Hot Streak

CHAPTER 41

T he wing was bristling with off-duty police officers when they returned to Miami. Sylvie had taken Carey's order to heart. But essentially she was calm. Everything was fine, she told him. She had hired a great number of security and there was nothing more to worry about. Although Carey was slightly more cautious than she, he did have to agree they seemed protected behind the barricades of police officers. No one was allowed in or out of the wing unless they were personally approved by Sylvie or himself.

Egon was still on the critical list, but not worse, the doctors' prognosis one of guarded optimism. “He may live,” they said.

“Great,” Carey replied. “What about the paralysis?”

Their faces became more somber at that point and none dared offer hope.

“Surely someone can try operating. What the hell does he have to lose?”

His condition was too critical, they replied. He would never survive the surgery.

Carey dropped the discussion. Clearly some research was necessary, other specialists had to be called in. All avenues would be pursued later when the threat to Sylvie was resolved.

After stopping by to visit Egon and Mariel, Carey called Molly.

Rifat was dead, he said.

And she asked quickly if he was all right, her voice concerned and warm.

He was fine, he replied.

Could she go home then? she asked, her tone more controlled and less vital.

He wanted her to wait a few more days, he politely mentioned, until he reconciled the threat to Sylvie.

“Are you with Sylvie?” she inquired, and the brittleness in her voice was unmistakably cool.

He wished he didn't have to say yes. “Just for a few more days,” he said.

“Your father's waiting to speak to you,” she declared. “Thank you very much for calling.”

He swore under his breath, but when his father came on the phone he merely related the pertinent events, explained the necessity for a delay in Miami to stave off a possible threat to Sylvie, and ended by telling his father he would be home as soon as possible.

“I'm very glad you're safe,” Bernadotte replied, “now let the security earn their keep and stay out of the way.”

“No one can get through this phalanx of guards, Papa. Rest easy.”

He'd stopped by Sylvie's sitting room to discuss the new doctors they should call in for Egon. When the cleaning woman walked in, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Looking over at her, he told himself he'd been without sleep too long and was overreacting to every stimuli. She was just a plain young woman with black hair pulled back carelessly in a net cap, a dark complexion, and a strange way of holding a mop.

He'd spoken perhaps a half-dozen more sentences to Sylvie when her odd grasp on the mop handle registered in his mind. Continuing to speak to Sylvie, he turned his head a minute degree and glanced once again at her hands.

She had long red nails and a fifty dollar manicure, and if he didn't miss his guess, she'd probably never held a mop in her life.

“So if you agree,” he went on, his heart rate accelerating, “I'll have Allen get a team to research the best specialists in spinal surgery, and we'll have someone out here in a couple of days.” It wouldn't do any good to take this woman and leave the rest of her colleagues untouched.

“I'm fully in agreement,” Sylvie said, waving the woman away from her side of the room. “And Egon is, as well. The young girl he finds so entrancing is afraid of everything, but she hardly matters. I say get the best and tell them we want the bullet out.”

The woman had mopped the same area of floor for quite some time. The sooner Carey alerted Ant and Luger the better. He moved toward the door, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. She was intent on his progress.

At the doorway, he paused. “Do you have that phone number of the clinic in Denver?”

Sylvie nodded, sorting through several sheets of paper on the table near her chair.

“Do you mind giving it to me?” He held out his hand. “And I'll call after I talk to Egon.”

She thought it odd he didn't move, only stood with his hand out waiting for her to bring it to him.

Walking over to him, Sylvie handed the paper to him.

And when he said, “Thank you, darling,” and pulled her into his arms for a kiss, she knew something was wrong. She'd been trying to get Carey to kiss her for three years, and he'd avoided her every advance. “Do whatever she says,” he murmured into her ear. “The cleaning woman… I'll be right behind you.” Relinquishing his grip, Carey patted her on the shoulder and, in a bolstering voice, said, “Keep up your spirits now, sweet. Egon needs you cheerful.”

Shutting the door behind him, Carey signaled Ant and Luger, who joined him as he walked away down the hall. “The cleaning woman is one of them,” he said. “We'll follow her out when she takes Sylvie and get the rest of them. Or as many as we can.”

He preferred not involving the hired security guards. They'd been only told the Countess von Mansfeld was being protected from unwanted publicity. In addition to not completely trusting outsiders, some of them could be in Rifat's hire. Ant and Luger were the best. He felt secure.

“Are we taking prisoners?” Luger asked.

“No,” Carey briefly replied, and turned into a small shower room three doors down from Sylvie's suite. “We'll wait here.”

In only a few minutes, Sylvie and the cleaning woman walked out of Sylvie's room, apparently in friendly conversation, although Carey knew the woman was holding a gun under the stack of towels in her arms. As they reached the doors exiting the wing, Sylvie asked the guard on duty if he would go to her room to get her purse she'd forgotten. “And if you don't mind, you could escort me to dinner. I can't tolerate another meal of hospital food.” Her smile was relaxed and flirtatious.

Thrilled by the prospect of accompanying Sylvie von Mansfeld to dinner, he readily responded and swiftly left to do her bidding, leaving Sylvie and the cleaning woman alone at the exit to the west wing.

They were out the door and halfway down the hall when Carey, Ant, and Luger slipped through the doors behind them, staying far enough back to remain out of sight. The woman took Sylvie down the service stairs. After a judicious interval, the men followed, Luger carrying his small canvas bag of weapons. She took Sylvie all the way down to the basement and, without a glance backward, proceeded briskly out into the underground lot.

The men had armed themselves on the descent. Sylvie's blond hair was easily visible above the parked cars even in the dimly lit garage. Splitting up, each man trailed the two women, flanking their progress.

Carey heard the car ignition before he saw it, realized the woman had stopped with Sylvie as though she were waiting for the car turning the corner of the aisle ahead. Knowing that Ant and Luger would cover him, he stepped out into the aisle and shouted, “Sylvie!” He waved as though he were trying to catch up to her.

As the dark-haired woman spun around, he was already running toward them. He saw the surprise in her expression, saw her toss the towels aside. While her arm was swinging up to aim her pistol at him, he pumped three rounds into her head from hip level. Still rushing forward, he grabbed Sylvie around her waist and they both tumbled behind a parked car just as the black Mercedes applied its brakes.

“Stay down,” he ordered, aiming for the tires and firing the rest of his magazine into the two front tires. Even if the car was bulletproofed with specially equipped tires, you could usually slow it down with a few well-placed rounds in the tires. And Luger was carrying some weapons effective against bulletproof glass. As Carey reloaded, the car moved forward again, its damaged tires diminishing its speed. “Have you got them?” he shouted out, neither Ant or Luger visible.

“I got them,” Luger replied, his voice cool and without emotion.

And as he watched, a barrage of gunfire tracked symmetrical paths down the windows on both sides of the car, shattering the glass. Careening out of control, the car slammed into several parked automobiles before it came to a shuddering stop fifty yards down the aisle.

The men arrived at the Mercedes with poised weapons, but no one moved inside. Both men were slumped in the front seat. Ant opened the doors with gloved hands and double-checked.

“And now we disappear,” Ant said, turning back from his task.

“Right,” Carey agreed. “I'll get Sylvie and call you at home in a day or so. No sense in overloading the police with a lot of paper work.”

Ant grinned. “A true model citizen.”

Luger was repacking his canvas bag, more intent than Carey on avoiding the police since his weapons were all illegal.

“And thanks,” Carey said, his voice subdued. “I owe you.”

“Forget it,” Ant said.

“My pleasure,” Luger quietly retorted, his bag slung over his shoulder. “That TOW was a beaut… lit up half of Rome.”

For a moment it seemed nothing had changed, and Carey was years younger seeing Luger and Ant coming back from a mission with that same elation. Although their worlds had turned full circle countless times, the sense of accomplishment was the same.

“Come to my wedding,” Carey said, putting his hand out.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Ant replied, grasping Carey's hand in a street-smart high sign.

“Carol likes weddings,” Luger said, “so we'll come.” And his hand gripped Carey's in a firm, hard clasp.

They turned then, and melted into the shadows.