Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Max was disgusted with himself. To get caught once was bad enough, but twice was just embarrassing.
Worse still, this time he'd been caught because a guard overheard him talking into his radio during a lull in the storm.
Violet had been right when she'd told him his inability to shut up would get him killed.
And now, there was a good chance it'd get her killed too.
Way to go, Max.
He was on his knees, hands bound in front of him, in the middle of Damien's massive sitting room.
Opulent and over-the-top seemed to be the standard brief Damien gave to his decorators.
The result was that the room reminded Max of the Palace of Versailles.
There was even a mural on the ceiling and ugly painted privacy screens placed somewhat randomly around the room.
Whereas the office had Picasso's paintings on the walls, this one had bronze sculptures dotted around the floor.
They were all different heights but seemed to be of a similar theme—Greek and Roman warriors in different poses, some with spears, some with bows and arrows, all looking very masculine.
Between the cherubs on the ceiling and the soldiers on the floor, Max wasn't sure what the message of the room was supposed to be.
"What do you think?" Damien said, sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Max.
"About your decor?" Max said. "Gay bordello, maybe?"
Damien's leg swung out and he casually kicked Max in the middle of his chest. With a grunt of pain, Max fell backward. Only to be righted by one of the guards, who grabbed a handful of hair and jerked Max back into position. He was a toy for these guys, and it was pissing him off.
"I'm asking if you think your wife will show?" Damien said. "Or will she choose to save herself instead? How much do you think she loves you?"
Now, that was the million-dollar question. And not one he cared to speculate on with his torturer. But he could give him an honest opinion on the rest of his concerns.
"Oh, she'll show," Max said. "And she won't be happy. Is your will in order?"
"You think you're a funny guy," Damien said. "But nobody's laughing."
Max looked at the three goons, spread out around the room, each with their gun trained on him.
"I don't know," he said, cocking his head toward the guy beside the purely ornamental bookcase. "I saw him crack a smile."
The guard started to protest, but Damien waved him to silence.
"Where did your secret partner go?" Max asked. "Did he get fed up dealing with your problems and escape the island? He must be in the market for a new partner by now. I imagine it's hard keeping your business under wraps when one half of the partnership likes to attract attention."
"Still trying to glean information right up until the end, eh Maximillian? I don't know whether to be impressed or to feel sorry for you."
"If I were you, I'd be impressed." Max stared at Damien, with the eye that wasn't swollen shut.
"I'd also be worried. I've been telling people about your secret meetings and the crime lords who use your island to launder money, not to mention the drug smuggling you're running out of your florist shop.
Killing me isn't going to stop the story. It's already out there."
To his delight, Damien looked worried. "You're spinning tales. A desperate man, making up stories before he dies. Pathetic really."
"Juan Flores?" Max said, seeing Damien's surprise at the name.
"Ivan Cadar? And that's just this weekend.
I wonder how many more crime bosses come here on the pretense of having a wedding.
I hear you have a steady clientele from Russia and South America.
Bet most of them are here on business that doesn't involve a wedding ring. "
Damien's jaw clenched. "So, you saw a couple of people you recognize in the resort. So what? I don't police my guests. Otherwise, you wouldn't have gotten in."
"Ouch," Max said. "It's a sad day when your business isn't good enough for a money launderer."
Damien smacked him across the cheek. It burst open the healing wound on the side of his head, making blood trickle onto his shirt.
"Might want to see somebody about your anger management issues," Max said when the ringing in his ears subsided. "You're a bit old to be having tantrums."
"You know nothing about me or my business," Damien told him. "You're a third-rate reporter who makes up crap for a living."
"Crap like Tina the florist?" Max tried to cock an eyebrow in a nonchalant gesture, but it hurt too much. "She ran from the island so you wouldn't kill her. How many more have there been?" He nodded toward the guards. "Will you kill these guys too when they've served their purpose?"
The guy at the bookcase shifted uncomfortably.
"You have been snooping around if you know about Tina." Damien shrugged. "I pay my people well, but I expect loyalty. Tina made a mistake when she took your new family into my warehouse. She knew better. Her fate is on her."
"Interesting." Max looked at the bookcase guard. “Remember that when you screw up, there are no second chances. Damien will assume you knew what you were doing and remove you from the picture. Sounds like a fair boss to me."
The guy was beginning to look very uneasy.
Before Max could say anything else, the patio door rattled and then opened.
He turned his head, expecting to see Violet, but she wasn't there. Instead, two metal canisters were tossed into the room.
There was a second's pause before one of the guards shouted, "Smoke and a Flash-bang."
"Max," Violet’s voice ordered. "Drop and roll."
And then the room exploded in a loud, flash of blinding light, that left Max disorientated and unable to see anything.
Fighting the confusion, he threw himself forward and rolled under the sofa Damien had been sitting on. The ornate monstrosity had a wooden frame with plenty of space for him to hide under it.
Smoke, he could smell smoke. But not the usual kind, this stung his eyes and made his throat convulse.
He used his bound hands to pull his T-shirt up over his face, trying to block out as much of the smoke as possible.
It still burned his lungs. He coughed, and prayed Damien didn't follow the sound straight to him.
Opening his good eye, he tried to see what was happening, but he'd been blinded by the flash and the smoke made tears stream down his face.
He couldn’t see, could barely hear anything after the blast, and breathing was difficult. His only consolation was that everyone else was in the same boat.
"Get her," Damien roared before choking and coughing.
"Cover your nose and mouth," someone shouted.
More coughing. The sound of retching.
"I can't see a fucking thing," somebody grated out.
"On the right," came a familiar voice. Rodrigo. Max felt a surge of hope. Violet wasn't alone.
A gunshot rang out. Somebody grunted. A heavy thud reverberated through the floor under Max.
"Man down! Damien? Where are you? We need to get out of here." One of the guards was still trying to do his job.
Max felt like his lungs were on fire. Every instinct told him to escape outside, into the fresh air where he’d be able to breathe. But he was trapped under the sofa while war played out in the smoke-filled room.
"Where is she?" Damien shouted, then coughed. "I'm going to kill you, bitch."
There was the sound of gunfire from directly above Max. Damien was firing wildly. Unable to see anything but shapes after being blinded by the light from the flash-bang.
"Got eyes on red shirt," another voice called out. It was Scottish. One of the triplets.
Max could have cried if he wasn't so banged up and still choking on the smoke.
There was a shot. Someone grunted in pain before a barrage of gunfire filled the room. One of the guards had been struck and was firing at everything. Glass shattered as bullets hit the wall of windows facing the beach. The wind whipped into the room, clearing some of the smoke.
"Where are the rest of my guards?" Damien demanded.
"They're occupied," Violet replied. "Probably dead by now. You're all alone, Damien, and I'm coming for you."
Damn, she was magnificent. And terrifying. Max felt like a fool for thinking she ever needed his protection. Violet was born to be in the middle of a fight. Her skills were testament to the fact. He would have to learn to protect her in other ways.
If they came out of this alive.
Another gunshot.
"I’m hit," a voice shouted. It was filled with disbelief. "They got me in the gut. Somebody help me."
"Where are the rest of my men?" Damien called, his voice rough from the smoke. "They can't all be dead. She's one fucking woman." His voice sounded as though it was coming from right on top of Max.
The smoke had all but cleared now, leaving a foggy haze in its aftermath, but it was a little easier to breathe.
Max opened his good eye and got a skewed, sideways view of the room.
His vision was blurred as tears streamed down his face.
Slowly, images began to appear. His heart stilled as a face came into view.
A guard lay on the floor in front of the sofa.
His eyes open in the blank stare of death.
"I'm coming for you, Damien," Violet taunted. Her voice echoing around the room. "I told you I would. Nobody can save you now. You're mine."
"Where is she?" Damien screeched, sounding hysterical. "Somebody shoot the bitch."
Footsteps running. Max turned toward the sound. Someone was over at the door, fumbling with the handle. He blinked several times before he recognized the bookcase guard. The man coughed as he threw the door open and rushed out into the corridor. It slammed shut behind him.
"Fucking coward." Damien screamed as he fired his gun into the dispersing smoke.
Movement caught Max’s attention and he spotted a small shape, dressed in black, creeping across the floor. Violet was hunting. He smiled.
Something nudged at his back, and he looked over his shoulder to see Damien’s Italian leather shoes shift to the side.
Rolling over, Max peeked out to see what Damien was doing.
The coward was hiding. He’d angled himself behind the cover of an ugly painted screen, his attention on the middle of the room.
Slowly, he raised his gun as a cruel, satisfied smile curved his lips.
He was aiming at Violet.
And she had no idea he was there.
Suddenly, everything moved in slow motion. Max knew there was no time to warn her. No time for her to react before the bullet hit. There was only one thing he could do to save her.
And he did it.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, he swung his legs wide and swept Damien's feet out from under him. Max followed through by rolling out from under the sofa, ready to kick Damien again.
But there was no need.
Shock registered on Damien's handsome face as he lost his balance.
His gun swung upward as his arms flailed, desperate to grasp something to stop his fall.
The gun went off. A bullet lodged in a painted cherub on the ceiling.
For a split second that felt like an eternity, Damien fell.
His eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent roar. And then he crashed down.
Straight onto a bronze sculpture.
A spear sliced through Damien's expensive suit, into his back and out through the front of his chest. He was suspended, two feet above the floor, impaled on a Roman warrior.
He made an odd, strangled, gurgling sound, as a pool of red spread across the white of his shirt. The gun fell from his hand with a dull clang. His arms flopped to the floor beside him, and with one last gasp, he stilled.
Damien Poole was dead.
Max scrambled to sitting position. His hands still bound in front of him. He couldn't tear his gaze from Damien. His heart beat erratically. His breathing was shallow, as though he couldn't find any air. The room began to shift and swim around him, and he wasn't sure which way was up.
All he could see was the man he’d killed.
His hands shook as strong arms enveloped him. Max tried to shake his captor off, but his effort was weak.
"It's okay," a voice said.
Max gave up the fight and stared at the body of the monster.
"It's okay," the voice said again, as arms held him tight.
Slowly, the touch began to register. But it was the scent he recognized first.
Night flowers.
Warm strength.
Violet.
She clasped a hand to the side of his head and held him fast against her chest, until her heartbeat penetrated the fog of shock that enveloped him. It was steady and strong. Just like her.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Max said, feeling oddly disconnected from his words. As though his voice was coming from very far away. "He was supposed to go to jail."
"I know." Violet stroked his hair.
"I was going to write an exposé. His reputation would have been ruined and his story would have come out in court. Everybody would have seen him for exactly who he is." He paused, staring at the dead man. "Was."
Other people began to penetrate his daze. Rodrigo ordered someone to deal with the men outside. Logan said something about a safe. A voice on the radio told them help was coming.
“You can still tell your story,” Violet said.
"But it wasn't supposed to be this way," Max whispered.
"I never meant for him to die. I just didn't want him to kill you.
" Her arms squeezed tighter, and his bruised body winced at the pain, but he didn't want her to stop.
He never wanted her to stop. "You couldn't see him.
He was in your blind spot, hiding behind the screen.
His gun was right there. And he smiled. He knew he had you and I knew he'd kill you and I… reacted…"
"You did the right thing." Violet crooned at him.
"I reacted," Max repeated as he stared at the man he killed. "I didn't think…"
Violet pressed a kiss to the top of his head as she held him close, offering shelter and support. Offering herself.
"I understand," she whispered.
And Max closed his eyes against the sight of the dead man.