Davis McCluskey paced the room he’d taken residence in, anger and frustration rippling off him in waves. Nothing had gone right with this assignment and it wasn’t going to, he knew it, and it was Tanner’s fault. This was just like London eighteen months ago, and that last week when all hell broke loose just as his planning and scheming was coming to a head. Bloody Tanner had found him out, picked up an unlikely trail of deceit and sniffed it half way across the world to him. If it weren’t for that Texan hound dog he would have made it safely out of England and into the waiting arms of his German mistress. If not for Tanner, he and Helga, would have left Germany and England behind for their home in the Italian Alps. If not for Tanner… McCluskey curled his fingers into tight fists. Helga would be alive instead of buried under a mountain of rubble in Berlin.
The police had knocked on McCluskey’s door the very night before he had booked passage on the train that would take him down to Dover and a waiting boat. He’d had no choice but to escape out the back door running for his life through the blacked-out city streets as sirens and angry shouts echoed around him. It was rough going, but he’d eventually made it to Liverpool and on to Ireland. Contacts and a wad of money had got him a berthing on a fishing trawler that would take him from Ireland to Brittany. From there he’d made his way by foot, wagon, truck and train across Europe to Berlin, months too late. The building where Helga lived was a ruin and had been for weeks. Helga was dead.
And though Vin Tanner had nothing to do with her death, was unaware of Helga’s existence, McCluskey cursed the Texan and swore a blood vengeance.
Vengeance he’d thought he’d achieved in Marrakesh only to arrive in Casablanca and find that he may have killed someone but it wasn’t Tanner. McCluskey pounded his fists together and growled. And now the slippery Texan had shown up and distracted him from his assignment – to kill Orrin Travis.
McCluskey kicked a chair aside. Travis should be dead, not in the basement fixing everyone who came close with a baleful glare. Macdonald had thrown a big spanner in the works by bringing the OSS agents to their sumptuous hide-out, but that in turn might bring Tanner within easy reach and McCluskey was willing to participate in whatever game Macdonald was playing if it would eventually land him Vin Tanner.
A sudden explosion nearby expelled McCluskey’s morbid thoughts as Macdonald ran into the room, his face flushed with excitement. "Davis! We’re under attack!"
The two men hurried down to the front drawing room where Wallace Andersen stood nervously watching the oncoming attacking force. "Looks like a bunch of Arabs," he told McCluskey and Wilson. "Can’t see any Americans…" His words were broken off by a string of explosions in the air. "What the hell?"
More explosions followed and McCluskey flicked a curtain aside to see for himself. "They’re shooting up sticks of dynamite mid-air. What would they do that for?"
"Maybe they’re worried about blowing Travis up…" Macdonald started to say only to have Davis interrupt him.
"No. It’s a diversion. You can’t see any Americans because there aren’t any out there. You two get upstairs and wait for my signal before returning fire. I’m going to check out back and get Travis."
Andersen was already moving for the staircase. Wilson hung back, the excitement in his face ebbing slightly as he grabbed McCluskey’s arm. "Be careful, Davis."
"If I’m not with you in ten minutes go up to the attic and hide where I showed you. I’ll get to you when I can…" Davis pried the other man’s hand from his arm. "Remember, no witnesses. If you have to hide, you hide alone. We only need each other."
"I’ll wait for you," Macdonald acknowledged and darted up the stairs.
McCluskey nodded and, as rifle fire riddled the front of the building and stray bullets shattered windows, he ran swiftly and quietly to the rear of the former palace and the huge kitchen that held one of two entries into the basement storage area.
Macdonald still had the guns he’d stolen from the guard the night before when he’d stormed the saloon and rescued Wallace. He also had a Swedish Mauser he’d found in the attic and a Colt 1911 Davis had given him to replace the Webley Andersen had held on to.
He hadn’t told Wallace about the second pistol.
The OSS agent turned around on Wilson’s entry to what had once been the royal nursery. It was a large sparsely furnished room, with the few items of furniture left garbed with white dustsheets. Refurbishment of the palace had stopped before this room had been reached.
"Mac, what will we do? Those men will kill us," Wallace cried. He’d never been a particularly brave man and had no desire to pursue the active duties he’d successfully dodged in the past right now.
"I told you not to call me that, Wally," Wilson said with a cold voice as he brushed past him to look out the window. The gunfire seemed to have halted for the moment and the young man took the opportunity for a decent look at the situation. His breathing quickened as he saw three non-Arabs running toward the palace. "Look, Wally. Here come our friends. There’s Buckie and Ezra, and that third one must be Davis’s photographer. I wonder where the rest are?"
Wallace moved up to peer over Wilson’s shoulder at the approaching Americans and gulped. Any hope that he had of getting out of this was rapidly fading.
The pause ended as suddenly as it had started and the two men were forced away from the window under the renewed salvo of gunfire. Wilson knocked out the remains of one window with the butt of the Mauser and began to return fire. Wallace stood at the edge of another window with the Webley, risking the occasional glance and firing the pistol in the general direction of the lawn. He took one such risk at the same time as a bullet was passing through the glassless window and fell to the floor with blood oozing from his shoulder.
"Macdonald, I’ve been shot! Mac!"
Wilson turned a dispassionate gaze on the wounded man who was dragging himself away from the windows and toward the door. "Where are you going, Wallace?"
Andersen continued half-crawling half-dragging himself across the room. He had to get out, had to get away. If he gave himself up perhaps he could cut himself a deal of some sort. His ears were ringing with the echoes of gunfire and his shoulder was on fire with pain. He didn’t hear Wilson’s oddly pitched question or notice the man drawing the Colt from beneath his jacket.
"Wallace," Macdonald called again. "Where are you going?"
There was no answer and the OSS man had reached the door. Macdonald shifted away from the window and stood, weapon aimed at the door Wallace was disappearing through. Wilson tucked the Mauser under his arm and followed Andersen out of the door. Ten minutes had passed and Davis wasn’t back.
It was time to hide.
Alone.
Bullets ripped into the room as the door closed behind Wilson, tearing chunks of wood and plaster from the walls that dropped to the floor with dull thuds. On the other side of the door voices muttered, one rose in terror and a single muffled shot sounded followed by the dreadful thump of something being dragged along the floor and up the stairs.
There was shouting outside now, distant sirens, doors thudding in their hinges as heavy objects were used to smash them in and then finally, the sound of wood splintering and the shouting was inside.
Upstairs, all was quiet.
The entry into the kitchen had at one time been through a simple archway, but the cooking area had been one of the first rooms renovated to international hotel standard. At one time the top chefs in the world had been considered for the new Casablanca Grande. But the new modern kitchen, with swing doors where the archway had once stood, had never been used.
McCluskey stopped running just before reaching the doors and moved the rest of the way on silent feet. He could hear the renewed attack on the front of the building and the closer crack of Macdonald’s Mauser as it joined the fray, and smiled grimly. Daddy’s boy was growing up. He reached behind his back to draw the pistol he kept tucked in his belt and approached the swing doors. There were only two ways to enter the building from the rear and the kitchen was the easiest by far, a fact that put McCluskey in something of a quandary. It was almost certain that the Americans were on the other side of the door, it was also certain that to get to Travis, McCluskey had to go through that same door.
A faint shadow moved between the sunlight outside and the kitchen door. McCluskey saw its fleeting passage through the gap between door and floor. He slowed his breathing and forced the growing sense of anticipation into a semblance of calm. All he had to do was wait.
Whoever was on the other side of the door had no choice but to push the door outward. The action put that person into a blind spot. There was no way they could see any danger. Even so the door moved tentatively, slowly. McCluskey waited. He had all the time in the world. The gap between the doors widened and the tip of a gun barrel showed itself. Time to act – McCluskey put his shoulder into the door and shoved it inward. It caught the person on the other side completely unaware. The gun was caught between the two doors and ripped from the hand that held it to drop to the floor with a noisy clatter. McCluskey didn’t let up, barging straight through and knocking the man back into the kitchen, winding him as the door slammed into his back and sent him crashing into the dusty bench tops and down to the floor.
McCluskey brought the gun up and fired at the first thing that moved, sending a second man spinning into a centre console with a sharp curse. McCluskey fired again but the next shot missed as the man continued to spin using his own momentum to gain the protection of the other side of the console.
Chris ducked down as the bullet whizzed through the air just inches above his head and winced as the jerky movement caused pain to tear through his body. The wounded and bloody man yelled his fury and pain at McCluskey, yelled to the first man and let out a stream of fluent curses when he received no answer.
McCluskey laughed and turned to the fallen man beside him. He was conscious, Davis could see his angry eyes glaring up at him, but there was nothing the man could do as he gasped and strained for every breath. The hand that had held the gun was clasped against his heaving chest as he attempted to back away from the Colt McCluskey now aimed at him.
"So you’re Tanner," McCluskey said. "Not so hard to bring down after all." His finger tightened on the trigger. "If it wasn’t you I killed in Marrakesh then who was it? A friend of yours? Perhaps I should have waited a little longer before slitting his throat? Oh, well. A mistake I can now rectify."
"Vin! Tanner!" Chris yelled. "Goddammit, answer me!" Larabee clamped his hand over the bullet wound in his side and peered around the side of the console. He could see Vin frantically trying to get away from McCluskey, his booted feet failing to gain purchase on the smooth floor and slipping uselessly out from beneath him. Chris could hear the Texan’s desperate wheezing and he moved out a little further, his hand shaking as he brought his own gun up.
"Mr. Tanner is otherwise occupied," McCluskey answered for the breathless agent. "Permanently," he added, his body tensing to fire the Colt and send his hated nemesis to hell.
A resounding boom filled the kitchen and McCluskey was knocked from his deadly stance over Vin. Chris jumped and swore, and swung his gun around to cover the new threat from behind.
"Chris, it’s us," Nathan cried. "Put it down, it’s us!"
Chris’s smile was shaky but relieved and he lowered his gun to his lap. "In the nick of time," Chris said. "Davie Boy was just about to make Swiss cheese out of Tanner." He attempted to move and his words turned to a hiss of pain.
Nathan darted to his side while Josiah moved around the console that now blocked his view of the fallen killer, his rifle primed to shoot again if necessary. It wasn’t. McCluskey had vanished. Josiah checked the room and doors, and finding no obvious danger for the present went to Vin and assisted the struggling man to his feet.
"He okay?" Nathan asked of Vin, as he pulled Chris’s bloody torn shirt away from his side.
"Ow, dammit Nate! You hurt worse than the bullet did," Chris complained.
Josiah helped Vin to slump down beside Chris and the mercenary repeated Nathan’s question. "You okay?"
Vin nodded weakly, still gasping for breath as he croaked out, "Jus’ winded… banged up a bit… fine."
"McCluskey sure doesn’t like you," Nathan observed, pulling some cotton wadding from his first aid pouch and padding it up against Chris’s wound. "Just a flesh wound. Hurts like hell, but you’ll be fine," he told Larabee and bound some gauze around his body to hold the makeshift bandage in place. "Course, too many of those and you won’t be."
"Where’s McCluskey?" Larabee asked, trying to sit up a little straighter.
"Gone," Vin panted. "Door… in the… corner."
"I’ll check it out," Josiah said, standing. "Carefully," he added, seeing the frowning faces of the other three men.
He was back within minutes, his face serious. "Looks like the basement. Heard some movement down there but it’s black as pitch." He held up a stained hand. "There’s blood on the floor and on the wall at the top of the stairs. McCluskey’s hurting and holed up."
Nathan helped Chris stand then turned his attention to Vin. "Your turn. Let’s look at those ribs. You hurt anywhere else?"
"M’hand," Vin told him and held out his left hand. Some of the fingers were already swollen and dark with bruising that spread down to the wrist.
"Sprained for sure," Nathan said. He moved the fingers, glancing at Vin as he drew in a sharp breath of pain that started a bout of coughing. "Sorry," Nate mumbled as he continued to work, checking the Texan’s back and ribs. Bruised and winded was the final verdict. "Might hurt to breathe for a bit, keep it shallow and no laughing, and it’ll wear off by itself. Let me know if it gets too bad and I can strap you up for a bit of support. We need a sling for that wrist…"
"Later, doc," Vin said, pushing himself to his feet. "We gotta find Travis." He bit back a groan and turned to Chris, his eyes on the mercenary’s bloody side.
"Just a scratch," Chris said. "But the radio’s ruined." Chris held the strap of the radio up – the equipment had a huge dent in one side and the transmitter was smashed.
"Jus’ swell," Vin muttered. "Josiah, your radio still workin’? Need you to call up Buck and get the troops inside."
"The fight’s sounding a bit one-sided," Chris commented, listening for Wilson and Andersen’s gunfire that had, until a few minutes ago, still been audible.
"Maybe they’re injured?" Nathan said, but Chris shook his head.
"Maybe, but they had the better position, plenty of cover. It’d be more likely they’d be on the move, which means we need the numbers on the inside."
"How’re we going to smoke McCluskey out?" Nathan asked as Josiah contacted Buck. Nathan straightened as Tanner grinned a grin of merciless pleasure.
"You jus’ said it, doc," Tanner said.
Each of the men carried a light pack of equipment that hung low on their backs. Nathan’s was full of medical supplies. Josiah and Chris, also carrying the radios, kept their packs light. Josiah had brought a Bible, extra ammunition and several packets of different coloured powders that he’d brought with him from the Anfa site. Each of the powders was explosive in their own right. He’d used them occasionally over the years when bedrock had appeared in sites where bedrock was not supposed to be; one time uncovering the concealed opening of a tunnel that led into a major cave system. That discovery had led to finds still disputed, possibly always to be disputed, that suggested mankind’s distant past was murkier than currently believed. But that was another time and Josiah hadn’t brought the pretty powders for their volatile nature; they also dissolved without a trace in liquid and formed an invisible vapour that incapacitated anyone within a ten foot radius and, depending on the mix, could kill before the first breath had filled already dead lungs.
Chris’s pack contained ammunition, an Mk 1 Browning pistol, a flask of water, a bar of chocolate and a packet of Lucky Strikes, with matches.
Vin had smoke bombs.
"Be right there, Boss." Buck handed the transmitter back to JD. "Look’s like it’s time for the fat lady to start singing," he told the younger man. "Chris wants us inside lickety split to round up some strays."
Ezra was across the yard with Abdullah and another of the group, Azziz, taking pot shots at the palace. Buck figured they’d probably shot out every window on that side of the building; the front of the building wasn’t looking too pretty either. Shredded curtains flapped from the windows above the front door. As soon as they’d met resistance from that section of the palace, Buck had concentrated the attack on those two windows. Any way you looked at it, the French were going to be pissed as hell.
Buck and JD jogged over to the southerner and told him the change in plans. Taking a quick look at that side of the building as he ran, Buck shook his head. "Yep," he muttered. "French are goin’ to be real unhappy."
"Ez," he called out as he approached the small group of men. "Time to finish up renovatin’ the exterior and shift to the interior, boys. All’s quiet inside and Chris wants us to go rat huntin’. Seems McCluskey’s holed up in the basement and the other two are scurryin’ around, armed and dangerous."
"Sighted?" Ezra asked, reloading his gun.
"No, but they’re not firing back. Chris thinks there’s a chance they’ll head downstairs after McCluskey. They can’t know that the boys have got him cornered."
"Well then, let’s go calling, shall we? It would be remiss of us not to pay our regards in person and I’ve always enjoyed touring the world’s royal residences."
Buck nodded with a grin. "Let’s do that, shall we?" He bowed and waved an arm in the direction of the building then turned to Abdullah and Azziz. "Leave four men out here to keep an eye on things. Tell them to avoid the gendarmes if they can. Rest of you come with us…"
The two men nodded and darted off to gather their compatriots. The gendarmes would soon be here and none had any desire to visit, or revisit, the police cells.
Buck, Ezra and JD warily moved toward the ex-palace, their path zigzagging across the lawn until they reached the front entrance. The door was made of ancient oak and scarred by more than bullets.
"Dynamite?" Ezra suggested.
"Can’t," Buck replied. "Chris and Vin are prowling through the hallways already."
"Battering ram then?" Ezra looked around for something suitable.
"That door’s way too thick for that," JD said. "Why don’t we just try the door knob?" JD reached forward and twisted the lion’s head knob. There was an almost ominous click and the door slowly opened. JD sent the other two men an absurdly pleased smirk and stepped through.
"Wait a min…" Buck started to warn but the photographer was already in, pushing the door further open and waving Buck and Ezra in behind him. The two more experienced men entered cautiously, guns waving across the room, both noting with some relief that JD had at least taken cover once in behind a marble statue of a sleeping lion. Buck went over to join the younger man while Ezra waited by the door for Abdullah.
Risking a quick look back through the door, the southerner saw four of their small attacking force running up the path and another four fanning out to watch for exiting rats. Ezra groaned as he also saw cars pulling up to the ruined gate at the start of the drive. It would take some time for the police to clear the twisted rubble, but they were definitely on the scene. Ezra waved for the Arabs to hurry and once all were in, he closed and locked the old oak door behind them.
They hurriedly discussed strategy for the search and warned the newcomers that Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee were also loose in the building, and that the kitchen was under guard by Sanchez and Jackson.
"No shooting unless you’re not given the choice," Ezra added. "We want Andersen and Wilson alive if possible."
Buck was nodding. His head still ached though now it was a dull heavy presence rather than the debilitating throb of earlier. Adrenalin had helped to lessen the pain for now. "Those two are goin’ over for sure," he said.
"The murderer of Tarak and Ishmael will pay with his life," Abdullah said darkly, his hands wrapped around the hilt of a curved sword.
"Until we have them all you keep that scimitar in its scabbard, capiche? They’ve still got a hostage tucked away somewhere and we want him back all in one piece." Buck kept his grip on his pistol relaxed, but his expression was just as dangerous as that of the vengeful Berber.
Abdullah nodded and shared a forbidding look with his brothers and cousins. They would wait, that look said, but not for long. The men separated and the grand entrance to the Casablanca Grande filled with the sound of splintering wood and angry shouts.
Josiah and Nathan took up positions around the centre console in the kitchen. They could keep an eye on the door that led down to the basement, the swing doors and the back door without needing to break cover. At the moment, their particular rat was well caught, but McCluskey was anything but predictable and Vin had warned them both to stay alert.
Vin’s gun had remained caught between the swing doors wedging them open wide enough to allow a limited view of the hallway outside. He withdraw a second pistol, stood by the doorway for the count of three while Chris stood behind him and then kicked the door outward in one violent and bloody-minded action. It hurt his bruised ribs to do, but he stifled the pain and rushed through the open door, spinning to cover both ends of the hall and then sinking to his knees once across the narrow space to minimise the target his full height supplied. A nod to Chris and the mercenary came out as well, a little slower due to the deeper wound, but not by much.
"Shit!" he swore as he knelt beside Vin for a moment to catch his breath. "I hate gettin’ shot!" Then he slinked down the hall, on his feet but bent over, one hand holding his gun out in front, the other applying pressure to the sharp pain in his side.
They’d left the useless radio and two smoke bombs behind with Sanchez with the dry suggestion that the radio would make an effective projectile should it become necessary. Nathan had merely patted the knife-rig he wore on his back and said that if McCluskey managed to get past Josiah’s shotgun and his blades then he would be sure to use both radios in any way he could.
Chris and Vin began a room-by-room search of the lower floor, not expecting to find anything on this level and not surprised when they didn’t. It didn’t take long and Vin left Chris to guard the back stairs while he went to the front passages to check up on the second search party. He caught a glimpse of Abdullah ghosting through the formal parlour and with brief hand gestures indicated the back half of the house was clear and that they should head upstairs as soon as they could. Abdullah’s cloak fluttered behind him as he left the room and proceeded to the carpeted staircase that had at one time been graced by the feet of the royal and the important.
Ezra, coming from the library, followed him up, pausing at the top beside the Berber who had frozen mid-stride, as still as the marble cats below. Unlike the sleeping lion, however, his face was anything but peaceful and reposed. The carpet was red, the staircase white marble, and at a spot just outside the room that had once been home to generations of young children, the carpet seemed to liquefy and spill out across the marble.
"One of them has been injured," Abdullah said in that strangely formal accent of the Berbers Ezra had first heard in the alley.
Ezra looked down at the dark red puddle and then at the still open door. There were a few smudges of blood on the floor inside the room and a smear on the doorframe, but nowhere else was there a pool of blood that equalled this one.
"The rats are doing more than running it seems," he said in a low voice stepping around the puddle and into the room. He looked around quickly but expertly and then came back to stand in the doorway. Abdullah had moved to the railing and was inspecting it with all the intensity of an Arabian Sherlock Holmes looking for clues.
He pointed at the finely turned wood of the balustrade. "More blood… all along and more on the carpet. More out here than in there." Abdullah hooked a thumb back to the room Andersen and Wilson had defended their positions from.
"I’m sure Mr. Wilmington is well adept with a gun, but even he can’t make bullets turn corners and a ricochet would be highly unlikely."
The two men stared at each other, both sure in their knowledge that the men they sought had turned on each other.
"This is a lot of blood," Abdullah said unnecessarily; the blood-soaked carpet squelched with every step.
"Fatally so," Ezra added. "But for who?"
Ezra peered over the railing at Buck and JD in the main foyer below and whistled to get their attention. He waved them up and waited for them at the top of the stairs.
"At least one of them is seriously wounded," Ezra said, pointing the barrel of his Remington at the pool of blood. Bloody boot prints stood out on the white marble either side of the carpet runner, stark reminders that somewhere in the Casablanca Grande, someone was most probably dying. Each of the men quietly hoped it wasn’t Orrin Travis.
"They wouldn’t have shot Mr. Travis and then taken him with them… would they?" JD voiced the question that worried them all.
"Let’s hope not. I suggest we follow this gory trail and find out," Ezra answered. Three of the Berbers had come up behind JD and together the group walked carefully along the balcony and into the long passageway that led around the building to the service stairs in back.
"This is creepy," JD murmured to Buck. The windows were adorned with heavy curtains that allowed little light through and less air. It was dim, warm and still, and the men were on edge. The trail of blood had hardly lessened, splotches of blood still appearing regularly underfoot and along the walls.
"It would appear that the wounded man is being dragged the whole way," Ezra said softly. "The blood is smeared. If I were to hazard a guess I’d say the injury was sustained in the torso, more probably the head…"
"You a doctor, Standish?" Buck asked.
The men paused at a sharp corner and waited while Buck and Abdullah checked the next section of the passage. They could see the top of the service stairs at the end and two doors, both open and both soiled with blood.
Buck turned back to look at Ezra.
"Not as such, no," Ezra answered.
"Then how do you know he wasn’t dragged by the feet and shot in the big toe?"
"Head wounds bleed profusely, more so than a big toe, and the scuff marks suggest that clad feet rather than hands were dragged through the blood…"
"Also the footprints all point off to the left slightly and every now and again there’s a partial handprint on the wall… the left hand, which means the body’s being dragged one-handed and you need two hands to drag somebody by the feet," JD added for good effect. And when the other two men looked at him with some surprise, he shrugged and said, "My uncle was a gumshoe in New York. I spent a couple of summers with him when I was a kid."
"Someone comes," Abdullah said. He’d been watching the passageway and seen shadows moving on the stairs. Keeping his back to the wall he inched forward, gun extended. Buck kept pace along the opposite wall and the quiet conversation faded away.
Azziz was one of Abdullah’s many cousins and close enough in age and likeness to be mistaken for his twin brother. He spoke good English, most of the time, and was a steady and reliable ally. Vin hadn’t known him long, but trusted him as he did Tarak’s brothers.
The young Berber had entered the former palace with his cousins and begun a methodical search for Tarak’s killer. He had discovered the servant’s passage from the library and followed it back to the kitchen where he’d found Chris Larabee sitting on the bottom step clutching both his side and his gun with equal ferocity. Azziz had held his hands up and whispered his name, but the American’s weapon was not lowered until Vin Tanner came silently down the staircase and put a hand on Chris’s extended arm.
"S’okay, cowboy. Azziz is with us." Vin faced the Berber and said much the same thing in the man’s own language, beckoning him forward at the same time to make rough introductions.
"Looks like they might have kept going up. There’s more stairs above us, probably to an attic. Door’s wide open and covered in blood," Vin reported, translating to Berber for Azziz’s benefit at the end.
"Travis?" Chris queried.
Vin shook his head. "There’s only sign of two men. One was being dragged. Andersen and Wilson are both on the skinny side. Travis is packing more weight then either of them could drag around."
"So where is he?"
Vin ran his hands through his hair. "Don’t know, but we ain’t finished looking yet. He might still show up in one of the rooms…"
"Or he might not be upstairs at all…" Chris left the sentence hanging, locking gazes with the Texan and seeing the answer to his own unspoken questions in the other man’s steady gaze.
"The basement," Vin stated.
Chris started to stand and winced. "McCluskey," Chris added through clenched teeth.
"You sure you’re okay?" Vin asked then, pulling away Chris’s hand and inspecting the bullet wound himself.
"Fine. How’s your hand?"
"Hurts like a bitch," Vin admitted. "But you say anything to the doc and I’ll deny it."
Ezra slipped around the corner to cover Buck, the rest of the men falling in behind until they filled the hall. They paused at the bloodied doors and waited. Buck listened to the murmurings coming up the stairs. Abdullah was closest to the doors and he nudged the first one further open. Buck pointed his gun into the gap while Ezra trained his on the stairs.
A foot appeared first and then a gun muzzle, then both were withdrawn and Chris Larabee’s voice drifted around the corner. "Buck? It’s Chris, Tanner and Azziz. We promise to play nice if you don’t shoot us."
"Well, get on out here before the party starts, boys. Can’t have you missin’ any o’ the fun." Buck glanced at the men as they appeared in the stairway and lowered his gun when he saw Chris’s blood-soaked shirt. "Looks like you started without us," he suggested.
Ezra moved to take up Buck’s covering position in the doorway as the tall man strode over to the mercenary. To his practiced eye, Vin Tanner wasn’t the perfect picture of health either.
"What happened?" Buck asked. He’d noticed the look of suppressed pain on Vin’s face as well as the protective way he held his hand.
"McCluskey, a door and the kitchen bench," Vin said shortly. "Chris got creased by a bullet." He looked at Buck’s face and then Ezra’s and added a, "We’re fine," for good measure.
"Either Andersen or Wilson is hurt," JD said. "We think they’re up there." He pointed to the open door. "Not sure about Travis though."
"Don’t reckon we’ll find him up there. We think McCluskey’s either got him in the basement or they stashed him somewhere else," Vin said.
Chris was looking around at the group of men with Buck. "There’s more than enough of you to take down Andersen and Wilson. Let’s split up. I’ll go with Vin and Azziz here back down after McCluskey and Travis. Sanchez and the doc have got the basement covered for now so it shouldn’t be too hard to smoke him out. You men keep after those two." He nodded his head toward the attic stairs. "Secure them and then come down to the kitchen. We’ll probably have company soon so move quickly. Don’t fancy spending any time in a Moroccan prison this time round."
"The Frenchies are at the gate. Ezra redesigned the locking system but I don’t imagine it’ll hold ‘em for long," Buck told his friend.
"They’ll come up slow and careful," Vin said then. "Don’t want to get shot any more than the rest of us." He grinned at Chris.
"Let’s get on with it then, shall we?" Ezra said and, taking two paces to the open door, disappeared inside and up the short stairway.
"Careful, Chris," Buck warned. "Cornered rats can be real vicious."
Chris had been about to head back down the stairs with Vin and Azziz. He turned back to say something to Buck, assure him of his desire to get through this day without further injury, something flip and casual… but Buck had already gone through the door after Ezra and the words were lost in a sudden presentiment of doom.
"Larabee, you comin’?" Vin called.
Chris shrugged off the feeling with a mumbled, ‘getting too old for this,’ and started down the stairs. "Let’s get this done."
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