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"Neatly done," Giordino said admiringly, as Pitt straightened out and braked sharply beside the yacht's gangway.
"Quickly!" Pitt shouted. "Al, run to the helicopter, remove the tiedown ropes and start the engine.
Maeve, you take your boys and wait out of sight in the salon. It will be safer there if the guards arrive before we can lift off. Wait until you see the rotor blades begin to turn on the aircraft. Then make a run for it."
"Where will you be?" asked Giordino, helping Maeve lift the boys out of the car and sending them dashing up the gangway.
"Casting off the mooring lines to keep boarders off the boat."
Pitt was sweating by the time he pulled the yacht's heavy mooring ropes from their bollards and heaved them over the side. He took one final look at the road leading to the Dorsett manor house. The driver of the van had misjudged his turn off the main road and skidded the vehicle crosswise into a muddy field. Precious seconds were lost by the security men before they regained the road toward the lagoon. Then, in almost the exact same instant, the helicopter's engine coughed into life followed by the crack of a gunshot from inside the yacht.
He sprinted up the gangway, fear exploding inside him, hating himself with the taste of venom for sending Maeve and her boys on board the boat without investigating. He reached for the nine millimeter, but then remembered he had given it to Giordino. He ran across the deck, muttered, "Please, God!" tore open the door to the salon and ran inside.
His mind reeled at the shock of hearing Maeve plead, "No, Deirdre, no, please, not them too!"
Pin's eyes took in the terrible scene. Maeve on the floor, her back against a bookcase, her boys clutched in her arms, both sobbing in fright. A blood-
red stain was spreading across her blouse from a small hole in her stomach at the navel.
Deirdre stood in the center of the salon, holding a small automatic pistol aimed at the twin boys, her face and bare arms like polished ivory. Dressed in an Emanuel Ungaro that enhanced her beauty, her eyes were cold and her lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. She stared at Pitt with an expression that would have frozen alcohol. When she spoke, Deirdre's voice took on a peculiarly deranged quality.
"I knew you didn't die," she said slowly.
"You're madder than your malignant father and degenerate brother," Pitt said coldly.
"I knew you'd come back to destroy my family."
Pitt moved slowly until his body shielded Maeve and the boys. "Call it a crusade to eradicate disease.
The Dorsetts make the Borgias look like apprentice amateurs," he said, stalling for time as he inched closer. "I killed your father. Did you know that?"
She nodded slowly, her gun hand white and as firm as marble. "The servants Maeve and your friend locked in' a closet knew I was sleeping on the boat and called me. Now you will die as my father died, but not before I've finished with Maeve."
Pitt turned slowly. "Maeve is already dead," he lied.
Deirdre leaned sideways and tried to examine her sister around Pitt's body. "Then you can watch as I shoot her precious twins."
"No!" Maeve cried out from behind Pitt. . . "Not my babies!"
Deirdre was beyond all reason as she lifted the gun and stepped around Pitt for a clear shot at Maeve and her sons.
White rage overcame any shred of common sense as Pitt leaped, hurling himself toward Deirdre. He came out fast, saw the muzzle of the automatic pointing at his chest. He did not fool himself into thinking he could make it. The distance separating them was too far to bridge in time. At two meters, Deirdre couldn't miss.
Pitt hardly felt the impact from the two bullets as they struck and penetrated into his flesh. There was enough loathing and malice inside him to deaden any pain, forestall any abrupt shock. He pounded Deirdre off her feet with a crushing impact that distorted her delicate features into an expression of abhorrent agony. It was like running into a sapling tree. Her back bowed as she toppled backward over a coffee table, pressed downward by Pitt's crushing weight. There was a horrible sound like a dried branch snapping as her spine fractured in three places.
Her strange, wild cry brought no compassion from Pitt. Her head was thrown back, and she stared up at Pitt through dazed brown eyes that still retained a look of deep hatred.
"You'll pay. . ." she moaned wrathfully, staring up at the growing circles of blood on Pitt's side and upper chest. "You're going to die." The gun was still locked in her grip, and she tried to aim it at Pitt again, but her body refused to react to her mind's commands. All feeling had suddenly gone out of her.
"Maybe," he said slowly, looking down and smiling a smile as hard as the handle on a coffin, certain her spine was irreparably fractured. "But it's better than being paralyzed for the rest of my life."
He dragged himself off Deirdre and stumbled over to Maeve. Bravely, she ignored her wound and was consoling the little boys, who were still crying and trembling in terror.
Its all right, my darlings," she said softly. "Everything will be all right now."
Pitt knelt in front of her and examined her wound. There was little blood, just a neat hole that looked like nothing more than a slight stab wound from a small object. He could not see where the plunging bullet had expanded inside her body and torn through her intestines and a labyrinth of blood vessels before penetrating the duodenum and lodging in a disc between two vertebrae. She was bleeding internally, and unless she received immediate medical treatment, death was only minutes away.
Pitt's heart felt as if it had fallen into a chasm filled with ice. He instinctively wanted to cry in bitter grief, but no sound came from his throat, only a moan of sorrow that rose from deep inside him.
