CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

 

The Russian didn’t have a choice.

The instant he breeched the reading room, he saw an armed man charging toward him like an angry bull, so he raised his gun and fired. His first shot missed Jarkko and hit a display case, shattering glass and sending razor-sharp fragments into the air. Jarkko lifted his gun and tried to return fire, but the Russian got off shot number two before Jarkko could pull his trigger.

The second bullet struck Jarkko in the middle of his chest, stopping his forward momentum and dropping him to his knees as he lost his ability to breathe. Liquid gushed from the hole in his shirt as he slumped to the floor, desperately gasping for air.

In that moment, he didn’t care about treasure.

Or soup.

Or beautiful, bouncy women.

All he wanted was one more breath…and then possibly another.

Thankfully, Jones was there to save the day, with his weapon raised and his aim true. He pulled his trigger and shot the first Russian right in his face.

One moment, he had a nose.

The next he didn’t.

Just like that, the guy was dead.

Unfortunately, many more were to come.

 

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In the background, Payne rushed toward Marissa and tackled her to the floor as the booming gunshots echoed in the chamber. Based on her initial scream and the panic on her face, he sensed she wasn’t part of the problem, but he wasn’t willing to bet his life on it.

“Are you armed?” he demanded as he patted her down for weapons.

“No!”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Of course not!”

Temporarily satisfied, he grabbed a wooden table and threw it on its side. Then he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her behind the barrier. As he did, a chunk of glass sliced the back of her leg, but she felt no pain as blood oozed from her wound and stained her dress.

“Look at me!” he shouted as he grabbed her face.

She blinked a few times, trying to focus.

“Marissa! Stay here until I come back for you!”

“What about Jarkko?”

He ignored her question. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m serious. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand!”

Payne nodded and forced a smile to try to calm her down. “Don’t worry. This shit happens all the time. Everything will be fine.”

But deep inside he had his doubts.

Not because of a lack of training.

But because of the lay of the land.

Unlike most libraries that had row after row of tall shelves that would have provided him with options, this facility kept all of its books on the walls of the perimeter. What was left in the middle was a manmade canyon with wooden tables and chairs, reading lamps, card catalogs, glass display cases, and an ancient globe that might work as temporary cover but would be quickly overrun if they were facing superior numbers.

And he sensed those numbers were on their way.

Which meant they had to act quickly.

Without even looking, Payne had a mental image of the entire space. His brain had absorbed it when he had walked into the room, the same way a mechanic could identify a car by the sound of an engine or a chef could list twenty ingredients with a single taste. It was simply the way he viewed his environment, his window into the world. It allowed him to see all the angles and possible barriers long before his opposition.

It allowed him to stay one step ahead.

In the blink of an eye, Payne knew what they needed to do. With Jarkko down and ammo limited, they needed to secure higher ground.

And Jones was the man for the job.

Whereas Payne was built like a rhino, Jones was like a gazelle. He was agile, and sleek, and could run all day without even breaking a sweat. And when it came to climbing, he could scurry up walls with a heavy field pack, Yoda on his back, or a garbage bag full of stuff.

To him, it didn’t matter.

He was like a ninja without a mask.

“DJ!” Payne shouted across the room. “Go high!”

 

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Jones heard the command and actually grinned as he sprinted toward the closest ladder.

Tactically speaking it was a brilliant move because it would give them the high ground in a shooting gallery of wide-open space, but almost as importantly to Jones, it would give him a chance to climb the twenty-foot wooden ladder that he had been eyeing ever since he had stepped into the room. It had been calling to him like a jungle gym when he was a kid.

Some children liked to play on the swings.

But Little DJ always wanted to climb.

There was something about it that made him feel alive.

Or in this case, keep him alive.

The instant he reached the ladder, he tucked his gun in his shorts and climbed with the speed of an elevator. Hand over hand, legs pumping fast, like a master of parkour.

Earlier he had noticed that the last rung of the ladder stopped underneath the lip of the second level, but for someone like Jones, it was barely an obstacle to overcome. He simply sprang from the ladder with a death-defying leap and grabbed the metal railing that lined the upper ledge.

Then he flipped onto the balcony with a flourish.

Just like he had done on the playground.

All told, the entire process had taken less than ten seconds.

It was a good thing, too, because more Russians were on their way.

 

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In the grand scheme of things, henchmen knew they were henchmen.

They knew what they were signing up for.

Yet they did it anyway.

Whether by birth or by girth, they had applied for a job to protect a local criminal, shady businessmen, or coked-out oligarch, all in hopes of making enough money for a better life—one in which they might possibly hire some henchmen of their own someday.

It was the circle of life in the criminal underworld.

One that kept on spinning and spinning and spinning.

Like a giant game of Russian roulette.

Only in this particular version, several Russians would die.

To the confusion of the men in the stairwell, the first henchman had decided to abandon their plan and had started firing the moment he had entered the door. Perhaps he thought he would look heroic or movie-star cool and be honored for a job well done. Or maybe the idiot forgot their mission and just decided to wing it. Whatever his rationale, he had paid for it with his life.

All of which put the second henchman in an interesting position.

He was standing near the doorway, ready to charge into the room to question a group of supposedly unarmed historians, when he saw his comrade get shot in the face. Back where he came from, guns and bullets were a part of his life, but it didn’t mean he wanted to die in the middle of a Maltese library for a boss he didn’t actually like, so he did something that the first guy had stupidly failed to do.

He appointed himself as team leader.

“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled in Russian while the rest of the henchmen stormed past him into the reading room with their weapons raised and their blood running hot.

Meanwhile, he stayed in the stairwell where it was safe.

Because the truth was he didn’t want to be a henchman.

He wanted to be a plumber.

 

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With Jones heading skyward, Payne sprinted toward Jarkko.

Despite his height, Payne stayed low as he scooted across the floor. Glass crunched underfoot as he made his way between the rows of display cases. Although their tops were transparent, their bottoms were made of paneled wood, giving him some cover as he scrambled toward his fallen friend. He put his left hand down for balance while keeping his gun hand free, all the while checking the door for incoming threats.

Jarkko was sprawled on the floor up ahead, lying on his side.

From his distance, Payne couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive.

A second later, it hardly mattered.

Because the floodgates opened and the Russians came in.