TREVOR TURNED THE corner into the great hall and scissor-stepped sideways to get behind the nearest curving staircase. The enormous area rose through all three levels to the roof. Load-bearing walls placed every ten feet broke up the inner space, and gave him plenty of places to duck behind should the need arise. Framed photographs of Big Ben and the Grand Central Station clock in New York decorated them. Beyond the staircase, nestled against a bearing wall on the right, he saw an enormous grandfather clock.
Thing must be twelve feet tall, he thought.
At the far end, an information desk sat near the front vestibule, maps and brochures ready and waiting for patrons to walk through the door. The simple round wall clock told him it neared—
The grandfather clock ticked once, then began to chime. Ding-dung ding-dong. Dong ding-ding-dung.
The sound echoed through the room, duplicated on the other side by a second, smaller grandfather clock. Six-thirty. His planned route to the stairwell in the far back corner should have taken him behind the double-curved staircases and along the left row of rooms. Instead, he headed straight for the vestibule, and, without hesitation, unlocked the solid wooden door and swung it open.
“I see three SUVs. That makes a maximum of fifteen people.”
“Roger. Entering clock room now,” Simon said.
“Understood.”
He clicked the door closed, hurrying into the open corridor that wrapped the outside of the great hall. He could hear faint voices, but they, too, echoed through the space, leaving him unable to tell from which direction they came. Entering the far corner stairwell, he took the stairs two at a time.
A sudden grunt through his radio receiver and the thump of something heavy hitting the ground told him Simon had made first contact.
“Target down.”
“Roger that. Entering whatever the hell this back room is.”
It was long, but narrower than the hallway he’d just left. A velvet rope separated the middle area from the dizzying array of cuckoo clocks mounted on the walls. One decorated with carved leaves and birds, another with a deer head and antlers. He looked at the black one lined with crosses above a pointed roof, and ducked under the velvet rope. Pushing the clock hands anticlockwise, he reset the time on five of them before he heard footsteps and voices outside the door arch.
“How many goddamned clocks can there be in the world?”
He darted into the corner next to the opening, dropping the Uzi. The strap held it in place across his body. The cuckoo clocks began to chime, some playing music and some jingling.
“Fucking noisy shits. I’m taking an axe to every last— Hey!”
The first man through the door carrying an MP5 casually in the crook of his arm startled when he saw Trevor. He tried to swing the submachine gun toward him. Trevor grabbed the barrel with both hands and yanked. The man stumbled forward and past him, losing his grip and dropping the weapon.
“Oh, shit,” the second man gasped, drawing his Browning 1911. Before he could raise it high enough to shoot, Trevor grabbed the barrel with his left hand, simultaneously slamming his forearm into the bend of the man’s elbow. Up, under, and into a figure four, he grabbed his own wrist, yanking down ruthlessly as he twisted the man’s arm sideways and to the floor. The man screamed as the tendons in his shoulder separated and dislocated.
Trevor leapt over his legs to the first man, who had scrabbled to the MP5. He grabbed the man by the collar and belt, and slammed him headfirst into the wall. Dizzy and disoriented, the man tried to get up, but stumbled to all fours. Trevor kicked him in the face. He went down and stayed there.
He took the time to grab the roll of duct tape and secure their hands and feet, putting a strip over each man’s mouth for good measure.
“Targets down in the northwest room. Moving south.”
“Roger. I’m in the hourglass and water clock room. What the hell is a water clock?”
Trevor grinned. “Water. In a clock?”
“Ha-ha. Funny man. Room’s clear. Moving on.”
He gripped the Uzi and left the cuckoo clocks behind. The hallway here opened into empty space, a balcony rail to his left and two rooms to his right. He cleared the first room—a quick peek told him it was empty—and headed to the second.
Footsteps on the stairs to his front left had him scrambling back the way he’d come, before the wearer of the squeaky shoe could climb high enough to see him. He ducked into the room he’d just cleared. The squeaky shoe turned left and headed away from him.
“Be advised tango is heading to the southwest room in the far back. I’m in pursuit,” he murmured.
“Understood. Keep your neck on a swivel.”
“Ditto.”
He heard voices ahead of him. Squeaky Shoe had linked up with someone else.
“There’s nothing downstairs. Mr. Smith says to keep looking.”
“Do you see me looking?” He recognized Nathan’s voice. “I’m looking. There’s nothing here.”
Trevor put his back against the wall and drew the karambit, flipping it open and settling it into his palm. The voices got louder as Nathan and Squeaky Shoe exited. As soon as he saw the flash of clothing, Trevor spun around the corner, clocking Squeaky Shoe in the temple with the hilt of his knife and shoving the slumping body toward Nathan. Who gave a shout of alarm, jumping back and firing a shotgun blindly. Trevor ducked, hands elevated around his head as he scrambled back into the hallway. The shooting stopped.
“Hey, there, Trevor, old buddy. How you doing?” Nathan called after a moment.
“Doing great. I’d be doing better if you came out with your hands up.” Trevor flipped the karambit up and gripped the Uzi as extra adrenaline spiked his system.
Nathan laughed. “Eric said you had a great sense of humor. Why don’t you come on in here, and we can talk about it?”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Something metal pinged off the balcony rail. Several other projectiles passed so closely he felt the air move. He dove to the floor, rolled into the wall, and found the shooter on the other side of the open air, firing from the opposite balcony. He returned fire blindly and leapt to his feet, knees bent, Uzi up and searching for a target.
Nathan ducked out of the room, racking a pump-action shotgun almost in his face.
All the lights went out.