18. Battle Lines

Through a white haze of pain, a dark shape appears at the door, pauses, and shoots Scarface, who goes down in a spray of bullets. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Sands makes his way over to the table. I can't get enough air to warn him about the current still flowing though me; he reels away, stumbling over Scarface's body. As he picks himself up, searching for his gun, he comes across the remote. Figures out what it's for. Pushes the right button. I gulp in precious air. "Kate?" He's got his weapon now, and listens for my reply. "Is that you, Kate? Say something!"

"They thought I was CIA." Sands steps carefully over to the table and begins loosening the restraints on my wrists; as soon as I get a hand free, I yank off the collar. "Thanks. Oh, god, my ears are ringing. Where are the others?"

"Here somewhere. I caught your signal and came ahead." Signal? What signal? I limp over to the counter - the tracker is off, what the hell is he talking about? Just then, the rest of the party arrives.

"It's just whoever is left up at the main house. We've got the rest of them," says RC. "Good, you found her. Kate, any damage?"

"I'm fine," I lie. I hurt everywhere. I'm going to kill Gomez. Slowly.

"Good. You stay here with Sands, we're going up to the big house."

"No." I've never directly contradicted my boss before, but I'm not staying here, with or without Sands. I'm faintly amused to see how many guns I've acquired in two days. I check the first clip, sweep the most of my stuff into my bag - it's much lighter without two of the guns - check the load on the second gun, and turn to George. "Let's go."

"Where do think you're going?" growls RC.

Balancing the guns in my fists, I take a deep breath. "I'm fixin' to go teach that sorry son of a bitch Gomez a lesson in whupp-ass. I am sick and goddamned tired of being ordered around and talked down to, and I'm gonna take it out on him. Unless you want a piece first?"

Apparently not. We're both armed and dangerous, but my employer just stands staring at me like I just grew a third eye. Or is targeting me for later, I don't know.

"Are you all right?" George asks me once we're out of earshot of the others.

"I'm a bit shaky," I admit, "but I owe that bastard Gomez a hurtin'." I'm swaying a little, and I know tomorrow I'll hurt even worse. "You know the way. I've got your back."

He gives me a couple minutes to rest and catch my breath while he briefs me on the layout of the hacienda. The main house is two stories, directly ahead of us. To the right is a low building with a row of doors, servants' quarters. On the left, the landscaped back wall of what must be at least a six-car garage. There's a courtyard surrounded by columned walkways between us and the house, lamentably well-lit.

"Wait," I say, thinking. This place is old, old enough that electricity was probably an add-on, meaning that if we're lucky...yes! "Over there, on the wall to the right of the door with the awning...can you hit that bundle of wires?"

"Let's find out," he murmurs, switching guns. It's probably a lot like watching Tiger Woods choose just the right iron, except Tiger doesn't have that sexy accent...oh God, I'm doing it again! George braces his left forearm against one of the columns and lays the barrel of the gun across it, sighting on the elusive target. One perfectly placed shot later, and the atrium is in darkness, relieved only by the lights shining out from the rooms and the glow of the half-moon overhead.

Progressing toward the bulk of the house, I trail George by several yards. It's a nice view. As he prowls past one door, it opens silently inward, and a man steps out, gun in hand, taking aim. Shooting him will bring everyone running, not shooting him could get George dead. "Psst!" I hiss behind the pistolero, who starts and half-turns in my direction. He gets thumped upside the head with one of my gun butts and goes down as George turns to look.

Grabbing his gun, I give the guy another whack for good measure. I've got two guns in my bag now, and one in each hand. George's teeth flash in the moonlight. "You're getting quite a collection," he compliments me in a whisper. "What are you going to do with them all?"

"Oh, hush!" I reply, same tone. My body's natural pain-killers must've kicked in, because I feel incredible: alive, alert, and ready to kick butt. "You'll get yours back!"

He chuckles. "Yes," he agrees. "I'll get mine." That's a promise if I ever heard one.

Someone's gotten smart. The lights in the house are going out. Soon, they'll be coming to hunt us. The end of the building nearest the garage is still bright. "Library," George points out.

"Smell like a rat to you, or just a rat trap?"

He indicates the door near the trashed electrical bundle. It's at the other end of the sprawling hacienda. "Kitchen." Kitchens have knives, is my happy thought. Nice, quiet knives. Some jobs a Swiss Army knife isn't up to, and the guerilla tactics I'm thinking of are on the list. I nod.

No one is in the room as we enter. It's a big, square room with an island - a bank of cabinets with clerestory windows over them to our right, a wall of folding louvered doors straight ahead, and two doors on the left-hand wall. The nearest one seems to be some kind of pantry. The far one leads to a service corridor, which is still lit, giving us enough illumination to maneuver quietly. There's a ton of cutlery ranged on a magnetic strip below the cabinets. I trade one of guns for a business-like Smith and Heinckels with a good edge on the blade.

Then our luck runs out.

Kerttu: Yeah, my toes curled writing both the tub scene and the sewing scene. Rrrow! Kate and Sands are way too much alike; warped senses of humor and both want the last word! Lucky El, caught between those two! There's more angst ahead before poor Kate gets any "quiet time".

mssparrington: The gunpowder/sage/testosterone line was one of my favorites...I tried to think of what El's jacket would evoke, besides warm fuzzies. I like Tom Clancy, though I tend to skip past the "technical" bits and go for the intrigue.

Dawnie-7: I agree, very uncouth - and a big mistake on their part. Treat Kate like a dog and she turns into a real bitch.