A/N: Hate to say it-- especially to those of you threatening to send me tension-related doctor bills (heh!)-- but things are going to get worse for our intrepid duo before they get better. If "better" is still an option, that is....
*****
She left Rippner's apartment two minutes later. Two minutes after that she was on the road, behind the wheel of the silver 325i Rippner had driven them in from the airport the day before. The drizzle of yesterday had turned to sleet today; she felt a moment of panic at that, of driving a strange car in a strange city in weather. The roads were icing. But the BMW was a sure-footed little car, and traffic wasn't heavy. She had the lights with her, too.
Within twelve minutes, with the blessings of the traffic gods, she was at the address Leon had given her. A quiet side street three blocks off the main drag, no shops. A neighborhood of discreet galleries, underground clubs, old warehouses converted to studio apartments. A black latticework of fire escapes ascending brown brick walls. Outside the building Leon had named as his was parked a new black BMW 5 Series sedan. Lisa eased the 325i in behind it, shut off the motor, got out--
-- and nearly fell. A combination, all at once: a bloodrush of dizziness, wet ice beneath the nubbled soles of the sensible light boots she'd fortunately thought to bring along on her trip. She caught herself on the hood of the silver Beemer.
Took a deep breath. Time was passing. She felt trapped beneath the gray, sleeting sky. She could feel ice pellets catching in her hair, stinging her neck down the back of her collar.
She pulled herself straight, watched her step on the icing sidewalk, and entered Leon's building.
*****
The lobby. Burnished brass or copper fittings, walls faced in granite coffee-dark enough to swallow the light from the upturned sconces. No one was about. The elevator was thankfully modern, very fast. She was at Leon's door in under a minute.
*****
His was a friendly face. Dimples, an easy smile, dark, sparkling eyes. A thick tangle of curly dark hair on his head. He was taller than Rippner, likely over six feet shoeless, and unlike Rippner, who was all whipcord and proud lean muscle, he seemed the type who exercised only as much as he absolutely had to in order to avoid being an embarrassment to his employers or his vocation.
"I'm here for Jackson Rippner," Lisa said to him.
"You must be Lisa. How wonderful. We spoke on the phone; I'm Matt. How do you do?"
Leon offered his right hand. Lisa ignored it. "Where is he?" she asked coldly.
"Right there." Leon, stepping back to allow Lisa to enter, gestured behind himself, to the right. As she passed the doorframe, Lisa kept her distance while she followed his point.
Her heart lurched.
Leon's apartment, as Lisa had thought, was a loft converted from old warehouse or factory space. Gray light filtered in through high, sleet-splattered windows. Across the way, open stairs led to a dark second level. To Lisa's left was a kitchen area, a serving counter, four steel-framed, red-cushioned chairs around an old-fashioned steel-and-Formica dining table. On the serving counter was an open laptop, the screen dark and slumbering; on the table was a black sheath and a knife that might well have fit one of the empty slots in the case in Rippner's closet. Finally, slightly to Lisa's right, or to Leon's back-and-left, was an open living area, dark bookshelves, an entertainment center, a sofa and stuffed chairs in olive green, small square end tables. Rippner lay curled on his side where a coffee table might have gone, in the middle of a large sheet of heavy industrial-grade clear plastic. He was wearing one of his dark suits, sans tie. His face was corpse-pale and beaded with sweat; his shirt, as far as she could tell, was soaked with it. His eyes-- and this was the most awful thing-- his eyes, always so clear and lightning-blue, were open, and they were dull, unfocused.
He was maybe twelve feet away, and Lisa couldn't tell if he was alive or dead.
"Where is the antidote?" she asked Leon.
"My third of the antidote, you mean."
Something in his tone-- arrogance, confidence. Superiority. She recognized it--
Customer service time.
She took another deep breath. She felt very, but not oddly, calm.
"Your third. Of course." She smiled slightly. Professionally. Thank you for correcting me, Mr. Business Class.
Leon continued: "I understand you like movies--"
Lisa took the Walther from her coat pocket-- the Walther from the glove box of the 325i, the same Walther Rippner had offered her yesterday-- and pointed the silver snub barrel at his midriff.
"-- guns, too, I see," he finished, smoothly. "Before I take that away from you, let's play a game: Robert Ryan, Lou Gossett, Junior--"
The apartment contained one other thing. Near the foot of the stairs leading to the second level stood a very large, circular aquarium, lit from above. Between its stand and its own clear-glass height, it was nearly seven feet tall. It contained-- what? Lisa frowned, trying to see; even as she attempted to force her eyes to focus-- Were the contents of the hypo affecting her vision, or were the contents of the tank really so exotic at this distance?-- she said:
"The Deep."
"Absolutely correct. With one minor modification." He looked affectionately toward the aquarium. "In The Deep, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Nick Nolte, and the lovely Miss Jacqueline Bisset-- did anyone ever tell you you look a bit like her, Lisa?-- had sharks and one very, very cranky moray eel with which to contend. Here we have jellyfish."
Lisa looked more closely, in the beginnings of horror, at the aquarium. Like any native Floridian, she respected jellyfish; like a good percentage of the beach-going population, she'd once been stung by a box jelly. What she saw in the tank were small, glowing balloons in translucent blue.
"Moon jellies," Leon said, following Lisa's line of vision. "Those aren't the ones you need to worry about. Though-- admittedly-- you're not in any shape to take a hit of neurotoxin at any level at this point. Trust me."
On cue, as if to prove the point, Lisa's vision blurred briefly and the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. She fought to keep herself steady, and to do so surreptitiously: she felt as though she'd been standing with her knees locked, and the last thing she wanted-- it went without saying-- was to pass out now--
If Leon noticed her weakness, he didn't show it. He continued, his tone that of a polite host: "No, the ones that need concern you-- why, we can't even see them at this distance-- are only about an inch across. Irukandji. From Australia. Keeping them is highly illegal. They're extremely toxic, you see. Even to the healthiest of us."
With the Walther, Lisa gestured toward the aquarium. "The antidote: fish it out of--"
Like multiple lightning strikes, pain stabbed suddenly through her torso. Her shoulders, her chest, her stomach. She gasped--
-- and Leon reached with a cobra's whipsmooth speed and took the Walther from her hand. "Unless I miss my guess," he said, "that would be the cramps starting. I'm surprised you're still on your feet."
Lisa let him talk. She caught her breath. Tried to. The pain stuck and bounced and tore its way like electrified stickle-burrs throughout her body. She felt sweat popping out on her forehead.
Focus, Reisert. Focus--
She let her right hand drop to her side. She gently shook her arm--
"I may have to keep her, Jack," Leon was saying, over his shoulder, toward Rippner--
-- and a slender, rough-sided handle dropped from her coat sleeve into Lisa's hand. A hard edge, a tiny lever, against the ball of her thumb--
"She is beautiful. Nearly magnificent, in fact--"
A swift, soft slither-and-click from the handle Lisa held between her fingers and palm.
Leon cast a grin, more a companionable leer, Rippner's way. "Too bad we won't have a chance to compare notes."
And Lisa rammed the blade of the S.O.G. lockback she'd taken from Rippner's knife-case-- her wrist straight, the handle gripped tight, the motion through her arm and chest that of a knockout punch-- into Leon's torso just south of his sternum.
He stood for a moment, stunned. He staggered back a step, as if he could thus escape the blade stuck in his diaphragm. But the S.O.G. went with him. He frowned down at the black-and-blue handle, wavering slightly on his feet.
Lisa held her breath--
Leon looked up again. Smiled. "Never mind."
He raised the barrel of the Walther until the muzzle was level with Lisa's forehead and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Lisa flinched. Leon frowned. Pulled the trigger again.
Click.
His smile returned with realization, even as the color drained from his face. "Like two peas in a pod, aren't you? Seems your girl hates guns as much as you do, Jack." He dropped the empty Walther; it landed with a thunk on the hardwood floor. His eyes twinkled with dead light as his right hand went to the handle of the S.O.G.
Lisa, dizzy and weakening, stared in mounting horror--
Wincing, Leon drew out the blade. He pointed it Lisa's way.
"My turn," he said softly.