The police left the Totem. Wyatt walked home alone. Two men were waiting for him in the Rendezvous lobby. He didn’t have to ask who they were. He knew. The dark brothers—the pair who beheaded a dog, terrorized a sleeping woman, and set fire to Henry’s place. One was drinking coffee and punching keys on the computer behind the counter. His partner acted as lookout. His raven stare smoked two holes through the glass door. Striding in a driving snow, Wyatt sensed them before he saw them: sharp , hunting eyes.
His first thought was Opal. Had he locked the apartment door? Was she asleep upstairs, or had they already paid his wife a visit?
He craned his neck for a glimpse at the bedroom window.
A rectangle of gray framed in white lace.
He could decipher nothing. The brother behind the desk stood and spoke to the lookout. Wyatt saw his lips moving, sneers knifed across two faces in a single stroke. He had no weapon on him. In the motel safe, yes.
But the safe was under the desk. Behind a combination lock.
No turning back. They tracked him coming up the apron. He could make a dash for it. The ice made running a gamble. And Opal—he had to protect her. His best bet was to jump into the mix. Stay coolheaded. If they had guns, well, he’d be finding out about that soon enough . . .
“Weather fit for neither man nor beast,” he said.
A strap of sleigh bells tinkled, shaken by the swinging door.
The men answered with silence.
“You fellas need a room?”
He flicked snow off his shoulders, stomped his boots, and hung his jacket on an antler protruding from the wall. Moving slowly. Drawing in a deep breath, letting it go, then another, before he turned around again. His ears keen for the squeak of boots, the rustle of cloth.
He poured a cup of coffee.
Sipped it.
If they wanted to keep quiet, he could do that. The quiet helped him to think. Reality was he had only the one eye. He knew it. They did, too. In a fight the disadvantage would quickly progress from unlucky to deadly.
Adaptation, he told himself. Be smarter.
The brother behind the desk appeared to be the brains of the duo. Wyatt watched him. That left the other on his blindside, behind his eye patch. Wyatt caught pieces of him with a quick head rotation. Using reflections in the glass to flesh out what he was missing from a straight-on view. A slab of meat stacked on two legs. Prison denims head-to-toe; a yard coat with a dirty lamb’s wool collar; hands hidden in his pockets. Wyatt wasn’t too thrilled with the position he’d drawn. But he’d make do. The Brains would show a sign. If his counterpart engaged, there’d be a signal, a flinch.
Something. Anything.
Anything at all . . .
Wyatt would go for broke. Try for a knockdown shot with the edge of his hand. Throat, jaw. Kick out the guy’s kneecap. Deliver him pain. He didn’t want to get trapped behind the counter with both of them still able-bodied. He’d have no space. They would close on him.
He leaned over the counter.
A role reversal: the intruder was standing where Wyatt usually
did. Daring him to mention it with his body language—the provocation would give them an excuse to cut to the action. Action was their forte. He was sure. These weren’t a couple of negotiators or clever strategists.
They didn’t know what he knew. Didn’t know he’d been to the Totem Lodge and seen their handiwork. He’d use their ignorance. Keep them guessing. Make them relax in the catbird seat.
They were a couple of swaggering bad dudes. Maybe killers.
He would kill without hesitation to save his family.
They didn’t know that, either.
They might learn.
“We’re looking for our sister,” Brains said. “That’s her car, we think.” A gloved finger jabbed in the direction of the Camaro’s parking spot around the building.
“Let’s switch places. I’ll look her up.”
Brains rounded the counter. Suspicions playing inside his skull, his brow bunched, shoulders tensed. A gamey smell wafted out from under his clothes. But he came forward. Thinking he had control of the situation.
He passed close.
If the knife's coming, this is when he’ll do it ...
“What’s your sister’s name?” Wyatt asked. He slid to the desk.
“I looked on the computer already. Didn’t see it. She’s a real joker though. Likes to play games, use aliases. But if there’s a single woman here, that’s her.”
Tapping keys . . .
“I have quite a few single guests . . .”
“You’re not listening. We see her car. So that’s her room, right?”
“Which room’s that?”
“Round the corner . . .”
“The only person booked there is a gentleman.”
The desk phone rang.
“Give me a key for the damn room out there or I’ll—”
“Hold that thought a sec . . .”
Wyatt answered the phone, “Front desk. How can I help you?”
The brothers exchanged glances of frustration.
“Yes, sir ... I see, a problem with the electricity. I’m checking in a couple of guests, but as soon as I’m finished, I’ll take a look. Sure thing. Be there in a minute.” Wyatt thumbed the connection. He spoke into the dead receiver. “Sir, let me look in my toolbox here and see if I have a spare fuse.” He reached for the safe under the desk and began spinning the combination.
“What are you doing?” Brains asked.
Wyatt didn’t respond. He had one more number to go. His hands were sweating. His back ached from shoveling. Inside the safe he’d find a Glock 27, loaded with 40-caliber rounds, facing butt-out in a carpeted slot.
Brains tore the phone from his grip.
The dial tone rang out.
“Take him,” Brains said.
And his brother lurched over the counter.
Two hundred and twenty fast-moving pounds dropped into Wyatt’s lap. The office chair crashed out from under Wyatt. He had the safe open.
A gloved hand—a steel blade flicked into view.
He lost it behind his eye patch.
He reached into the safe. His fingertips slipped off the gun butt. He tumbled backward and slammed into a file cabinet. His head hit metal.
The top drawer popped, catching his attacker flush on the forehead.
It didn’t knock him out.
He sat on Wyatt’s chest, straddling him, stunned, blinking. His brow creased with a red welt. The serrated knife in his hand suspended midthrust.
Wyatt punched him in the throat.
Then he bucked him. He tried to seize the knife hand at the wrist.
Missed it.
The big man rolled, choking, crawling. Wyatt shot a leg forward.
Plowed his heel in the man’s crotch. A muffled scream and the guy curled up, fetal.
Wyatt didn’t see Brains’s fist zeroing in.
He went black.
When he came around, he was lying on his belly. The brothers were dragging him out from under the desk. Cursing him. The one he kicked was whimpering and making other sounds, too. Lunatic yelps. Grunts. Wyatt saw his eye patch on the floor. Blood—he guessed it was his—smeared a desk leg. His lip was fat. And the left side of his face had gone completely numb.
He stretched for the open safe.
Too far away.
He planted his hands on the floor and tried to stop the dragging.
He couldn’t.
“You start opening him up. He’ll tell us where the girl is.”
A grunt.
“Then he’s yours.”
A squeal of pure glee . . .
Wyatt heard a door opening. No jingle bells this time.
It was the apartment door.
“No, Opal! Go back!”
“Dad? What the hell .. . ?”
“Adam?”
Wyatt twisted to warn his son. But it was too late. Adam shoved the brothers. Wyatt felt a jerk as they collided into each other and let go of his legs. Adam was strong, agile, but his main leverage had been surprise. The brothers were quick to violence. Unlimited in their use of force. They didn’t think about consequences. Didn’t worry what they were destroying.
The sound of blows landing, muscle and bone smacked together at speed.
Wyatt wanted to join his son in the fight.
But he knew his best option.
He scrambled for the safe.
Pulled the Glock. Spun. Aimed.
Three bodies massed together. His son between the denim-clad siblings—the scrum pushed past the counter and spilled into the lobby.
Wyatt lunged after them.
Adam had a headlock on Brains whose face contorted as he attempted to pry loose, his lank greasy hair hanging over a mask of fury.
The knife on the carpet...
The brothers dived for it.
Brains throwing elbows into Adam’s rib cage. Breaking free. Seeing Wyatt’s gun. Panic replacing his wild anger.
Wyatt’s finger feathered the trigger. Wanting a little more separation.
Air between his boy and the attackers ...
Adam leaping to his feet, not knowing he also crossed into the line of fire.
Wyatt holding back. Maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done.
“He’s got a gun! Go! Let’s go!”
The brothers hit the door running low into a blizzard.
Adam started after them until his father put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Wyatt said.
Adrenaline shook them.
Wyatt glanced down.
They had the presence of mind to take their knife.
At that, he trembled.