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For a few seconds, the only thing he heard was Dex moaning in the dark behind him. Finally, a new voice, saying, “What do you want, Fargo?”
“Just thought you’d like to know who sold the Ghost to Rossi.”
The following silence lasted for several seconds. Even Dex’s whimpering stopped. “Who?” the man called.
“Might want to ask Frank. Or Dex, assuming he lives long enough.”
Another stretch of silence, then the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
“He’s lying!” Frank said. “I swear!”
The muted gunshot echoed up the stairwell. Someone was equipped with a silencer. That meant only one thing. He’d gotten Trevor and Allegra out just in time. These men weren’t here to negotiate with Dex—or anyone else, for that matter. They’d come to kill.
Sam backed into the room, seeing Dex, his eyes wide with fright. He leaned down, whispering, “I’d play dead, if I were you.”
As dark as it was, he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Dex’s face paled. Sam grabbed the rope Chad dropped for him, slipped on the harness, holstered his gun, and climbed up onto the sill. Dex, he saw, decided to take his advice, slapping one bloody hand on his chest, closing his eyes, doing his best to feign a mortal wound.
Sam tugged on the rope.
Just in time, Chad pulled him up and out of the window. Sam braced his arms on the roof’s edge as Chad held him by the harness. “Hold up,” he whispered, worried about the noise if he climbed up. Allegra and Trevor, arms around each other, were huddled near the chimney, their eyes locked on Sam.
He craned his neck, trying to see below, just as Bruno stuck his head out the window.
“Where’s Fargo?” came a voice, deeper than Oren’s. Colton’s, possibly.
“Not here.” Bruno never looked up. “Must have hid in that other room after he shot Dex.”
“Search the house. Make sure he’s not here.”
Sam heard their retreating footsteps. He signaled for Chad to lower him to the ground, catching sight of Dex on the attic floor as still as death. The man didn’t deserve to live, as far as Sam was concerned, but he’d promised Allegra, and halfway understood why she’d asked to spare his life. Killing the boy’s father while he was perched on the roof, waiting for this to be over, was bound to leave a deep scar. And there was little they could do except try not to make any noise until help arrived or Sam cleared Allegra’s house.
But, right now, his wife was down there—where, he didn’t know—and he was going to make sure she walked out unharmed if it was the last thing he did. He touched down, saw the shattered window glass glittering in the moonlight on the pavement in the tiny patch that was the backyard. Someone had smashed that window from the inside. And since it happened at the same time that Arthur and company had arrived at the door, he knew it was Remi. One thing was clear. She didn’t go out through the window. There were too many glass shards remaining at the base of the sill for anyone to have climbed through. And there were no broken branches in the hedges growing against the fence.
Remi was still inside the house.
Gun out, he made his approach. Time to go in and get her.
82
The odds weren’t in Sam’s favor. Three against one—and that was assuming Dex continued to play dead and Frank really was dead—with no idea where Remi was. If she was hiding anywhere, it was in that windowless space at the back of the stairs that Allegra used for an office, the only place she could get to once she realized she wasn’t making it out that back door.
He had three rounds left in his Smith & Wesson, but he also had Dex’s semiauto, and drew it from his pocket. A Browning 1911-380 with an eight-capacity magazine. He checked, saw it was full, with a round in the chamber. Preferring his more familiar firearm, he was about to tuck the Browning into his waistband but changed his mind. There would be an inquest, and using Dex’s gun to kill anyone would cut down on any questioning about why the permits they’d wrangled the last time they were here had expired.
Both weapons were .38 calibers—a lot harder to match when you were digging bullets out of the floor. The less shots with his gun, the better, and he holstered it, gripped the Browning, flicking the safety off with his thumb.
The backyard was relatively dark—the two floodlights mounted above the small covered porch were off. He was going to have to kick open the back door. He made a wide berth around the broken glass, ducking as he passed the window. Unexpectedly, the floodlights clicked on, blinding him.
A shot rang out, as Sam dove toward the porch, a lance-like pain in his right shoulder catching him by surprise as he hit the ground, diving beneath the porch for cover, out of sight.
Someone had gotten a lucky shot.
Time to switch things around. Not sure where the shot came from, he pressed himself against the bricks near the door, waiting, listening, figuring someone had to be in the kitchen to have turned on those lights. This was going to complicate things.
He heard an audible click above him, and the lights shut off. Motion detector. The graze on his shoulder pulsed with pain, and he reached up, feeling the blood seeping from the shallow wound. Had to be someone at one of the upper windows.
Careful not to trigger the motion detector again, he peered out, just as Bruno’s head emerged from the second-floor window. Sam fired, driving him back, buying time. He kicked the door. It budged about an inch, the nails holding tight. He kicked it again. It flew open, hitting the wall.
A burst of suppressed shots peppered the door, splinters flying.
