The Black Ace frowned, wondering exactly what the hell was going on. Throughout the day, he had been less than totally impressed with Minelli's security precautions and his responses to the danger they faced, and now he would not be surprised if the sentries on the grounds had opened fire on one another.
Downstairs, the would-be boss of bosses was engaged in blowing his own horn, while out on the yard...
The first explosion reached him almost as an echo, and he moved to the window as a second blast shook the house.
Forget about the yardmen, then. Not even Minelli would be fool or paranoid enough to issue them grenades.
They were under attack, and that made it Lazarus's job to defend the manor house and its occupants from any outside threat.
The Ace smiled scornfully as he tossed the pliers toward a nearby table. He reached inside his jacket, withdrew a Browning Hi-Power automatic pistol and worked the slide, chambering a live round, lowering the hammer with his thumb before he stowed the piece.
The gunfire was inside now, raging in the downstairs corridors, and Lazarus knew he might already be too late. If the enemy had come in force, if one or more of the local families had risen against Minelli...
The capo's words came back to him with ringing clarity. "If this thing falls apart, we all go down, your precious Aces, everything."
And Lazarus would need some life insurance, just in case.
The woman would do well for starters.
Steel flashed in his palm, and he cut through the bonds that held her arms behind the chair, ignoring her tattered blouse as he reached down to haul her erect, keeping her on her feet when she swayed, close to falling.
It took a moment for her to recover balance, find the strength to match his pace with clumsy feet. He half carried her toward the door, growling at his backup when the man moved too slowly to suit him. There was no time for sluggishness now, with all their lives at stake.
He smelled the smoke after they had left the small interrogation room, and Lazarus at once abandoned any thought of marshalling the last defense of Minelli's palace home. The capo could fend for himself, and Lazarus was bailing out while the getting was good.
It was survival of the fittest, but he could not afford to travel with the excess baggage he was holding now. If he was going to travel fast, then he would have to travel light.
He hesitated as they reached the top of the curving staircase, turning to his flanker, consternation written on his face.
"You take the point," he said.
The other gunner brushed past him, toward the stairs, and Lazarus let him lead, watched him descend the first few steps. Lazarus drew the Browning, thumbed back the hammer and sighted quickly down the slide.
One shot was all it took, the parabellum slug hitting left of center, blowing a rat hole in the gunner's skull and peeling back a strip of scalp before the body fell face-first down the stairs.
And he was starting downstairs when the woman made her sudden, unexpected move, both hands clasped tight around the dead gunner's dropped pistol, immobilizing the hammer and slide, as her knee whipped around to find Lazarus's groin with agonizing accuracy.
Lazarus was on his knees, his eyes screwed up against the pain, and she was kicking him, bare heel striking the bridge of his nose, drawing blood, driving him back on his haunches. Grunting, he struck out, and his left hand sank into yielding belly-flesh, expelling the wind from her lungs.
She staggered back, and his weapon was clear. He squeezed the trigger blindly, thunder in his ears, and heard the startled little scream as she toppled backward, thumping downstairs in the wake of a corpse, losing her weapon.
The goddamned bitch!
Lazarus struggled to his feel, clutching at his wounded genitals with one hand, dragging the Browning up with his other. He slumped against the banister, ignoring the hot blood that dribbled from his lips, blanking his mind against the painful throbbing in his groin.
Below, the woman was crouched beside the body of his former henchman, wrestling with the corpse and running one hand beneath the suit coat, frisking him for his side arm. If she reached it...
"Too late, bitch," he snarled.
He used both hands to raise the automatic and aim at the target.
His finger tightened on the Browning's trigger, and he smiled.
* * *
"Hit the siren!"
Hunched across the steering wheel, his knuckles white, Rafferty stared at the taillights of the Lincoln ahead of him, his own accelerator on the floor. Beside him, the lieutenant keyed a switch beneath the dash, and a hysteric banshee wail began to emanate from somewhere out front, beneath the cruiser's hood.
Behind them, other sirens joined the chorus, Rafferty's commandos keeping up, two men jumping from the tail car to seize the gate guards, line them against the wall and keep them prisoner while the cavalry went in to do its stuff.