The Bloodline Cipher (6 page)

But as she reached for the handle of the door, it swung open towards her – quickly followed by a fist. Con gasped as she was sent sprawling backwards with no time to react. She knocked into Jonah, who fell back against the large porcelain sink, knocking detergent everywhere.
They guessed what we were trying
, he realised,
came to head us off
. Before he could turn, he heard the sickening smack of two more blows finding a mark on Con's body.

‘Get off her,' Patch yelled.

Jonah saw the man who'd sneak-attacked Con in silhouette against the bright oblong of open door, lunging forward to grab him. He grabbed a bottle of cleaning fluid, wrenched off the cap and squeezed the contents into the man's face. Jonah caught a snatch of South African accent as the man let stream with some colourful swearing.
Wash your mouth out
, he thought
grimly, squirting a blast of bleach down his attacker's throat. The man choked and retched, wiping ferociously at his eyes, and Patch hit him as hard as he could on the jaw. Jonah followed up with a kick to the stomach that sent the man staggering back into the corridor.

Con was on her knees, holding her ribs, and Jonah crouched down beside her. ‘You OK?'

Con spat blood on the floor and nodded silently. But behind her, outside in the grounds, Jonah caught a glimpse of movement. A figure in black was running towards the house. A girl, gripping a crossbow.

‘Quick!' Jonah grabbed Con by the wrist and hauled her away, Patch narrowly beating them out of the room and into the large, marble-floored hallway. Jonah heaved the heavy door shut behind them, just as a bolt slammed into the wood with a splintering
thunk
. There was a key in the lock and he turned it just in time, as the handle jumped from his grip, worked furiously by whoever was on the other side.

Jonah looked round quickly. They were in a hallway. The fort was as old-fashioned inside as out, only gloomier – it was all antique dressers and grandfather clocks and grey walls displaying old swords and rifles.

Their attacker had already recovered, ignoring the disinfectant dripping from his clothes, looking mad as hell. He was maybe in his late teens, as big as a bull, a tanned, toned powerhouse with blond hair and glaciers for eyes. ‘We've been waiting for you to show …' His South African accent was curt. ‘Coldhardt's little assholes.'

‘As far as we know he's only got the one,' Jonah
shot back, tensing for a further fight.

‘My name's Sorin.' The guy smiled, red tongue flicking against ice-white teeth. ‘And you are Jonah Wish, Patrick Kendall and Constance Beatty.'

Jonah didn't have a smart comeback; like Patch and Con he found himself shifting uneasily at the namecheck. Then the door shuddered under a large blow behind them. Jonah and the others moved away.

‘It's all right, Sadie,' he shouted, ‘I'm on it.'

Con glared at him. ‘Who are you people? Who do you work for?'

Sorin only smiled – as he darted towards them with incredible speed. But Con was just as fast as she snatched the phosphor cap from beneath her top and hurled it down in his path. Jonah flung up his arm as the yellow flare bit away the shadows. Sorin recoiled, shouting in pain and anger – as another huge thump saw the utility room door almost sheared from its hinges.

‘Move,' snapped Jonah.

‘Wait. That asshole called me Constance.' Con flew forward, into the smoke. Jonah heard the crack of knuckle on bone, ceramics breaking. A few anxious seconds later Con re-emerged, stuffing a Rolex into her pocket. ‘One less creep to worry about.'

‘Make that one more!' Jonah shouted as the door to the utility room gave way. He grabbed the radio from his pocket. ‘Motti, we need back-up. Hostiles in east wing. Get Tye and get here –'

The masked girl with the crossbow, presumbly Sadie, burst out from inside – and then skidded and landed flat on her butt.

‘Ha!' Patch waved the blanket like a victory flag as
he chucked an empty bottle of liquid soap at her head. Jonah realised the soap itself had been carefully spilled all over the floor.

But Sadie recovered swiftly, scrambled on to the fallen door where she could keep her footing. She ripped off her mask to wipe her slippery hands – and in a heartbeat Jonah recognised the ring on her finger.
Coldhardt's ring. The one Motti was meant to give Budd
, she
got hold of it
. But as Jonah turned to run it wasn't the glint of gold that shone in his mind, but the image of her: her black, spiky hair, her face porcelain-pale with cheeks as rosy as a doll's, brown eyes caked with kohl, emphasising her murderous glare. He sprinted after Con and Patch, their footfalls together like cold thunder on the marble as they made for the grand staircase across the hallway.

But however fast they ran, he knew Sadie's bolt would be faster.

Jonah threw a desperate backward glance over his shoulder. Sadie was taking aim, her finger curling round the trigger, aiming carefully at –

‘Patch!' Jonah bawled.

Trailing the foil blanket behind him like a super-hero's cape, Patch had reached the top step. He turned round as the bolt was loosed – and doubled up as it hit him in the stomach.

Patch staggered back, mouthing in silence, then fell and lay still.

Parked out on a wooded trail, just out of sight of Blackland's fort, Tye sat in the pick-up, biting her nails. Motti was taking for ever to get here. He'd radioed that he was coming to her rather than waiting at the roadside as planned. Which meant something was wrong. She was tempted to radio him back, but if he was hiding out, lying low, her voice barking out of the handset wouldn't exactly do him many favours. She wished they'd had more time to plan and prepare. She felt a flare of resentment at the thought of Coldhardt sitting pretty in his own fortress while they risked their lives breaking into this one. She should've spoken up, got them more planning time, scouted the location in advance. But Coldhardt had been so adamant they move quickly … as if he could sense his enemies closing in.

Just what were Jonah and the others up against in there?

There was a rap at the door of the pick-up. Tye was jolted back to the moment and grabbed the revolver lying in her lap. It wasn't even loaded, but as a deterrent …

Motti opened the door, panting for breath.

She scowled and lowered the gun, angry and relieved at once. ‘What the hell's happening out there?'

As he opened his mouth to reply, a burst of static belched from his radio together with Jonah's frantic voice.
‘Motti, we need back-up …'

‘Drive,' Motti snapped, holding the radio to his ear as he scrambled inside.

Tye had already started the engine. ‘But if I break through the gates now, security –'

‘– is screwed all to hell. Two guards been wasted, at least two. Now
move
!'

Tye put her foot down and fat tyres tore through the turf as the pick-up sped away along the track.

‘Gates give on to the west side,' Motti continued. ‘If we crash 'em, people gonna know we've arrived – and while they come looking, we sneak out and circle round to the east wing. Plan?'

‘Plan,' Tye agreed. The vehicle had been left for them at San Angelo by one of Coldhardt's contacts, customised with special bull bars designed to concentrate and multiply the force of collision. She'd calculated a speed of at least fifty to smash through the iron security gates, but so much depended on where she hit them and from which angle … It wasn't an exact science.

She only had one shot at getting it right.

Tye poured on the gas as they thundered along the wooded lane. ‘Hang on tight.'

‘Duh!' replied Motti as he buckled up and wedged his feet against the dashboard, bracing himself.

The pick-up lurched as they roared and skidded round the corner. The fort came into sight.

And there were the heavy-duty gates – standing wide open.

Tye took in two uniformed bodies, face-up in the gravel with bolts in their bellies. Just beyond them, she saw a huge, white limousine parked on the drive, blocking their way. She stomped on the brakes, spun the wheel, muttered a prayer as she swerved to try and avoid the limo. But the pick-up was like a big red missile and it was going too fast to stop.

There was a kind of sick grace to the collision as they smacked loudly into the back of the car; the limo's boot and bumper crumpled like paper and it leapt into the air like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang's posher cousin.

The impact flung Tye forward in her seat, the safety belt biting into her ribs. Moments later, she had unbuckled and was racing outside. Every bone in her body seemed to rattle as she ran, and there was a prickling thickness throbbing through the back of her neck.
If anyone was inside that limo, they could be dead as those two guards
. The realisation stopped her running. She was suddenly afraid to see.

Motti reached the car first. ‘No one,' he reported, glancing back towards the fallen guards. ‘And that's all security here terminated.' He shook his head. ‘But if this is Lady Bowfinger's getaway vehicle, I think she'll be leaving on foot.'

A woman's scream echoed distantly from inside the fort.

Motti turned at the sound. ‘Maybe that's her now.'

‘Sounds like someone's terrified,' said Tye.

‘Do we care? It wasn't Con,' Motti noted. ‘And Patch and Jonah can't reach a note as high as that.'

Tye took a deep breath. ‘Well, gates or no gates, we've announced our arrival. Let's get inside and take a look.' She led the way across the drive, kicking up gravel as she ran for the nearest window.

‘No!' Jonah felt his world tilt, felt his legs start to shake as he tore up the remaining stairs to where Patch lay unmoving. He reached him just as Con did. ‘Is he OK, is he –?'

Patch's eye flickered open and scrunched the blanket he was clutching in front of him around the bolt. ‘Good stuff, this titanium foil,' he croaked. ‘Don't think she broke the skin.' Jonah tried to help Patch up, but the boy shook his head a fraction. ‘Just make out I'm dead and leave her to me.'

Jonah blinked. ‘To you?'

Patch winked. ‘Eye for an eye.'

‘Murdering bitch!' Con shrieked, turning in a fury back to Sadie.

The girl had negotiated the slippery floor and was running towards the stairs, grim-faced. There was no sign of Sorin. Sadie swung up her arm ready to fire at Con, but then had to dodge aside as Jonah chucked a large vase down at her from the top of the stairs.

He grabbed Con's wrist and yanked her away along the landing, panting for breath. The floors and walls were black up here, with strange markings and crude geometric designs scratched into the ceiling, like strange stars overhead. The landing turned at right
angles, and once they'd rounded the corner, they stopped running.

‘Hope Patch knows what he's doing,' said Jonah. Con nodded, wiped drying blood from her swollen lip.

Cautiously, Jonah peeped out from around the corner, as Sadie reached the top of the stairs where Patch's body was sprawled. She crouched as if to make sure he was dead – and then Patch lashed out with both legs, catching her in the stomach and propelling her backwards. She gasped, and as Jonah heard her tumble and crash back down the stairs he felt a savage satisfaction. Patch scrambled up and staggered over to join them.

‘That was brilliant, Patch,' said Jonah, putting an arm round him. ‘You OK?'

‘No, it bloody hurts.' Patch pulled up his top to expose a huge, red-purple bruise spreading over his skinny stomach. ‘Kiss it better, Con?'

‘Shut up, Patch,' she said quietly. ‘Jonah, how did these people know we were coming? How do they know us by name?'

‘How many rivals must Coldhardt have, how many enemies?' Jonah shook his head helplessly. ‘Take out his workforce, you shut down his operations.'

Con swore. ‘Now they can get the manuscript and execute us at the same time.'

‘I told you I had a bad feeling about tonight,' said Patch miserably.

‘Time we split,' said Jonah. ‘At least with security dealt with we don't have to wait for Tye to break open the gates.'

‘But we can't go back the way we came,' said Patch. As if for emphasis, fresh footfalls started to pound a ragged rhythm on the staircase behind them. ‘Sounds like the bitch is back.'

‘And where's her mate?' Jonah licked his dry lips. ‘We don't know how many of these bastards there are. If any of them reach the west wing staircase ahead of us …'

‘We'll be cut off!' Con realised.

As one, the three of them sprinted away.

It was maybe fifty metres across the gravel to the nearest lit window in the looming grey stonework. Tye covered the distance in seconds, Motti following close on her heels. White curtains shielded the room from sight.

‘Surely someone would have heard the crash and come looking by now?' said Tye breathlessly.

‘Unless they're too busy,' Motti suggested, ‘taking care of stuff –'

He broke off as suddenly the curtains jumped open and a girl's face slammed up against the window. Motti stepped back in alarm as she beat her palms against the glass, like she was trying to get out. Tye felt her stomach twist. The elfin-looking girl looked maybe eighteen, her eyes as wild as her shoulder-length red hair, terrified. A large brown birthmark stained her chin and neck, but she hadn't been born with the gash on her pale cheek. Someone grabbed a fistful of the girl's hair and yanked on it savagely, tearing her away from the glass.

Then the window was flung open and Tye quickly
flattened herself against the wall as another girl's face appeared, peering out across the driveway. She was older, early twenties perhaps, black with dyed blonde hair, straightened and scraped back off her high forehead.

But Tye didn't get much more of a chance to study the face before Motti punched it. The girl grunted with pain and staggered back out of sight. Tye flashed him a
what was that?
look.