45 - Andre
~ 45 ~
ANDRE
There were no more security patrols, no more checkpoints. No one stopping to check my keycard, or ask what I might be doing out of the kitchen. I should’ve been relieved, but the vacant halls made me even more unsettled. Protocol had broken down, and procedure was out the window. All of it could only mean one thing:
Someone had made a very serious move.
I raced through the manor as fast as my legs would carry me, taking the steps three at a time. The upstairs hallways were just as vacant. With everyone else in the dining room, the place was an empty shell.
Approaching the wing assigned to Victor Knox and his men, I edged slowly around the corner. One man stood in the hallway. He looked lost and nervous, and not remotely comfortable. New and unimportant and totally expendable.
And of course, absolutely perfect.
“What are you doing!” I shouted, as I stepped into the hall.
The man scrambled for the gun at his hip, which looked like a Beretta. He placed his hand over it, but didn’t draw.
I walked the hallway like I owned it. Most times, especially times like this, confidence trumped everything.
“You’re supposed to be downstairs!” I shouted.
Still wary, the man tilted his head in confusion.
“No!” he protested. “No, I was told—”
“Victor’s pissed,” I growled, as I kept walking. “I mean, really pissed.”
He looked uncertain. Uncertainty was good. Uncertainty bought me a few more steps.
“W—who the hell are you?” he demanded. The hand folded over the gun trembled a little. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitch—”
“I’ve never seen him like this,” I interjected, shaking my head. “In fact—”
I closed the rest of the distance, taking the last few steps in a blur of speed. He got the gun out, but he never brought it around. Grabbing his wrist, I snapped it so hard in the wrong direction the man screamed.
The Beretta clattered to the floor, and he made the mistake of looking down at it. It was the last thing he saw before he kissed the wall. I grabbed him by the back of the head, rotated my hips, and slammed him face-first with every ounce of my body weight behind me. There was a sickening crunch, a heavy thud, and ultimately, silence.
The door the man had been guarding glowed steady red. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my keycard and tossed it away. I reached again, and this time produced the master keycard I’d taken off Jacob Foley, right before sinking him into the muck at the bottom of the swamp.
I held the card against the reader, and the light turned immediately green.
“Fuck yeah.”
I grabbed the Beretta, which immediately felt at home in my hand. The electronic door whirred, and I pushed it open with my back still pressed against the wall. When no one took a shot at me, I made my way cautiously inside.
I was met by soft whimpering, and the sight of blood.
“Jesus, Raif.”
Lots of blood.
“What the hell happened?”
Raif was slumped forward in the chair in the middle of the room, only half-conscious. His hands had been secured firmly behind him, the zip-ties so savagely tight his wrists were chaffed and bleeding. More blood streamed from an ugly gash on his head. It flowed down the left side of his face, staining the gag in his mouth a dark, angry red.
The gag was tied tightly behind his head. He groaned as I undid the knot, and sighed in relief as I pulled it away.
“W—Who are you?” he breathed, his voice ragged.
“You know who I am. I’m Andre Bowman.”
Somehow he managed to look up at me. Even lifting his chin was a struggle.
“No.”
“Yes,” I countered gently. “You hired me, remember?”
But Raif wasn’t dazed or even confused. He looked me up and down with eyes that were tired, but lucid.
“I mean who are you?” he coughed. “Because you sure as hell aren’t a chef.”
He had me there. I shrugged.
“No. No, I’m not.”
Raif coughed again, until fresh blood formed on his lips. I cut the ties on his hands and handed him a towel. He looked up at me gratefully, as he wiped it away.
“I’m here for Blight,” I said truthfully. “We go back a long way. The chef thing is a cover, because they’re not big fans of mine.”
The man in the chair coughed again, this time so hard that he winced. “I figured as much.”
“You want to tell me why they did this to you?” I ventured. “They don’t seem to be your biggest fans, either.”
“They wanted information,” Raif choked, “and I wouldn’t give it to them.”
“Wouldn’t or couldn’t?”
The man in the chair swallowed, painfully. “The second one.”
“That sucks.”
“I mean, I knew it had something to do with one of you,” Raif clarified. “But I didn’t know what, or why. Turns out they found something.”
He pointed weakly to the far side of the room. I didn’t even have to look, though.
“Shit.”
I turned my head anyway, and there they were: the detonators Bishop had planted.
“You already know though, I’m assuming,” said Raif.
It hadn’t even occurred to me that Victor Knox’s crew might find the detonators before Roman did. As far as we were concerned, the mercenary captain finding them first was the best-case scenario. It would sow the most chaos, do the most damage. But now…
Now Victor’s men had reason to be suspicious; before Roman even knew what had happened. They hadn’t wasted any time, either. They’d closed up ranks, and went straight after the one person who always had answers:
Poor, unfortunate, Raif.
He nodded toward a mostly full bottle of water on the table beside me. I grabbed it and tossed it to him.
“Thanks.”
“What else did they want from you?”
Raif drank deeply, until the bottle was empty. After discarding it, he rubbed at his wrists.
“Foley’s missing,” he wheezed. “Did you know that?”
“Heard something about it, yeah.”
“Well, everyone on Victor’s crew is looking for him,” said Raif. He nodded at the detonators again. “Personally, I think he planted those things. Or he was in the process of setting up something very bad, and never finished.”
“And you think he bugged out?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Raif shrugged. “Especially if he was made.” He spat on the floor and shook his head. “This whole thing was a clusterfuck from the beginning. You can’t put this many assholes in one place. It turns into the biggest dick-measuring contest in the eastern hemisphere.”
He was so right, I actually chuckled. “Might even be the world championship.”
“Yeah, well unless you got the biggest dick, you’re fucked.”
Out in the hallway, I heard a groan. Raif heard it too.
“Who’s that?”
“New friend of mine,” I quipped.
“Is he coming in here to kill us?”
I shook my head. “Only place he’s going is to the hospital,” I said. “Or maybe the dentist. But not for a while.”
Raif stood, wincing, and the pain behind his eyes said everything. His gaunt face was growing more swollen every minute. If I were to pass him on the street right now, I might not even recognize him.
“What do you think Roman’s going to do?” I asked nonchalantly.
Raif let out the mother of all sighs. “If he were smart, he’d go scorched earth on every one of his captains. Squash all this ego-driven discontent. Regain control by starting over.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst idea,” I agreed.
“But that’s not how he operates,” he went on. “Roman Wynter’s not like other people. When he gets mad, everyone’s an enemy. Everything’s a target. He doesn’t think rationally.”
“So if he thinks someone’s going against him…” I theorized.
Raif nodded sullenly.
“He’d rather burn this whole thing down.”