The Golden Vendetta (13 page)

B
ecca and Sara left the salon and met the others in the lobby restaurant.

“Look who's back,” said Darrell, nodding with his chin. No sooner had Gerrenhausen left the auction hall than Sunglasses appeared with the agent they'd first seen dressed as a railroad porter. They took the elevator together and were gone.

Darrell tapped Wade's shoulder. “We should go up the stairs. Follow them—”

“Hold on.” Sara snagged the boys before they went anywhere. Three armed guards pushed a rolling cart across the lobby and into the elevator. The doors closed behind them, and it went up.

Becca grumbled. “This is happening too fast. They're taking the glasses to Gerrenhausen's room. Galina will get them. We can't just let her do that.”

“Mom, I know it's dangerous, but we have to be up there,” said Darrell.

It had long ago been decided that if they ever
had
to split up, one of the two parents would always be present, unless it was completely impossible. With Roald in Italy, Julian was the most likely replacement.

“Look, I'll totally go up there,” Julian said. “Alone or with a team.”

Sara nodded. “A team. Lily, Darrell, you stay here with me. We need to have eyes in both places. Becca, please keep your wire on.”

“Will do.”

Julian led the way up the staircase, Becca and Wade following quickly behind, while Sara, Lily, and Darrell staked out a dim corner just off the main lobby. It had a full view of the front and one of the side exits.

Darrell paced between the tables, keeping one eye on the lobby.

“Something's going to happen,” Lily whispered. “I feel it in my bones.”

“Me, too,” said Sara. “Darksuit was very angry. He wants those glasses—who knows why—and he's not
just going to let them go. He'll try something.”

Darrell was more impressed with his mother's recovery every day. Kidnapped, then strapped into a deadly device. He wouldn't have been able to deal with it so well. She was good.

Suddenly, the elevator doors flashed open, and Darksuit emerged, his face a somber mask. A hotel porter followed him, pushing a dolly filled with luggage.

“Your car has just pulled up, Mr. Drangheta,” the desk attendant said.

“Drangheta!” Lily whispered. “It was his guy who Gerrenhausen killed on the train. He really wants those glasses!”

The gymnast wasn't with him, although a garment bag of dresses on the dolly was obviously a woman's. A half-dozen beefy bodyguards formed the rear of the little caravan.

“Where's his companion?” Sara said under her breath. Her eyes flashed across the lobby, searching. “Is she staying behind?”

Darrell shook his head. “Her stuff is here. Drangheta's bodyguards are here, too, so he's checking out. Maybe he's just giving up.”

“Or maybe she's waiting for him, and we don't have to worry about them,” said Lily. “Let's make sure.”

All three of them slipped out of the lobby and down the front steps to the street, keeping near the bank of potted plants on the side. The whole casino square was glittering with lights. A black SUV and a driverless cream-colored Bentley convertible idled out front. Darrell watched the porter load the luggage piece by piece into the SUV's rear compartment. Drangheta spoke to his bodyguards. Neither he nor his people paid any attention to Darrell or the others. Maybe because they were being so invisible. Still, the hairs on the back of Darrell's neck prickled. Something wasn't right. He brushed the hairs down and felt cold.

One of the hotel's valets trotted down the stairs. It looked for a second as if there was going to be a fight about who was going to open the door of the Bentley, the valet or one of the bodyguards. The valet got there first.

“Mr. Drangheta, we hope you enjoyed your stay at the Hôtel de—”

“I did not.”

“I'm very sorry, sir. Perhaps next time—”

Drangheta brushed the man away and slid behind the wheel. He snapped his fingers, and his bodyguards funneled back into the hotel.

“What's going on?” Darrell whispered. “He's leaving
without his bouncers, and the woman? She's his wife, isn't she?”

“Or girlfriend,” said Lily. “But still.”

Darrell's mind wandered for a second but was back when Drangheta revved the Bentley. Before putting the car in gear, he slowly glanced up the facade of the hotel. He scanned the sky for a fraction of a second, then released the hand brake. The Bentley screeched away. The SUV stayed out front.

“What did he just do? Look at the stars?” Darrell slid out from behind the row of potted palm plants and stared up.

There she was.

The woman in black.

She was climbing like a spider up the side of the building and onto a balcony on the top floor.

L
ily couldn't believe how fast everything went.

Seconds after Darksuit drove away, Galina Krause pulled up to the hotel and bounded up the lobby stairs like a black storm cloud, her eyes flashing.

Ebner von Braun skulked behind her—of course—doing his best impression of an evil assistant, rubbing his hands and whispering in her ear as they crossed the lobby. They were followed only seconds later by at least ten men in bulky black sweatshirts and jeans and earphones. One trotted over to what might have been a service door, while the rest entered the elevator with Galina and Ebner.

Lily tapped the microphone on her tablet. “Becca, listen . . .”

Upstairs, Wade and Julian were poised around the corner from Gerrenhausen's room on the fifth floor, waiting for something to happen, when Becca jumped.

“Lily,
what?”
She pressed her earpiece in. “Are you serious? Everybody, the woman is climbing up to the balcony
from outside!
And Galina's just arrived—”

They heard a soft
whump,
and a cloud of smoke poured into the hall from under the bookseller's door. Seconds later, the little man staggered out of his room, gasping, coughing, retching. He waved his way frantically across the hall, swiped a key card at another guest-room door, and fell inside.

“The thief is in Gerrenhausen's room!” said Julian.

The elevator door at the far end of the hall flashed open, and Galina strode out like a tornado, fuming, a pistol in each hand. Ebner jammed the elevator Stop button and followed her. The alarm began to ring. The kids and Julian ducked back behind the corner. A bunch of giant men with nasty handguns charged down the hall.

“Everyone stay down,” whispered Wade.

At the same time
—wham
—the door to the stairway swept open behind them, and six of Drangheta's goons
in matching gray suits pushed past them.

The smoke hadn't yet cleared when the hallway thundered with gunfire, shots flying from both ends, with the bookseller's room in between. Wade and Becca were flat on their faces, Julian behind them. Plaster flew off the walls over their heads. One of Drangheta's men thudded to the floor. There was a low cry from the far end of the hall. Two Knights fell in a heap. The Order's men pulled back, shielding Galina, while Drangheta's men pushed forward, past the bookseller's room. Galina disappeared down the hall to the left. Drangheta's thugs followed.

Suddenly the lights went out, plunging the entire floor into darkness. Stupidly, the gunfire started up again in the dark. Then two shots resounded from the bookseller's room. The railway porter staggered out of the room, holding his stomach. He crashed into the wall across the hallway carpet, pivoted, then collapsed through the opposite door, groaning but alive. Gerrenhausen dragged him inside and slammed the door behind him.

They waited.

“We need those glasses!” Becca whispered.

“But Cassa could still be in there,” said Julian.

Darrell burst out of the staircase behind him, followed
by Sara and Lily. “Security's coming,” he hissed.

“They'll take the glasses, if the thief doesn't have them already,” said Becca.

“But she's got to come out that door. Maybe we have her trapped,” said Lily.

“She's smarter than that,” said Wade. “She'll go back down the side—”

“Stay here.” Suddenly, Julian was on the move. He crawled on his hands and knees down the hall.

“No chance,” Becca said. “We need those
ocularia.”

She slipped away from Wade and darted ahead, crouching. The smoke had nearly dissipated by now, and she moved down the hall toward the door of the suite. Julian slowly pulled down the handle of number 517. The door opened a crack. He slipped inside with Becca. Wade next. The others followed.

It was as black as night inside the room, too. The only light came from the open doors of the balcony, a deep purple western sky, a glittering sprinkle of lights from the casino opposite. Night noises splashed up from the street. From what Wade could make out, the suite was large—double size, maybe, with a door connecting two adjoining sets of rooms.

Then, over the distant gun battle, a sound.

A quiet footfall from another room.

Wade felt a touch on his arm. He turned. It wasn't Julian, who stood flat against the opposite wall with Darrell and Lily, Sara next to them. Becca had tapped him, her finger carefully laid across her lips. She pointed.
Look.

Beyond him, through the doors to the other suite, Sunglasses lay motionless on the floor, a gash of red across his cheek, his arms twisted behind his back

Is he . . . ?
Wade wondered. But no. The guy twitched slightly.

The thief was searching the second set of rooms for the antique glasses. Wade moved with Becca along the inside wall to the connecting door. She edged around him and looked through the space between the door and the hinges. He peeked over her shoulder. The thief broke open the room safe.

There was a click. A box lid opened. The room shone silver in the darkness. She closed the box, shutting down the light, and popped it into a small backpack on her shoulders. She drew her gun and made for the other room.

Thinking fast, or not at all, Wade reached awkwardly close to Becca. The sound would alert the others. He slammed the door between the two suites. A shot whizzed past his face and tore plaster from the wall. A
splash of something hot hit his cheeks. A vase exploded on a nearby table, spilling water.

An instant later, the balcony door crashed closed, and the light from the street vanished. Then nothing. Wade burst out the balcony doors. Something clattered over his head. He looked up. The woman was sprinting across the slate rooftop. He heard the squealing of an iron door, then nothing. The elevator bell kept dinging in the hall. Then came a rush of footsteps toward the room and shouting in French. Hotel security.

Too late. The thief had disappeared. The gunfire had ended. Drangheta's goons were gone. Galina and her men were nowhere at all.

I
n a flash the hotel was in crisis mode. Darrell's heart thumped like a drum as he pushed his way through the security and firefighting teams jamming the halls.

“Come on! They'll lock down the hotel. Come
on!”

They were able to slip out in the general evacuation and were on the street in time to see Drangheta, in his Bentley convertible, shrieking away with the thief next to him.

“She's got the glasses!” said Becca. “Sara! Julian!”

“I'm up for the chase,” he said, zapping his Fiat open. “If you are . . .”

Sara didn't hesitate. “Go. We'll follow in the Citroën!”

Wade dived into the passenger seat of Julian's tiny
Fiat, while Darrell had to squish into the puppy-size backseat. Wade wished he could grab the wheel and take control of the car. But Julian tore away from the curb, fishtailing into night traffic like a stunt driver. Then, out of nowhere, the silver Mercedes appeared with Galina herself behind the wheel. She raced quickly down the serpentine streets after the Bentley.

“I knew she'd be back!” said Darrell.

“Drangheta will head for the airport in Nice,” Julian said as they skidded through a snaky hairpin then down into a long tunnel that led to the harbor. “That's the fastest way out of here. I'd go that way if I had a stolen object.”

“And here's the race Darrell wanted,” said Wade. “Go, Julian, go!”

The next few seconds were a blur of speed for all four cars. Drangheta's Bentley tore first out of the tunnel and roared toward the harbor, then spun completely around, accelerating toward Galina's Mercedes. Julian downshifted the Fiat, then hit the gas. Though Sara's Citroën was vastly underpowered, it held the road well and was only a few yards behind them. Galina braked suddenly, and Julian reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. He struck the rear end of Galina's Mercedes, sending it careening toward the outside harbor wall.

The Bentley was racing toward them now, and the thief began firing at Galina. Shots thumped into the Mercedes and then into Julian's Fiat. Galina braked close to the guardrail. Julian swerved right, slammed the clutch and brake at the same time, and bounced onto the sidewalk, nearly crashing into a jewelry store.

The silver Mercedes shunted the Bentley as it passed, Galina shooting back at the thief in the passenger seat. Ducking, the thief kept firing. The Mercedes's rear tires blew out. Galina lost control. The car catapulted off the roadway and crashed through the harbor wall, coming down flat onto the surface of the water with an explosion of spray.

The Bentley shrieked its brakes once, twice, then roared away into the night. It vanished into traffic before they could follow it. Julian backed his Fiat away from the storefront and tore down to the harbor. The Citroën pulled up right behind.

They rushed to the wall, crammed together, searching the water.

The silver Mercedes was sinking quickly, both gull-wing doors shut.

“Holy cow,” Becca whispered. “Galina's in there. She could drown.”

Multiple sirens keened from either end of the street.

“We'd better get out of here,” said Sara. “Everyone, back to Nice. Now.”

The Fiat and Citroën were just able to slither up the streets and away as fire trucks, police cars, and emergency medical vehicles jammed the harbor side.