It was an odd-moving quartet that reversed its direction, retreating back
down the stairs then up the corridor to the communications center Angelica
had indicated. She led the way, slender and beautiful, her translucent
pink peignoir wafting behind as she moved. Behind came Michael Coldsmith-
Briggs, his limp pronounced, pain and weariness drawing his well-defined
jaw tighter with each step. Amy Newman, dressed in old brown slacks and
top, clung tenaciously to his shirttail, her breath whistling between her
missing front teeth. Dominic Santini trailed them all, gaunt body covered
with the sweat of exertion, his gait a clumsy mixture of step-hop on his
one remaining foot.
The sliding security door that protected the communications center in view, when they ran into trouble. Only feet beyond, the elevator door at the hall's end opened and John Horn emerged, followed by three soldiers armed with Uzis. To the man's left and slightly in front of the escapees, more men appeared from the stairwell, each snapping into a lock-and-load position, awaiting only the order to fire. Everyone stopped in place, allowing Horn to step forward unobstructed.
"I am prepared," he began without preamble, "to negotiate for the return of my daughter."
Santini's ruddy skin darkened. "We don't--" he began, outraged at the assumption.
"We don't make deals with guns pointed at us." Michael interrupted the older man before he could give voice to the thought that they weren't holding the woman prisoner. Michael's face didn't change save for a slight widening of his eye, hidden behind the thick lens of his glasses. He lifted the barrel of his rifle higher until it pressed against Angelica's side, one hand gripping her arm in a mock-fierce grip, which she barely deigned notice at all. "Tell your men to move back. Now!"
"But not you," Dom added, aiming his automatic awkwardly at the industrialist. "We still got 'ta ... negotiate."
The nearest mercenary, recognizable by Briggs as the thin, mock-effeminate Rombauer, glanced at Horn questioningly; the industrialist nodded. "Do as he says. Situation fourteen."
"Yes, sir." The black clad man signaled, and the soldiers melted backwards. In the hush remaining, the sound of heavy boots on the steps was audible, even as was the hiss from the elevator closing.
Horn remained standing alone in the middle of the corridor, looking solitary but dignified. His charcoal suit jacket was unwrinkled, his platinum hair impeccably groomed; the man looked more as if he was heading for a executive meeting than the middle of a combat zone. No trace of fear marred the handsome face and he did not so much as glance at his daughter. His light blue eyes, so near the shade of Angelica's, remained locked on Archangel's, a sardonic smile twisting one corner of his mouth. "The troops are gone and I am quite unarmed." He raised both hands to chest level to show they were empty. "Now what?"
"Now, we make a phone call." Michael approached the man cautiously for all his claim at being unarmed, and shoved him into the room Angelica had indicated earlier. Horn looked surprised at the destination but did as he was told, closely followed by the rest of the escapees. It did indeed turn out to be a communications center, a state-of-the-art radio filled the near right corner of the twelve-by-twelve foot area, of the type used to contact operators all across the globe. To the left, a bank of monitors glowed softly, their output coming from the security cameras across the estate. A large computer mainframe sat against the rear wall, completing the picture. There were no windows or other exits; the air was fresh, conducted through a grating located at waist level and to the right of the computer.
"Nice cell we got here," Santini remarked dryly, keying shut the sliding security door from the inside.
Horn retreated to the far side, watching the group patronizingly. "My men have orders not to let you leave the estate."
Michael, holding the rifle threateningly in one hand, turned the industrialist, shoving him roughly against the wall, then gave the man a rapid pat down for weapons. "I think they will; they're not going to risk my shooting the guy who signs their paychecks. Do you have the radio worked out, Dominic?"
Santini settled heavily into the seat before the radio, laying the crutch on the floor and replacing the pistol in his waistband. He studied the equipment quickly and pressed several buttons; gauges and tell-tales glowed to life at once. "No problem -- fancy design, standard controls." He twisted a dial, selecting the special frequency the Firm reserved for emergency use only, and thumbed on the mike. "Knightsbridge...."
"Use my identification," Archangel called, stepping back from Horn but not taking his eyes off the man as he turned.
"Right." Santini nodded. "Knightsbridge, this is Seraphim One calling an Armageddon code. Repeat, this is Seraphim One calling an Armageddon Code. Knightsbridge, please acknowledge."
There was a crackle from the speaker, then a woman's voice answered, cool and calm. "Seraphim One, this is Knightsbridge. Armageddon code received. Give us your coordin--"
The mike went dead. Dom frantically pressed several keys, trying frequency after frequency, but static was all he could raise. "They took out the antenna," he said, angrily throwing the mike to the desk. He leaned forward, dropping his head in his hand. Exhaustion hung on his wasted frame, the reminder that he had spent the last three months in inactivity while recovering from horrible injuries. "It was before I could get a location out."
Horn watched the display with amusement. "Did you really think it would be that easy? Although I will admit you've done well so far in capturing both myself and my daughter." With a vague wave and without so much as looking at her, he indicated Angelica, who was standing in front of the door, hands pressed against her sides, enigmatic gaze fixed on her father's face. "You might have at least let her dress before dragging her out of bed." "I want my daddy," Amy whimpered, beginning to cry.
Dom patted her shoulder clumsily, then slid an arm around her skinny little shoulders and pulled her into a hug. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart, Uncle Dom is going to get you out of this somehow."
"For real?" she asked, lifting her head from his white shirt front and staring at him with childish trust.
He forged a grimace into a smile. "Sure. You just have to stay calm for a little while and do what we say, okay?"
She nodded, tears stopping like a faucet; she'd probably cried herself out over the past few months. "Okay." She sniffed then coughed.
Michael glanced at the child then tilted his head. "Do you hear it?"
"Hear what?" Dom asked, coughing once and cocking his still-working left ear. "I don't hear anything."
Lips parted with alarm, Michael's gaze centered on the single vent feeding oxygen into the room. "Gas!" he yelled, leaping immediately into action. He looked around frantically, his eye lighting on the calmly staring industrialist. He one-handedly shoved Horn back against the wall, using that same grip to remove the man's gray jacket. He didn't bother with the niceties but rather ripped it off, sending the buttons flying in all directions. Michael yanked open the grate, then stuffed the jacket into the vent, blocking off the flow. He then threw himself against the mainframe, pushing with all his might. His left knee buckled under him once, eliciting a short bark of pain, but he redistributed his weight and pushed again, this time succeeding in moving the heavy computer six inches to the right until it covered the vent. Another push from the front and it sat flush against the wall.
"That ... may buy us some time," he panted, sagging weakly against the front of the computer, visibly fighting for consciousness as his abused body protested the strain. "But it's going to get pretty stuffy soon. We may have to crack the door."
Santini watched from his chair, unable to make even the effort to assist the agent, Amy hiding behind him. "That's why Horn was so willing to accompany us," he remarked tiredly. "He probably has traps all over the place."
"I pride myself on being prepared for any eventuality." The now openly smiling industrialist straightened, turning to again face his captors, minutely adjusting the diamond cufflinks at his wrists until they hung with millimetric perfection. "With my men warned, you'll never make it out of here alive."
"My father's men are very well trained," Angelica agreed, breaking so long a silence that everyone jumped, having nearly forgotten she was there. "They're already coming back." She pointed at the monitors, where could be seen a small squad of troops making their way down the corridor.
Michael took a deep breath, running his sleeve across his sweat sheened face. Every move was an obvious effort, but he forced his legs to carry him back across the room, shooing the woman to the side of the door. He pressed it open, loosed a few shots at the men and closed it again, not waiting to see them scatter. "They thought the gas would have knocked us out by now. It'll take them awhile to come up with a new plan."
"A very little while," Angelica said softly.
Michael glanced in her direction but no more. He tilted his head, studying the bank of security monitors. "Horn's men are all over -- looks like they're covering the exit from the elevator and the stairs. We'll have to make sure to use the hostages to prevent them getting a clear shot." He took Horn by the shoulder, his fingers sinking painfully into the solid muscles under the silk shirt. "After you, John," he invited urbanely, ushering the man towards Angelica's position. "Come on, Dominic."
Santini made to obey, retrieving his crutch, then using it to lever himself up. He managed one step before his remaining foot gave out, spilling him to the floor, just missing Amy, who was by his side. The crutch and pistol landed with a double clatter, skidding several feet in opposite directions.
"Dominic!" Michael yelled, looking torn between continuing to cover Horn and going to his companion. "Are you all right?"
The older man took a deep breath and jacked himself up onto one elbow, unable to even fully sit. "Not gonna make it, Michael," he panted. "Not enough juice left in the old body to go any further. You'd better try for a break without me."
Briggs snorted, his face a picture of rebelliousness. "Are you kidding? Can you picture Hawke ever letting me off the hook if I left you behind?"
"Since when do you care what String thinks of you?" Santini countered gruffly.
There was a moment's disbelieving silence while a slow flush worked its way up Briggs' neck. "I told you once, Dominic," he gritted with an element of guilt in his carefully controlled voice, "I am not a machine. I never said I didn't care."
The scornful look on the pilot's face faded, consideration sharpening his eyes. "Why do I get the impression there's something you're not telling me?"
"Later!" Archangel barked, ending the subject. "We have to go now! Try to get up."
To do him credit, Santini gave it a game try. He forced himself up inch by agonizing inch, managing to make it all the way to his knees before his strength evaporated and he collapsed with a loud groan. Michael started at the sound, gaze involuntarily shifting to his friend. That lapse was all John Bradford Horn needed. He tensed, jabbing Michael violently in the stomach with his elbow, then swinging his clenched fist up and back into the agent's face, loosening his grip on the rifle. Horn scooped it up, leveling it at the very center of the agent's chest.
"As I mentioned," Horn said, breathing heavily, "I'm prepared for any eventuality. Angelica," he called over his shoulder. "Open the door. We're leaving. All of us." When there was no reply, a puzzled look crossed the man's handsome features. He shifted his position so he could see both his daughter and prisoners at the same time. "Angelica? Open the door."
"I don't think that's going to happen, Mr. Horn," Dominic said softly, lifting his head. "Not this time."
Angelica Horn smiled calmly, large eyes fixed with genuine affection on her father. Her hands, however, were no longer pressed against her sides. Her right hand was up, now revealing the little Beretta she'd used with such effectiveness against Lydia. That was not what made Horn gape at her, but rather the target she had chosen.
"Why are you pointing that gun at me?" the industrialist demanded. "Cover Santini."
Angelica's tranquil smile widened. "They have to go home, Father," she told him calmly, not moving the gun. "This nightmare has to stop somewhere. Don't you see that?"
Indignation dropped from Horn's face, replaced with shock. "Anastasia was correct," he said aloud. "I didn't realize how near the edge you were, Daughter."
Angelica dismissed that with a wave. "The nightmare is over now."
One eye on his captives, Horn made a great show out of lowering the gun although it coincidentally happened to remain pointed in Michael's direction. "I wondered how Archangel escaped Anastasia's clutches. You helped them?"
"The nightmare is over now," she repeated serenely, not avoiding his scrutiny but rather welcoming it. "Over at last."
Horn frowned, then brightened, confidence unruffled by her attitude. "It's not necessarily over, Daughter," he told her gently. "Not so long as I trust you." He took a step forward, smiling paternally. "Could you really betray me, Angelica? Your own father? I don't think so."
Her answering smile was sunlight itself. The tracks in her face and around her mouth melted away leaving her skin smooth, her turquoise eyes filled with such peace that anyone who saw her would have agreed that her name was more than appropriate -- she was as celestial as any heavenly being could have hoped to be. "I could never betray you, Father. I told you that once before. I love you."
"Then put down the gun, Daughter," Horn coaxed, relaxing when the little pistol was pointed at the ceiling.
She shook her head. "I could never betray you. But I have to do this." The gun dropped, retargeting just as her slim finger tightened on the trigger....
***
The sliding security door that protected the communications center in view, when they ran into trouble. Only feet beyond, the elevator door at the hall's end opened and John Horn emerged, followed by three soldiers armed with Uzis. To the man's left and slightly in front of the escapees, more men appeared from the stairwell, each snapping into a lock-and-load position, awaiting only the order to fire. Everyone stopped in place, allowing Horn to step forward unobstructed.
"I am prepared," he began without preamble, "to negotiate for the return of my daughter."
Santini's ruddy skin darkened. "We don't--" he began, outraged at the assumption.
"We don't make deals with guns pointed at us." Michael interrupted the older man before he could give voice to the thought that they weren't holding the woman prisoner. Michael's face didn't change save for a slight widening of his eye, hidden behind the thick lens of his glasses. He lifted the barrel of his rifle higher until it pressed against Angelica's side, one hand gripping her arm in a mock-fierce grip, which she barely deigned notice at all. "Tell your men to move back. Now!"
"But not you," Dom added, aiming his automatic awkwardly at the industrialist. "We still got 'ta ... negotiate."
The nearest mercenary, recognizable by Briggs as the thin, mock-effeminate Rombauer, glanced at Horn questioningly; the industrialist nodded. "Do as he says. Situation fourteen."
"Yes, sir." The black clad man signaled, and the soldiers melted backwards. In the hush remaining, the sound of heavy boots on the steps was audible, even as was the hiss from the elevator closing.
Horn remained standing alone in the middle of the corridor, looking solitary but dignified. His charcoal suit jacket was unwrinkled, his platinum hair impeccably groomed; the man looked more as if he was heading for a executive meeting than the middle of a combat zone. No trace of fear marred the handsome face and he did not so much as glance at his daughter. His light blue eyes, so near the shade of Angelica's, remained locked on Archangel's, a sardonic smile twisting one corner of his mouth. "The troops are gone and I am quite unarmed." He raised both hands to chest level to show they were empty. "Now what?"
"Now, we make a phone call." Michael approached the man cautiously for all his claim at being unarmed, and shoved him into the room Angelica had indicated earlier. Horn looked surprised at the destination but did as he was told, closely followed by the rest of the escapees. It did indeed turn out to be a communications center, a state-of-the-art radio filled the near right corner of the twelve-by-twelve foot area, of the type used to contact operators all across the globe. To the left, a bank of monitors glowed softly, their output coming from the security cameras across the estate. A large computer mainframe sat against the rear wall, completing the picture. There were no windows or other exits; the air was fresh, conducted through a grating located at waist level and to the right of the computer.
"Nice cell we got here," Santini remarked dryly, keying shut the sliding security door from the inside.
Horn retreated to the far side, watching the group patronizingly. "My men have orders not to let you leave the estate."
Michael, holding the rifle threateningly in one hand, turned the industrialist, shoving him roughly against the wall, then gave the man a rapid pat down for weapons. "I think they will; they're not going to risk my shooting the guy who signs their paychecks. Do you have the radio worked out, Dominic?"
Santini settled heavily into the seat before the radio, laying the crutch on the floor and replacing the pistol in his waistband. He studied the equipment quickly and pressed several buttons; gauges and tell-tales glowed to life at once. "No problem -- fancy design, standard controls." He twisted a dial, selecting the special frequency the Firm reserved for emergency use only, and thumbed on the mike. "Knightsbridge...."
"Use my identification," Archangel called, stepping back from Horn but not taking his eyes off the man as he turned.
"Right." Santini nodded. "Knightsbridge, this is Seraphim One calling an Armageddon code. Repeat, this is Seraphim One calling an Armageddon Code. Knightsbridge, please acknowledge."
There was a crackle from the speaker, then a woman's voice answered, cool and calm. "Seraphim One, this is Knightsbridge. Armageddon code received. Give us your coordin--"
The mike went dead. Dom frantically pressed several keys, trying frequency after frequency, but static was all he could raise. "They took out the antenna," he said, angrily throwing the mike to the desk. He leaned forward, dropping his head in his hand. Exhaustion hung on his wasted frame, the reminder that he had spent the last three months in inactivity while recovering from horrible injuries. "It was before I could get a location out."
Horn watched the display with amusement. "Did you really think it would be that easy? Although I will admit you've done well so far in capturing both myself and my daughter." With a vague wave and without so much as looking at her, he indicated Angelica, who was standing in front of the door, hands pressed against her sides, enigmatic gaze fixed on her father's face. "You might have at least let her dress before dragging her out of bed." "I want my daddy," Amy whimpered, beginning to cry.
Dom patted her shoulder clumsily, then slid an arm around her skinny little shoulders and pulled her into a hug. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart, Uncle Dom is going to get you out of this somehow."
"For real?" she asked, lifting her head from his white shirt front and staring at him with childish trust.
He forged a grimace into a smile. "Sure. You just have to stay calm for a little while and do what we say, okay?"
She nodded, tears stopping like a faucet; she'd probably cried herself out over the past few months. "Okay." She sniffed then coughed.
Michael glanced at the child then tilted his head. "Do you hear it?"
"Hear what?" Dom asked, coughing once and cocking his still-working left ear. "I don't hear anything."
Lips parted with alarm, Michael's gaze centered on the single vent feeding oxygen into the room. "Gas!" he yelled, leaping immediately into action. He looked around frantically, his eye lighting on the calmly staring industrialist. He one-handedly shoved Horn back against the wall, using that same grip to remove the man's gray jacket. He didn't bother with the niceties but rather ripped it off, sending the buttons flying in all directions. Michael yanked open the grate, then stuffed the jacket into the vent, blocking off the flow. He then threw himself against the mainframe, pushing with all his might. His left knee buckled under him once, eliciting a short bark of pain, but he redistributed his weight and pushed again, this time succeeding in moving the heavy computer six inches to the right until it covered the vent. Another push from the front and it sat flush against the wall.
"That ... may buy us some time," he panted, sagging weakly against the front of the computer, visibly fighting for consciousness as his abused body protested the strain. "But it's going to get pretty stuffy soon. We may have to crack the door."
Santini watched from his chair, unable to make even the effort to assist the agent, Amy hiding behind him. "That's why Horn was so willing to accompany us," he remarked tiredly. "He probably has traps all over the place."
"I pride myself on being prepared for any eventuality." The now openly smiling industrialist straightened, turning to again face his captors, minutely adjusting the diamond cufflinks at his wrists until they hung with millimetric perfection. "With my men warned, you'll never make it out of here alive."
"My father's men are very well trained," Angelica agreed, breaking so long a silence that everyone jumped, having nearly forgotten she was there. "They're already coming back." She pointed at the monitors, where could be seen a small squad of troops making their way down the corridor.
Michael took a deep breath, running his sleeve across his sweat sheened face. Every move was an obvious effort, but he forced his legs to carry him back across the room, shooing the woman to the side of the door. He pressed it open, loosed a few shots at the men and closed it again, not waiting to see them scatter. "They thought the gas would have knocked us out by now. It'll take them awhile to come up with a new plan."
"A very little while," Angelica said softly.
Michael glanced in her direction but no more. He tilted his head, studying the bank of security monitors. "Horn's men are all over -- looks like they're covering the exit from the elevator and the stairs. We'll have to make sure to use the hostages to prevent them getting a clear shot." He took Horn by the shoulder, his fingers sinking painfully into the solid muscles under the silk shirt. "After you, John," he invited urbanely, ushering the man towards Angelica's position. "Come on, Dominic."
Santini made to obey, retrieving his crutch, then using it to lever himself up. He managed one step before his remaining foot gave out, spilling him to the floor, just missing Amy, who was by his side. The crutch and pistol landed with a double clatter, skidding several feet in opposite directions.
"Dominic!" Michael yelled, looking torn between continuing to cover Horn and going to his companion. "Are you all right?"
The older man took a deep breath and jacked himself up onto one elbow, unable to even fully sit. "Not gonna make it, Michael," he panted. "Not enough juice left in the old body to go any further. You'd better try for a break without me."
Briggs snorted, his face a picture of rebelliousness. "Are you kidding? Can you picture Hawke ever letting me off the hook if I left you behind?"
"Since when do you care what String thinks of you?" Santini countered gruffly.
There was a moment's disbelieving silence while a slow flush worked its way up Briggs' neck. "I told you once, Dominic," he gritted with an element of guilt in his carefully controlled voice, "I am not a machine. I never said I didn't care."
The scornful look on the pilot's face faded, consideration sharpening his eyes. "Why do I get the impression there's something you're not telling me?"
"Later!" Archangel barked, ending the subject. "We have to go now! Try to get up."
To do him credit, Santini gave it a game try. He forced himself up inch by agonizing inch, managing to make it all the way to his knees before his strength evaporated and he collapsed with a loud groan. Michael started at the sound, gaze involuntarily shifting to his friend. That lapse was all John Bradford Horn needed. He tensed, jabbing Michael violently in the stomach with his elbow, then swinging his clenched fist up and back into the agent's face, loosening his grip on the rifle. Horn scooped it up, leveling it at the very center of the agent's chest.
"As I mentioned," Horn said, breathing heavily, "I'm prepared for any eventuality. Angelica," he called over his shoulder. "Open the door. We're leaving. All of us." When there was no reply, a puzzled look crossed the man's handsome features. He shifted his position so he could see both his daughter and prisoners at the same time. "Angelica? Open the door."
"I don't think that's going to happen, Mr. Horn," Dominic said softly, lifting his head. "Not this time."
Angelica Horn smiled calmly, large eyes fixed with genuine affection on her father. Her hands, however, were no longer pressed against her sides. Her right hand was up, now revealing the little Beretta she'd used with such effectiveness against Lydia. That was not what made Horn gape at her, but rather the target she had chosen.
"Why are you pointing that gun at me?" the industrialist demanded. "Cover Santini."
Angelica's tranquil smile widened. "They have to go home, Father," she told him calmly, not moving the gun. "This nightmare has to stop somewhere. Don't you see that?"
Indignation dropped from Horn's face, replaced with shock. "Anastasia was correct," he said aloud. "I didn't realize how near the edge you were, Daughter."
Angelica dismissed that with a wave. "The nightmare is over now."
One eye on his captives, Horn made a great show out of lowering the gun although it coincidentally happened to remain pointed in Michael's direction. "I wondered how Archangel escaped Anastasia's clutches. You helped them?"
"The nightmare is over now," she repeated serenely, not avoiding his scrutiny but rather welcoming it. "Over at last."
Horn frowned, then brightened, confidence unruffled by her attitude. "It's not necessarily over, Daughter," he told her gently. "Not so long as I trust you." He took a step forward, smiling paternally. "Could you really betray me, Angelica? Your own father? I don't think so."
Her answering smile was sunlight itself. The tracks in her face and around her mouth melted away leaving her skin smooth, her turquoise eyes filled with such peace that anyone who saw her would have agreed that her name was more than appropriate -- she was as celestial as any heavenly being could have hoped to be. "I could never betray you, Father. I told you that once before. I love you."
"Then put down the gun, Daughter," Horn coaxed, relaxing when the little pistol was pointed at the ceiling.
She shook her head. "I could never betray you. But I have to do this." The gun dropped, retargeting just as her slim finger tightened on the trigger....
***