Adam came in through the double doors off the second-story patio, having finally tackled the latticework. He was in a large, nicely done guest bedroom. He walked out of the room and then up the long hall toward the front of the house. Halfway up the way, he passed a closed door. From inside he heard someone calling for help. The voice was muffled and distant but clearly emitted by someone in extreme distress kicking something. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. He checked a little farther up the hall: no one else seemed to be up in this part of the house. He made his way into another room, an upstairs den. It was filled with memorabilia. Rich kid collector’s crap, he thought. This is what happens when you have more money than God; you just start buying shit up by the dozens. Bugles. Boxes. Knifes. Maces.
Adam went back down the hall to the locked door. He used one of Heaton’s fancy hunting knives to jimmy his way into the room. He saw two steamer trunks laid out on the floor. One of them had someone trapped inside it. He came over cautiously, broke the lock with the butt of his pistol, and then trained his barrel at whoever was in there as he opened it. It was Early.
Some serious roadwork had been done to his face. Adam gave him his hand and helped him stand. It was a chore, but he managed. Early was scared out of his mind, shaking like a leaf.
“Who put you in here? Heaton?” Early nodded yes, then pointed to the other trunk.
“Someone’s in there, too. I heard him beating someone else.” Adam went over, broke the lock in the same fashion, and found the cop from Dorrington: the little one with the badge around her neck, the one who saved him from the dogs. He turned to Early.
“Do you know this woman?” Early nodded.
“Inspector Steel.… Is she dead?”
“She may be, yes.” He bent down; she wasn’t moving. She was cute, he thought. He wondered what the hell she had gotten herself mixed up in all of this for. He lightly slapped her face. Nothing. He looked over to Early, not wanting to look at the quiet, unmoving body of the young woman any longer.
“Dead?” Adam checked under her neck, groped for a pulse, and got nothing.
“Yes. I think so.” He looked out at the hallway. He turned his attention to downstairs, then looked back to Early and handed him Heaton’s hunting knife.
“Hold on to this. You may need it.” Early feebly took the knife.
“Be careful. Heaton’s still down there.”
“Good, because I’m going down to see him. I’ve had enough sneaking around to last a lifetime.”
* * *
THE TIRED, SORE, broken, busted-up man from Michigan made his way down the ornately paneled front hall stairway, taking each step gingerly. The next face he saw was Heaton’s. He was coming in from the front door, having been out on the motor court. If Jack looked like a different man, the same could be said for Sir David. His eyes were enraged, his face bright, raw, and red. It was contorted with fury. The smooth-talking, giggly game player was gone. He had no clever salutation to impart, just a large shotgun pointed up the stairway. He had been outside and had obviously found his men dead in the front and, via the security screens, in the back. Now this. Tatum. Fine, he thought. Good. This has all of the players here. He’d taken care of Steel; he’d finish up with Tatum now and end it all. He’d get Georgia back to Downing Street, come back here, and make the calls to get it all cleaned up and tucked away. But first this: first he’d kill this Tatum, do what was supposed to be done in the first place. He had him now. All he had to do was fire the shotgun and blow him back up the staircase.
Tatum kept coming. He pulled the iPad from inside his coat, turned it on, and got close enough that Heaton could see that he was playing a video of Georgia in her office, at her desk. She was talking to Early. It was nicely edited and flawlessly lit. There was no doubt what it was from the minute it unspooled. Adam moved cautiously closer so Heaton could get a good view.
“It didn’t make sense to me either, ma’am. But you said you wanted to write out the truth about the bombing.”
“That I was involved? Was I going to write that?”
“Yes, you were. That it was David Heaton’s idea, but you eventually went along with it. You had the American unknowingly place the bomb by switching the dossiers.”
Adam taunted him.
“Fat lot of good controlling the prime minister will be when this comes out. It’s up on a cloud, too, Davey. Anything happens to me, it’s going to a reporter at every news organization in the Western world. One pre-addressed e-mail, off to four hundred destinations.”
“What have we done, Jack? How did I let this happen? We could have killed Roland, couldn’t we have? We’ve let so much happen, let so many down. This is a disaster. It’s a tragedy. I’ve done the unthinkable.”
“What makes you think it won’t be provable that this was shot on a movie sound stage, Adam? That’s it’s a fake?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to prove that. In a snap. You won’t be able to disprove that it’s Turnbull, though. It’s her, the real thing. She’ll go down and I’m pretty sure she’ll take you with her.” He winked at Heaton.
With that, Adam grabbed Heaton’s shotgun from his hand in a flash. Heaton didn’t even put up a fight. His enmity had taken a new form—he was furious and his mind was racing, trying to figure out how best to move forward on this newest of curves. He stared at the American, looked into his eyes. He saw that Tatum was bruised and damaged but also that he was enjoying this moment; he was euphoric. Adam almost snickered at Heaton.
Heaton lunged at him, grabbed his throat with both hands, and choked him. Adam did what he could to pull him back, but Sir David was strong, powered forward with a demonic heat—white-light anger. He had quickly gotten a two-handed solid grip around Adam’s neck and was choking him as hard and as violently as he could. It was an insane, desperate, guttural reaction, but it was having an effect. Adam was struggling to breathe. He dropped the shotgun as Heaton pushed him back across the marble lobby and slammed him over the back of a large antique wooden cabinet. They struggled some more and finally Heaton had Adam up against the wall as he brutally and viciously strangled him.
Adam had been overtaken with surprise. He didn’t expect the level of infuriation to come on so forcefully, didn’t take into account the insane hours that the billionaire had spent in gyms, judo studios, dojos, and karate retreats around the world. He hadn’t factored in how strong Heaton was. Adam reached for his knife, but Heaton was blocking his arm with his body now, not letting Adam get to it. He was trying to get him off him, but he couldn’t. Heaton seemed to be picking up strength and Adam was losing it. He had been without breath long enough now to know that he was going to pass out.
Heaton choked harder and harder, his dark, vicious eyes bearing straight into Adam’s withering, blinking soul. His hands clamped harder; it was the last lap and he felt it: he was going to finish this all off now, with his own hands, end the whole thing once and for all. Adam gasped, his lungs exploding in pain, the skin on his throat ablaze with the burn from Heaton’s grip. His eyes went dim, his eyelids desperately struggling to stay open.
A shot rang out, a piercing blast. Heaton’s eyes opened as wide as possible in utter shock as he instantly let go of his grip on Adam’s battered windpipe.