Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (52 page)

Michael’s shoulders stiffened.

“Turn around.”

Michael turned slowly, his composure still intact, though frayed now at the edges. When he came face-to-face with the Midnight Phantom’s frightening masked and caped form, he sucked his breath in sharply and held it. Garrett raised his revolver just enough to draw Michael’s eyes to it, then he slowly thumbed back the hammer. In
the silent room, the sound was magnified,
and at last Michael Darwell began to show there were
situations in his life from which neither his name nor his
money could save him.

“The Midnight Phantom,” he said finally, with an unsuc
cessful attempt at bravado.

“The one and only.”

“But I thought…” Michael’s sentence died away as
irrefutable proof stared him in the face.

“That I had been arrested?” Garrett made a bitter sound
deep in his throat. “Did you really believe that girl was
the same person who crept through your bedroom during the charity ball?” He made another angry, derisive sound,
certain only that he wanted to get Pamela out of jail as quickly
as possible.

“I didn’t know you’d gone through my bedroom,” Mi
chael said after a long pause.

“What you don’t know could fill a library.”

“Now listen here—”

Before he could say more, Garrett had closed the distance
that separated them, to touch the cold, hard muzzle of his
revolver against Michael’s temple.

“No, you listen,” Garrett said, his tone flinty, deadly.
“Open the safe.”

“But I’m not sure that—”

Garrett added pressure to the revolver so that it was
forced against Michael’s skull. “Be sure or be dead.”

“Pull the trigger and there will be a dozen men in this
room in thirty seconds.”

Garrett recognized the bluff and reminded him, “You’ll still
be dead.”

“What do you want?” Michael asked, now with a
slightly tremulous quality to his voice.

“First off, open the safe.”

Without argument, Michael went to the wall safe, spun
the dial, and soon had it open. He reached inside with
both hands and began removing stacks of money, piling them neatly upon his desk. The unwavering pistol, com
bined with the calm, deadly voice and the black mask and
cape all worked to make him more polite and agreeable than he’d ever been in his life.

When Michael had finished, eight wrapped bundles of paper money and one canvas sack of gold coins sat on the
desk for Garrett’s inspection. There was also a very small
notebook with several names in it, and a larger notebook,
with many names, dates, and figures written inside.

Garrett shoved both notebooks into the pocket of his
jacket, noting Michael’s quizzical look as the money was
ignored.

“I don’t like seeing innocent people hurt,” Garrett said
quietly. “The girl in jail isn’t the Midnight Phantom. I’d ap
preciate it if you’d see that she’s set free by morning.”

Michael cleared his throat, tried to speak and failed,
moistened his lips and tried again. Nothing in his privi
leged past had prepared him for speaking while a small but deadly pistol was pointed squarely at his heart.

“I can’t get her out,” Michael said, raising his hands
once more to shoulder level. “She murdered my brother.
Shot him in the back.”

“She didn’t murder anyone,” Garrett replied. He began
stuffing stacks of paper money into his pockets, again experiencing the reward of injuring the Darwells financially, though there was less pleasure in it when not being able to share the moment with Pamela. “I want her out of jail before noon tomorrow, or I’ll hold you accountable.”

Michael’s tongue went around his mouth several times
quickly. His emotional control was rapidly evaporating. “I can’t get her out, I tell you.”

“She didn’t kill anyone.”

“I know she didn’t, but that doesn’t make any difference!”

Garrett raised his weapon and aimed down the barrel,
pointing it squarely at Michael’s forehead, fully aware of
how unnerving it was to stare down the muzzle of a gun.

“Who killed your brother?” Garrett asked quietly.

“I…I don’t know.” Michael looked away
.

“Richard was my friend, and I intend to get my revenge,”
Garrett said, not at all sure where he was going with the
lie. “How else do you think I broke into your house during
the celebration?”

“Richard let you in?”

“Like I told you, he was my friend. Now tell me who
killed him. He never did like any of you, never trusted
you, always knew you’d cut him out in the end if you ever
had the chance. He and I split the take.”

“It wasn’t me,” Michael whispered. His knees were shaking so hard now that he wobbled on his feet. “I didn’t know Richard had any friends.”

“Tell me who did it, Michael. If you won’t, I’ll assume
you’re hiding the murderer, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes you just as guilty as the one who pulled the trigger and shot Richard in the back.”

Michael’s weakening courage snapped completely.

“I’m not going to die for my sister. Angie did it. She shot him then made it look like Pamela
did it. That’s the truth. I swear to God that’s the truth.”

The news hit Garrett with such force that for a moment he took his finger away from the trigger so he wouldn’t accidentally shoot Michael.

Angie a murderer? His first thought was that Michael was lying, protecting himself by pinning the blame on someone else. But on second thought, Angie murdering
Richard—and in such a cold-blooded way—wasn’t all that shocking. Angie had always considered the rules most peo
ple live by nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Turn around,” Garrett said then, disgusted with every member of the Darwell family. He didn’t even want to know
why Angie had killed Richard.

“I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for,” Michael
said, the high whine in his voice proof of how advanced his fear had become. “You have no reason to kill me.”

“Turn,” Garrett whispered, moving closer. His contempt
was reaching such a level that he couldn’t bear listening to Michael say anything else.

The moment Darwell’s back was turned Garrett brought the
butt of his revolver down on the back of his head, hitting
him hard. Without making a sound, Michael crumpled, unconscious as his body struck the floor.

For a heartbeat, Garrett looked down at him lying in a
heap on an incalculably expensive Persian rug. It came to
him that it would be so easy to permanently rid the world
of another Darwell. But doing that would put him in the same
category as the Darwells. Garrett just could not allow himself
to become one of the very monsters that he hated, to be
so Darwell-like that he would single-handedly decide who
would live and who would die.

It wasn’t fair he couldn’t play by the same rules—or
lack of rules—as the Darwells, but then, he had known all
along that life wasn’t fair.

He left the bag of gold coins on the desk. Crossing back
on the rope would be difficult enough without all that
additional weight.

Holstering his revolver, Garrett opened the office door
and came face-to-face with two blackjack dealers who were coming to get some money from their boss.

Garrett’s reflexes had always been superlative, and he
had the advantage in knowing that anyone he saw was an
enemy.

“What the—” was all the closest dealer could say before Garrett hit him square in the chest with his shoulder,
sending the man toppling backward onto his fellow dealer.

Garrett took off then, moving like his namesake, Phantom, down the dark
ened hallway. Every second was precious now, and he knew
it. Though the dealers had been caught by surprise, their confusion wouldn’t last long once they found their em
ployer unconscious on the floor of his office.

He had nearly climbed the ladder when the pounding
of boots against a wooden floor echoed off the walls.
These sounds brought on a fresh burst of speed, and he ascended the remaining rungs with dispatch.

He hit the rooftop door with his shoulder, remembering
how difficult it had been to move when he’d entered the
casino. The door swung on rusty hinges, and when it could
move no farther, slammed against the supporting wall.
Garrett heard the heavy, old lock strike the rooftop and skid
to a stop. For only a second or two, he searched the dark
ness for it. He couldn’t find it in the darkness. His mending ribs burned like hell’s own fire.

“The roof! He’s going up to the damn roof!” one dealer
shouted.

Garrett rushed to the edge of the roof. The grappling
hook was still in place, the rope still tautly stretched from the casino to the hotel. There was no time to make it easy
on his broken ribs. He grabbed the rope and leaped over
the edge, in agony once again when his arms took the full
weight of his body, stretching the muscles in his abdomen.

With very little hesitation, Garrett began swinging hand-
over-hand toward the hotel.

He hadn’t reached the halfway point when the dealers
spotted him. Neither man was armed, so they reached over
the roof and tried to shake the rope enough to make Garrett
lose his grip, but the line was much too tight from supporting Garrett’s weight for their efforts to have much of an effect.

“The hook!” Garrett heard one of the men say. “Kick the hook loose!”

Garrett felt the rope shake, and worse, he heard the grap
pling hook slide against the stone edge of the roof.

“Harder, damn it! Kick the hook harder!”

For Garrett, it was as though the world had suddenly
slowed down while he continued to think in normal time.
He heard the thud of a boot striking the grappling hook, kicking it toward the rim of the roof. He looked down at
the street below and, in a split second, calculated the odds
of surviving such a fall as close to zero. He looked at the
hotel and figured he’d never reach it before the dealers
kicked the grappling hook loose.

Damn.

It seemed absurd that he would die because of a couple
of unarmed blackjack dealers. For an instant he thought
of simply releasing his hold on the rope. He would end
up just as dead as he would by having the grappling hook
kicked free, and this way the decision would have been
his. But that would be giving up. If Garrett was to die, he
preferred dying as he had lived, defying the odds and
fighting to the bitter end.