Pirate (21 page)

Sam looked that direction. She seemed to be watching them, her face pale. Two of Fisk's goons, Ivan and some new guy, stood behind her—too close, Sam realized.

“And if we choose not to cooperate?” Sam said.

“Then you'll have the lovely Miss Walsh's death on your conscience.”

“You really think you can get away with that here? In the middle of the British Museum?”

“It's already in motion. The question is, how many people do you want to see hurt?”

“What's in motion?” Sam asked.

“In less than sixty seconds, the fire alarms will go off. The museum staff, being well drilled, will usher everyone out in an orderly fashion. What they won't realize is that there is an ambulance loaded with enough explosives to take off the front of this building. It's about to pull up as we speak—to care for a man complaining of chest pains. So your choices are these. When the alarm sounds, you're ushered out with the hundreds of others to the front, putting your lovely wife in danger of a blast that will undoubtedly have a very high body count. Or you save dozens of lives, your wife's included, by accompanying me and the frightened curator, who is undoubtedly feeling the very sharp point of Marlowe's dagger at her back.” He held up his cane as if to imply that's how the knife was smuggled in. “And for all your wasted efforts in sending security after us, Ivan managed to bring a gun in after all.”

Sam looked over at the two men. Ivan, his right hand in his
jacket pocket, smiled at him as though he knew he was the subject of their conversation. And then, as though to prove Fisk's point, he lifted his jacket, his hand, and the concealed weapon aimed in their direction. A moment later, the fire alarms went off.

“Your decision, Mr. Fargo. Make it quick.”

R
emi gripped Sam's arm as the fire alarms blared throughout the gallery. “I'm not leaving my husband.”

“The choice is not yours, Mrs. Fargo.”

Sam asked, “What happens to my wife if I cooperate?”

“When she dutifully shows up alone out front, they'll know not to set off the explosives—as long as no police arrive. The better question is for her to ask what happens to you.” He pinned his gaze on Remi. “Stay in sight of the entrance, don't use your phone, and your husband will be safe.”

“Sam . . .”

“I'll be fine, Remi. Go.” He looked toward the exit, where museum employees were guiding the guests out.

She stopped before Fisk, looking him in the eye with a cold stare. The last thing she wanted was to anger him and so she turned to Sam, saying, “Be careful.”

He gave a quick nod, and she forced herself to walk away,
finally glancing back as she neared the exit, willing Sam to look at her.

They'd reached the far end of the gallery, and Fisk's man forced Miss Walsh around, plucking a white key card that was clipped to her pocket, using it to open the door. Finally, Sam looked toward Remi. He crossed his fingers, touched his temple near his eye, then pointed at her.

She did the same. Their own little signal for
Don't worry, I love you
.

Forcing herself to walk calmly among the other evacuees, she tried to regulate her breathing, get her fear under control. Sam was very capable, and if anyone could defeat Fisk, he could.

The cool air hit her as she stepped out, and she looked around, hearing sirens in the distance. Guests milled about near the entrance, the sequins and jewels on the women's gowns sparkling in the lights.

Laughter and quiet conversation filled the air. No one seemed to be panicking.

She saw no ambulance—nor any guest who seemed to be suffering from a heart attack, fake or otherwise.

Fisk had lied to them.

Idiot. Of course he had.

She turned on her heel, walked to the door where security was still ushering other guests out due to the fire alarms.

When she tried to enter, one of the guards put out his hand. “I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll need to stay outside until the fire department clears the building.”

“My husband,” she said, her hand to her throat, attempting to look as panicked as she felt. “He's . . . diabetic. He needed his
insulin and said he was going to the restroom to give himself an injection. He hasn't come out. I—I don't see him anywhere. Please. It's the first-floor restrooms in the atrium. If I could just go check . . . ?” Pleading with her eyes. “I'll come right out as soon as I find him.”

He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “In and out,” he said.

“Thank you! I'll be quick!”

She walked straight toward the atrium. Glancing back, she saw the guard was no longer paying her any attention. Perfect. She continued on, saw perhaps fifty or so guests coming down the grand curved staircase on the left. Two young women, both museum employees, stood on either side at the base of the stairs, repeating, “Please head to the nearest exit. Thank you.”

Remi wandered up, smiled at the employee closest to her. “Excuse me. I'm worried about my husband. I can't find him and I'm hoping he's upstairs.”

“Just wait here, ma'am. They're clearing everyone from upper levels.”

“Thank you.” Stepping back, Remi stumbled against someone, lost her balance, fell forward against the woman, her purse flying from her grasp to the floor, its chain strap rattling as it slid across the surface. “Oh no,” she said, trying to right herself as the woman helped to catch her. “I'm
so
sorry!”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Remi said. “More embarrassed than anything. I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No. Here. Let me get your purse.”

“I can get it,” Remi said, moving past her, scooping up the
chain, then holding the purse against her as she strung the chain over her shoulder. “I can't believe I did that. Darn high heels.” She glanced upstairs. “I don't see him. I guess I can wait at the front.”

Remi moved with the crowd toward the exit, hiding the stolen key card behind her purse as she quickly sidelined toward the gallery. After a quick glance back to make sure no one was watching, she made a beeline toward the door leading to, she hoped, Sam. She slid the key card against the lock, hearing it click as the light turned green. Opening the door, she slipped inside, entering a stairwell, then dropped the key card into her purse. She looked up, dismissed that direction, and descended, cracking open the door at the bottom. She saw it was clear, stepped in, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Remi pulled off her shoes before starting down the hallway. She passed several doorways, all closed, following the corridor to a T intersection at the end. An
EXIT
sign on the wall pointed to the left. Doubting they'd leave the museum—unless they'd already found what they were looking for—she peered around the corner to the right. About ten feet in, she heard the faint sound of voices, floating down the corridor.

Remi stilled, tried to listen. She couldn't tell who was talking or what they were saying.

At least she was heading in the right direction.

Pressing herself close to the wall, she continued on, the voices growing louder.

“Keep looking.” This voice sounded like Fisk.

“Maybe,” came a woman's voice, “if you told me what you're trying to find?”

“I did tell you. Something round with symbols on it.”

Remi edged her way toward the room, her back against the wall. The door was closed, but not tight. Fisk stood with his back to the door, watching Miss Walsh sort through items on a table. Marlowe, his dagger in hand, stood next to them. What Remi didn't see was Sam or Ivan. She eyed the door. A slight push would be all it would take. She reached out, pressed her fingers against it. A quarter inch more allowed her to see into what was apparently the workroom where they'd been cataloguing the Herbert Collection. Several weapons scattered on the table clearly didn't make the cut for the upstairs display: a mace detached from the handle, a maul, an old leather shield, and pieces of body armor. Unfortunately, nothing that could readily be used as a weapon on her part—except, perhaps, a brass star that appeared to have been attached to the leather shield at one time, its points possibly sharp enough to do some damage if thrown with enough force.

The door swung open. Ivan shoved the barrel of a small pistol right toward her. “Don't move.”

Remi glanced into the room, seeing Sam off to one side, seated in a chair, his hands zip-tied in front of him, but otherwise unharmed. “No need for violence,” she said, giving a glance at the gun.

“You should've stayed outside.”

“I'd be glad to return.”

“Too late,” he said and yanked her into the room.

S
am forced himself to remain still when he saw Remi stumble past the door, landing against the table of artifacts. As much as he wanted to blast his fist through Ivan's face, then break his neck, he knew their best bet was to wait. Ivan might only have two shots in that small-caliber handgun that he'd managed to smuggle into the museum, but that was two shots too many.

“What's this?” Fisk said, watching Ivan take hold of Remi.

“Visitor.”

The older man took a frustrated breath. “Does no one listen around here?” Then, realizing Miss Walsh was distracted from her search, he turned back to her. “Keep looking.”

She nodded, hurriedly searching through stacks of folders and papers.

Remi leaned over the table, reaching for one of her shoes that had slid across the tabletop when she fell.

Ivan grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

“Leave my wife alone.”

“Or what?”

Sam started to rise from his chair until Marlowe rushed over and shoved him back in his seat. “Stay there or I'll slit your throat.”

Remi, clutching her shoes and her purse to her chest, turned a stern eye on Sam. “I'm fine.”

If there was one thing that he and Remi excelled at, it was coming up with alternative plans. They were definitely going to need one now, he thought, watching as Ivan led Remi to Sam's side.

“Sit,” he ordered, shoving Remi into a chair next to Sam.

She stole a glance Sam's way. “Come here often?”

“Shut up, you two,” Ivan said, then crossed the room, standing where he could keep an eye on them.

Miss Walsh, who was currently dumping the contents of yet another box on top of the table, looked over at the dagger in Marlowe's hand. “Must you stand so close with that thing?”

He said nothing, just stared at her. She turned back to the box, her hands shaking as she sorted through the papers.

Fisk glanced at his watch, then at Miss Walsh. “You're sure you don't remember seeing anything like that in the artifacts?”

“If there was, I'd know. There wasn't.”

Fisk narrowed his gaze, stepping in closer to her. “Then what are you digging around for? Because those don't look like artifacts in that envelope.”

“You said it was round, with symbols? I remember a drawing of something similar.” She shoved the box toward him. “You're certainly welcome to look yourself.”

He picked up a stack of papers from the box, then nodded at Ivan and Marlowe. “Keep an eye on those two.”

Sam turned his attention to his wife. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. Really.”

“You shouldn't have come back.”

“I was worried. The ambulance that was supposed to be filled with explosives never showed.”

“A needed ruse,” Fisk said without looking up from the papers he was shuffling through. “It worked.”

“So,” Remi said, ignoring the man, her gaze moving to Sam's wrists and the zip tie around them, “I was a tad worried about
your
safety.”

Sam smiled at her, then glanced at Miss Walsh, who was going through the papers, but with a bit more care than Fisk, undoubtedly because she was more worried about preserving history. Or maybe she realized once this item was found, their lives were forfeit.

Fisk held up a yellowed document, then took a step back. “This is it.”

Miss Walsh froze.

Sam had been trying to loosen the plastic tie around his wrists as he kept his eye on Ivan, who was watching Fisk for further instructions. Fisk, though, seemed in awe of his discovery, almost forgetting the others were there. Then, suddenly, he looked up. His gaze met Ivan's, then Marlowe's. “Meet me upstairs when you're done. I'll send Jak down to help.”

He walked out.

Not good, Sam thought. “You only have two bullets in that gun,” he told Ivan.

“No worries. Got more in my pocket. And Marlowe's itching to try out his new dagger.”

Marlowe held up the gleaming blade and smiled at Miss Walsh.

She took a step back, her face paling.

Remi took a frustrated breath. “For heaven's sake, if you're going to kill us, at least let me put my shoes on and die with dignity. Here,” she said to Sam, holding her clutch almost to his chest so that he had no choice but to reach up with his bound hands and take it from her. She bent over, making a show of putting her high heels on her feet.

Ivan sneered at her as if he couldn't believe she had the audacity to worry about her appearance at a moment like this. Sam gripped the purse, only then realizing what was hidden under the flap. The brass star. And here he'd been hoping for a knife to cut the zip tie.

Suddenly, Marlowe grabbed Miss Walsh, pushing the dagger against her carotid.

Sam let go of the purse as he rose, then hurled the star. It struck Marlowe's neck. The man's eyes widened as he dropped the dagger, then grasped at his throat, unable to breath. He staggered back, crumpling to the ground next to Ivan, who'd just leveled his gun at Remi. Sam rushed forward, shoving Ivan's gun hand upward as he fired. He struggled with Ivan, straining against the zip tie while trying to get ahold of the gun. Ivan fired again, the shot so close to Sam's head, he felt the sting of gunpowder on his cheek. Ivan gripped the empty weapon, swung at Sam, then blindly reached behind him, grabbing the maul from the table. Sam jumped back as the sledgehammer narrowly missed him. He ducked as it came down again, then rammed Ivan in the chest with his shoulder. The maul fell from Ivan's grasp and he tripped, stumbling into the table behind him.

“Run!” Sam said.

Remi pulled Miss Walsh from the room. Ivan grabbed the broken mace, holding the spiked ball in his fist, then came at Sam. Hands still tied, Sam dove for the leather shield on the table. He swung around, bringing it up. The mace skidded across the leather, piercing through it. Sam shoved the shield into Ivan's face, pushing him back.

Ivan tripped over Marlowe's body and crashed to the floor.

Sam threw the shield at him, then ran from the room. Remi and Miss Walsh were up ahead, racing down the hall.

They stopped at the intersection, one hall leading back to the museum, the other up toward the emergency exit. “Which way?” Remi asked.

Miss Walsh looked both directions, too shocked to make a decision.

“Exit,” Sam said, hoping that the grounds would be filled with patrons who were waiting outside due to the alarm. Get lost in the crowd.

They raced up the stairs, bursting out the door, only to find they were far from the front entrance and any crowd. Instead, they stood in a dark passage between buildings, used only by maintenance.

They needed to get to the street outside the museum grounds. At the moment, their only choice was to turn left or right. Sam chose left, then stopped in the next doorway, where a shallow stairwell led down to another basement office. “Over here,” he said, urging them into the darkened stairs just as they heard the squeak of the emergency exit door opening, then slamming shut.

Ivan's booted feet scraped the gravel on the pavement just
above them as he came to a stop, looking around, the small pistol in his hand.

Sam drew in a slow, steady breath, pressing tight against the wall, as Remi cut the zip tie from his wrists with his pocketknife. Suddenly, Ivan turned. They froze as he walked in their direction, then stopped, so close that Sam could almost have reached up and grabbed the man's ankles. Ivan pulled out his phone and made a call. “Marlowe's dead . . . No. Lost them. I'll check the grounds. You watch the streets . . . Do
not
leave here until you find them. The boss wants them—”

A power generator in the next building kicked on, covering the remainder of his conversation. Sam watched Ivan walk off in the other direction, disappearing around the corner.

Satisfied they were safe for the moment, he looked over at both women. “You okay?”

They nodded.

“Good. Let's get out of here.” He eyed the door behind him. “Does this lead anywhere?”

Miss Walsh, having recovered somewhat, shook her head. “Just the maintenance office. No inside entrance. Shouldn't we just call the police?”

“I'd like to make sure we're alive to give our statements. How do we get back inside?”

“The easiest and quickest way,” Miss Walsh said, “is back the way we came. But they took my key card.”

“I have one,” Remi said, holding up her purse. “Borrowed it from another employee.”

“That's my girl.” He climbed the stairs, then stopped at the top, waited to make sure it was clear, then motioned the others to
come up. “Straight to the other door,” he said, bringing up the rear.

They filed in, Sam not relaxing until the door was shut tight behind them.

“We'll head to the security offices,” Miss Walsh said. “We'll be safe there until the police arrive.”

“This document they took,” Sam asked her as they walked, “did you happen to get a good look at it?”

“It was a pen-and-ink sketch.”

“Of what?”

“A round object with symbols on it. I must have seen it back when I first started cataloguing the Herbert Collection because I knew right away what he was talking about when he described it.”

“Any chance you might remember any of the symbols on it?”

“Unfortunately, no. Sorry.”

Hours later, Sam and Remi finally returned to their hotel room, exhausted. Side by side on the bed, they stared up at the ceiling. Remi reached over, grasping Sam's fingers. “I can't believe we were that close.”

“A good effort. Just not good enough.”

“How is it that he's been one step ahead of us?”

A good question, Sam thought. They'd stopped the leak. Archer had assured him that Bree had not contacted her cousin since they confirmed she'd been the source. And still they were constantly behind with every step they took. “They did have several days' head start.”

“Maybe Selma has some news for us.”

“You want to call or should I?”

When Remi didn't answer, he looked over at her. She was fast asleep. He watched her for several moments, thinking about the mixed emotions of that night's events. He knew Fisk never intended to let them walk out of there, and while Sam wasn't about to simply give up and die without a fight, he'd been okay knowing that Remi was outside and safe. At least until Ivan dragged her into the room.

His lovely wife had risked her own life to rescue him. And she'd had the brains to grab a weapon in the process.

He listened to the sound of her even breathing as she slept next to him and he smiled in the dark, thinking about the way she'd insisted that she be allowed to put on her shoes.

“Good one, Remi,” he whispered.

She stirred slightly but didn't waken.

When he woke, it was to the sound of the phone ringing. He opened his eyes, surprised to see sunlight through the window, his fog-filled brain trying to remember where they even were. Hotel, he realized as Remi blindly reached for her cell phone, then put it to her ear, her voice hoarse as she said, “Hello . . . ? Wait . . . What?”

“Who is it?” Sam asked.

“Miss Walsh.” She propped herself on one elbow listening, then turned to Sam. “She knows where to find that circle with the symbols.”