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“Good-bye,” he said, and then he passed into the hallway like a shadow.
Pitt had failed to delay Delphi and to prevent Adrian’s abduction. He sat there, agonized, as the man in the bathroom came out, nodded, and then returned. The other guard set down his gun in a chair and approached Pitt, his round, ordinary features masking any dark hint of sadistic traits.
Pitt saw the blow coming, but was too late to duck. He could only bow his head. The guard’s fist connected solidly on the top of Pitt’s cranium, smashing him out of the chair to the floor against the balcony curtain.
Blackness tightened its hold on his brain but Pitt shook it off and pushed himself groggily to his feet. He dimly perceived the guard kneeling on the carpet, holding a deformed wrist in one hand, and heard him whining like a wounded animal. The bastard broke his wrist, Pitt concluded. A grim smile touched Pitt’s face as he realized the pain from the growing knot on his head was nothing compared to a fractured bone.
Pitt stood without moving. Then a hand from behind the curtains touched his arm. He felt a back and forth motion as the cord that bound his arms and wrists was cut The aroma of plumeria swept over him like a warm and releasing wave. In an instant the bonds were gone and a small double-edged knife was carefully slipped into the palm of his right hand. He didn’t dare turn to her, to pull away the curtains that concealed her. Instead he grasped the knife tightly and wiggled his hands to be sure he could call upon them without any numbness or restricting stiffness.
The guard stopped his low wail and began crawling across the carpet toward Pitt. His partner in the bathroom went about his business, not aware of anything above the gush of the bathtub faucet Then the guard eased the broken limb into his lap, reached toward the chair with his good hand, and grabbed his gun, swinging the muzzle in a short arc and aiming at Pitt’s chest, his pain and hate wiping away all thought of obeying Delphi’s orders for an accidental death.
Sweat drained from every pore on Pitt’s body. The guard was too far away to make any kind of a move; the projectile from the gun would ventilate his torso before he could even leap half the distance between them. The guard sat for an agonizingly long time, merely staring at Pitt. Then he began inching closer, pushing one knee in front, then the other, half a foot at a time, narrowing the gap to five feet. Still too far.
Pitt was going through the tortures of the damned. Three feet; Pitt needed three feet between them before he could strike with any hope of drawing blood first. An arm’s length. It would take an arm’s length, he told himself as he gauged the required distance.
The guard crept closer. He kept the gun pointed at Pitt’s chest, letting it wander from time to time to the forehead. Once a smirk crossed his face as he leveled it in the direction of Pitt’s genitals.
Patience, Pitt told himself over and over. Patience. The two most important words in the English language, he repeated in his mind, were patience and hope. He just might be able to bring it off; the guard had almost moved into range now. Pitt waited tensely a few seconds longer for insurance. If he rushed the moment, he might not be able to shove the gun far enough away from his body before it discharged, and he had no doubt that the guard’s reflexes would squeeze the little firing button at the slightest contact. His only chance of success lay in surprise. He still held his freed hands behind his back, lulling the guard into the security of an easy kill. This had to be it. He let his jaw fall lower and lower and forced his eyes wide in mock terror.
Then Pitt lunged. He knocked the gun upward with his left arm, ignoring the hiss of the projectile as it passed a scant inch over his shoulder, while in nearly the same motion, he swung his right hand in a short sweeping arc, the sharp blade of the knife slashing the guard’s throat to the windpipe. A hideous rasping sound came from the gash in the guard’s throat as blood spurted over his chest, over the carpet, over Pitt’s arms. The guard’s eyes looked on Pitt in glazed shock before they rolled up beneath the lids, and then his body gave a convulsive heave as he slowly collapsed.
Pitt sat transfixed for an instant at the sight of the dead guard. Then he retrieved the gun from the floor and stepped softly toward the bathroom. He could hear the whirring of the electric razor as the other guard readied the instrument for Pitt’s execution. The tub was full and waiting. Pitt kept his eyes on the bathoom door as he quietly advanced along the wall.
Suddenly the doorbell chimes echoed through the apartment. Pitt, jolted by the unexpected sound, jerked up and froze as the guard charged from the bathroom, stopping in mute shock at the ghastly sight of his dead comrade laying on the floor. Then he turned and stared blankly at Pitt.
“Drop the gun and freeze,” Pitt said sharply.
Delphi’s executioner stood still and squinted at the small automatic in Pitt’s hand. The door chimes sounded again. The man leaped sideways and, as he brought up his gun to fire. Pitt shot his assailant in the heart.
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p; The guard remained standing, gaping at Pitt through stunned and vacant eyes. His hands fell limp; the projectile gun dropped softly to the carpet as he slowly sank to his knees before toppling sideways and ending in a fetal position on the floor.
Pitt remained immobile, listening to the frantic pounding on the front door, his eyes taking in the debris of death at his feet The four walls of the room seemed to close in on him. Something was missing. His mind refused to cooperate; the last few minutes had left him confused and numb. Someone else should have been there...
Summer!
He threw back the curtains that bordered the balcony, finding nothing but the wall behind them. Frantically he searched the room, calling her name. She did not answer. The balcony, he thought. She must have followed Delphi and his men from the roof. It was empty, but a rope was tied to the railing that led to the terrace of the apartment below. She had escaped the same way as before.
Then his eyes caught a small flower laying in one of the lounge chairs. It was a delicate plumeria blossom; its exquisite white bloom flushed yellow on the inside. He held it up, studying it as one might study a rare butterfly. Delphi’s daughter, he thought to himself. How was it possible?
He was still standing there on the balcony with the flower in one hand and the gun in the other, gazing out over the brilliant blue rippling ocean when Hunter’s security men broke through the door.
“Mr. Pitt...” The attractive young WAVE spoke hesitantly. “The admiral’s expecting you. Oh, by the way,” she said, lowering her eyes, “we’re all proud to have you in the 101st for what you did on the Martha Ann.”
“How’s the admiral taking his daughter’s kidnapping?” He hadn’t meant to sound so brusque.
“He’s a tough old bird,” she answered simply.
“Is he in his office?”
“No, sir. They’re all waiting in the conference room.” She rose and came from behind her desk. “This way, please.”
He followed her down a corridor, where she stopped at a door on the right, knocked, held it open, announced him, and closed it quietly behind him when he had passed through.
There were four men in the room. Two he knew, two he did not. Admiral Hunter came forward to shake Pitt’s hand. He looked older, far older, far more weary than when Pitt had last seen him, only four days previously.
“Thank God you’re safe,” Hunter said warmly, surprising Pitt with a tone of intense sincerity. “How’s your leg?”
