakness and fear. They didn't take the chances themselves. They only gave the orders, detached from the human suffering, the unmitigated terror their greed imposed on other human beings.

For the first time in his life, Carey was a zealot. All he could think of as he sat at Egon's bedside was the retribution he would exact. Nothing else distracted his thoughts, no room existed in his mind for other emotions. His urge to kill was the only positive energy he felt.

The doctors held no hope for Egon.

As he waited, Carey planned every move: what he'd need, how he'd enter Rifat's house, the equipment necessary to avoid detection. “Come on, Egon,” he softly pleaded, bending near so Egon might hear him, “keep breathing.” Like an older brother promising to fight the playground bully, Carey said, “I'll kill Rifat for you.”

And he smiled when he saw a tiny flicker of Egon's eyelid. “Hold on, brat. I need you to make my life interesting.”

That afternoon the doctors made a cautious prognosis. Egon's kidneys had begun functioning, an improvement that moved him into the everyday miracle stage.

It was near midnight when he opened his eyes-only once, but he focused on Carey.

“Welcome back,” Carey said softly.

A dozen times Molly had begun to say, “I'm going back home.” But her declaration would seem tactless and disrespectful when Egon lay dying, so she stayed and watched Carey withdraw into himself.

Molly had had her taste of adventure. Now, in the shrouded gloom of Egon's death vigil, her swift journey into near extinction was enough to last her ten lifetimes. No longer exhilarated or impelled by a need for self-reliance, she only experienced an enormous despair. Disillusion had set in, and all she wanted to do was crawl into her sheltered cocoon and pretend men didn't kill other men over drugs and guns and money. She wanted to go back to Carrie and bring her home. Just before dinner, she told Carey her wishes.

“You can't,” he said bluntly. “Not until Rifat's terminated.”

“Terminated?” A sharp criticism was delivered with the single word. “Why don't you say what you mean?” They were standing in the hall near the windows overlooking the parking lot, where waves of heat rose from the asphalt in transparent vapor.

“Okay, killed. Better? I'm going to kill the mother-fucker,” he said with ruthlessness, his eyes black with hate.

She took a reflexive step backward. “I don't know you like this,” she whispered.

“The war was over when I met you,” he curtly replied.

“Have you…” she hesitated, not knowing why she felt impelled to ask, thinking maybe there was a simple answer to understanding this stranger standing before her. “Have you killed many people?”

“Lots,” he said in a voice devoid of warmth.

That wasn't the simple answer she wanted to hear. It was exactly opposite of the answer she wished for. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “I want to go back home,” she said. This time, he didn't argue.

“Fine,” he said, his voice level and empty. “I'll take you to my father's.”

“When can I go home?” Her words were determined.

“Afterward.”

“After what?”

“After Rifat's dead.”