The River of Bones v5 (23 page)

“I promise I won’t let you go,” he whispered.  “I don’t care about anything except you.  You’re so beautiful. . .”  He took her hand and they walked to his room.

The darkness of the summer night shadowed their bodies as they undressed, softening their nakedness.  Both threw off their clothing and rushed to hold each other, wanting their breasts and abdomens and hardness and softness to come together.  He lowered her onto the old mattress he’d thrown on the floor for a bed, spreading her on his sleeping bag, seeing her milky skin brighten its dark cover.  She arched herself in a way he’d never seen before, and he knelt between her legs and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her thighs, stomach, and breasts, full and soft and with both nipples distinctive in the night.  He heard her quiet sounds quicken, felt her touch him, caressing as he moved up, then the hot moistness of her body as she guided him inside.

He waited for a moment, not wanting to move, wishing the first sensation could last, wanting his penetration of her to deepen beyond the physical, to become something timeless.  They began rolling their bodies in rhythm, slowly, sensing their excitement together.  They stopped, kissed, and started again.  Finally, they couldn’t stop, and their bodies blurred in the magic of coming together, their sounds filling the room.  Then they stayed together, smiling, watching the brightness of their eyes and the heat on their faces.

He rolled on his back, pulled her on top of him, and drew the sleeping bag over them, trapping their body heat below, keeping them warm against the chilly night.  They kissed and smiled again.

What should he say? he wondered.  He knew he wanted to make love again before they slept.  Would she let him feel the magic once more?

“You sleepy?” he asked.  “I don’t want to let you go.”

“No, just the opposite, wide awake.  You felt so good inside. . . .  Let me stay.  We can be our old selves in the morning, flying off for God knows where, but tonight I don’t want to be alone, so keep me warm.”

For an hour they lay close together and told secrets about themselves, then made love again, this time with Sasha kneeling over him while he sat on the mattress, holding himself straight with an arm, touching her with his free hand.  Moving, teasing, they worked their passion higher, waiting until both broke loose, rocking, holding tight as each finished coming.

They covered themselves with the sleeping bag and reveled in the smells of their lovemaking and the warmth of their bodies that had waited so long for release.  At last they fell asleep, her head on his shoulder, feeling peaceful, the tiny sounds of mice mixing with their sleepy sighs.

Squeak!
  Suddenly, an odd noise woke him.  What was it, and how long had they slept?  He rolled to his knees and shook Sasha, holding his hand over her mouth, moving his other hand to his lips, signaling to stay silent.  He crept to the hallway door and peeked out, but saw nothing in the dim light.  Turning, he pulled on his pants and shoes and crept to the outside window, inching his eyes around the corner.

Rrrrip!
  Glass, wooden sash, and cement exploded around him in a burst of bullets, and instinctively he fell, praying he hadn’t lost his eyesight.  Sasha’s screamed.  He rolled, brushed his eyes, blinked, and found his vision unchanged, except for the dust of the blast.  Russian words, slamming doors, and pounding feet echoed below him.  He had to get out, escape the trap of the uppermost floor that he’d chosen for his hideout.  God, he wished that he hadn’t given away his Uzi.  He saw Sasha frantically dressing, gripping Molly’s Glock.  Good, she wants to fight, and he would need her help.

“Sasha, follow me.  We have to climb onto the roof—there’s an attic ladder in the hallway.  Cover me while I pull it down.”  He grabbed his Winchester and a bandolier of ammunition he’d brought along and ran out the door, praying they still had time.

When he reached the midpoint of the long hall, he jumped, grabbed the rope on the pull-down ladder, and dropped his weight against it, opening the upstairs crawlspace to the roof.  He saw Sasha run by, sprinting for the end of the corridor where the Russians were coming up.  Sweet Jesus, she’s going to try to hold them off all alone, he thought.  He yelled at her to come back.  She ran on, fired several rounds down the staircase leading to the top floor, then started back.  Had she given them enough time?

He jumped up the ladder to the floor of the attic, lay down, and hooked his feet under the rafter boards, then dropped his upper body and rifle below the ceiling, hanging upside down.  Sasha was halfway back.  The pounding footsteps were coming upstairs again.  He sighted on the wall nearest the stairs and fired.  The magnum bullet exploded in the hallway.  Sasha screamed again.  He couldn’t blame her because the men on the steps had to have thought that a cannon had gone off, and the blast must have been deafening.  He prayed the brass-jacketed bullet had ricocheted down, buying them more time.

He heard the sound of an Uzi outside the building, then a second burst of automatic fire. 

Simon and Molly had come alive—but Simon and he’d gotten both women in the middle of a running gunfight.  Would everyone live?  How many Russians were they facing?

Still hanging below the ceiling, he jacked another round into his rifle and watched Sasha begin climbing the ladder.  They needed another four or five seconds.  He saw the first Russian hit the top of the stairway and start aiming at her.

He blew the man back down the stairs with his rifle.  She crawled past him, and he pulled his body up and faced her.

“Give me the pistol—take the rifle and find the door to the roof.  Leave it open so I can see.”  He grabbed the Glock and rolled upside down again, peeking below the ceiling.  Bullets smashed into the plasterboard beside him, turning it into white dust.  Stay
cool, he told himself, remember you never hear the shot that kills you.  He sighted the red laser on the gunman down the hall, fired, and saw him crumple to the floor.  Another gunman ducked back down the stairway.  Silence.  He reached below, grabbed the ladder, pulled, and slammed the attic door shut.  He got to his knees, pushed the ladder down a little, found the pull-rope with his hand, and fished it through the opening.  He tied it to a rafter, turned around, and saw Sasha had opened the trapdoor to the roof.

Safe for the time being, he told himself.  The men below would have a hard time figuring out how to reach them.  Then he heard footsteps in the hallway under him and gunshots ripping through the ceiling.  Bending down for head room, he ran toward the daylight ahead.  He could help Simon and Molly by laying down a cross fire, and he doubted the Russians had thought about defending themselves against someone with a long-range rifle.  He ran onto the rooftop and saw Sasha peering over the side of the building.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“There are two men down there, but I’m afraid to shoot at them with this rifle.”

He took the rifle and aimed at the nearest of the gunmen hiding behind a cement abutment beside the next building.  Both had Kalashnikov automatics with thirty-round clips and likely were the ones who’d shot at him when he’d peeked out the top floor window.  He froze the cross hairs, squeezed the trigger, and felt the sudden recoil.  The man collapsed.

The other gunman ran for an empty warehouse down the road.  He sighted the rifle again but then stopped, not believing what he was seeing.  Molly hurtled out of the doorway of the adjoining building, diving as if she was stealing second base, and cut the gunman down, meanwhile with him returning fire, spraying dirt on her.  She rolled to her feet and raced back inside.  My God, the woman is nuts, and he doubted that Simon or he would have had the same courage.  Shaking his head, he wondered how many Russians were left.  Somehow, the
Mafiya
boss
had learned about their hideaway.  He hoped there weren’t more than six or eight, otherwise . . .

He heard an Uzi go off again, this time on the other side of the roof.  Well, they hadn’t killed Simon yet . . . though he hadn’t really feared they would.  Simon was like a phantom, popping out one place and then another, faster than an eye could blink.  He signaled Sasha to stay put and ran to the opposite side, searching.  Where the hell was he?
 
Then he saw him below, hunting for more Russians.  He waved and Simon looked up.

He signaled with his right hand, holding up four fingers.  Simon nodded and raised two fingers, for the total of six.  The number stunned him.  Christ, how many were left?  There were at least two more below him.  How many more were sneaking around outside, and did Molly have anyone stalking her?  He held his hands flat and waggled them back and forth, hoping Simon would understand.  His friend held up two fingers, then three, and pointed ahead.  Two or three . . . and they were trapped between Molly, Simon, and him.  Jake signaled that he was coming down through the apartment in an attempt to flush them out.  He saw Simon nod his head again.

He ran back to Sasha and saw Molly peering up, waving her hand at them.  Pantomiming, he began communicating with her, telling her to stay hidden, and that he meant to come down.  She nodded her head, too.

“Sasha, I’m going down.  Keep the rifle and remember to lock the trapdoor after I leave.  You’ll be safe here.”

“No.  I’ll carry the rifle because you might need it.  Don’t leave me behind—”

He paused.  Had he ever denied her anything?  Besides, she’d shown her courage all along.

“Stay right behind me and watch my back.  When I ask, call out in Russian, maybe we can get them to surrender.  I’m sick of killing them—”

“We’d be dead if you hadn’t shot them.  The
Mafiya
is more bloodthirsty than anyone, and they never leave anyone alive.  Don’t trust them.”

He nodded
because she was right.  His life had only been spared by an inch when they’d first shot at him.  Their own lives had been forfeited when one of them had gotten an itchy trigger finger, typical when you wanted to kill someone for the simple joy of it.  He had read enough about mobsters to know they were psychos looking for thrills, and the men below would murder Sasha and him in a New York second.

“Hand me the pistol when we reach the ladder.  I want to give these guys a taste of their own medicine.  Do you have any tissue?  We need to plug our ears, because it’s going to get really loud.”

She took some from her shirt pocket.  Both tore off small pieces, rolled them into balls with their fingers, and stuffed them inside their ears.

He walked to the trapdoor they’d come through a little while before and stepped down with Sasha close behind him.  He began walking the length of the attic, firing straight down, reloading, and firing again.  No one would want to stay in the hallway down below.  The magnum rifle was lifting the rafters and blowing off plasterboard with each round.

“Give me the Glock and take the rifle,” he said.

“There’s a live round in the barrel so keep it pointed straight up.  Come down when you see me hit the floor.”

He loosened the rope he’d tied off earlier, turned on the pistol’s laser, and snapped off its safety.  He stood beside the attic ladder, took a deep breath, jumped on its bottom, and felt it collapse.  The instant he hit bottom he saw a man at the end of the hall, round-eyed with shock.  He shot him before he could lift his Kalashnikov.  The man pitched forward, clutching his chest, and fell flat on his face.

“Come on—”  He watched Sasha scoot down the ladder, her legs flying.  Both then ran to the nearest doorway and ducked behind a wall.  There should be only one or two left, he told himself, and they must be really scared by now.  He wondered if they knew they’d lost all their friends.  “Tell them to surrender,” he said.  “Why should they want to die when we’ve already shot seven of them?  There can’t be many left.”

He watched as Sasha peeked around the corner and called out.  Someone answered, and he sounded terrified.

Her face paled.  “I think it’s the godfather, and he wants to know if you’ll let him live.”

“Ask him how many men he has left and if there are others hiding outside?”

She called again, and the same voice answered.

“He says only one.”

“Tell him if he wants to live then he and his friend must step out, unarmed.  We have them trapped so there’s no escape.  Talk some sense into him.”

She pleaded with a pitched voice, telling both to surrender.  Finally, they stepped into view at the end of the hall, holding their hands high.  Jake stepped into the hall.

“Sasha, stay here.  I’ll go down and search them. Afterward, we’ll take them downstairs.”

He walked toward them, centering the pistol’s laser on the larger one on the left, an oliveskinned man with black eyebrows and a white bandage covering half his face.  Both men stayed frozen in place.

Kaboom!

He flattened himself, then saw the bandaged Russian pull out a pistol.

“There’s one behind you,” screamed Sasha, “but I missed him.  He ran back in a room!”

The bastards had set him up, and the only thing that had saved his life was Sasha’s shot, wild as it was.  He rolled over and fired at both men at the end of the hall, each now with a pistol in his hands.  He heard their shots shriek by, ripping the floor beside him.  He kept pulling the Glock’s trigger, until both went down, clutching their bellies.

“Sasha, have you reloaded the rifle?”

“Yes, I’ve done it.”

“Tell the man behind me to throw down his weapon and step out, or else we’ll burn down the building and wait for him outside.”

He heard her speak again.  The third gunman walked into the hallway, holding up his hands.

Ten in all . . . but were there more?  He had to be sure because they’d already proven they couldn’t be trusted.  The time had come for some questions.

“Sasha, break out a window and tell Simon to come up here, then walk across and tell Molly to stay put until we’re finished.  I want to ask this guy a few questions.”

A moment later he heard glass breaking and her voice, then footsteps running up the stairs two at a time.  Simon ran up to his side, reaching him at the same time that Sasha returned.  The lone Russian stood sullenly with his back to the wall.