Chapter Thirty-Nine

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Vance sat on my other side, so the trip to Benscombe was pretty cozy. We didn’t talk beyond a polite offer of water on their side and an equally polite refusal on mine. I was thirsty, but the last thing I wanted was to have to pee. I knew Vance would never authorize a bathroom stop and you shouldn’t hold it too long at my age. That’s how you get UTIs.

So, I checked out. When I was a kid, I never counted sheep. Instead I silently recited the presidents in order. Then I moved on to English monarchs, elements of the periodic table by atomic weight, counting to a thousand in various languages. It doesn’t really matter what the mental task is—the point is to occupy your mind just enough to keep it from wandering off. This time I worked my way through a list of my kills, starting with the Bulgarian job out of Nice.

We turned off the main highway towards Benscombe. I looked around and stretched a little before turning to Martin.

“So, I’m guessing you were working with him the whole time?” I asked, jerking my head to Vance.

I could only see him in silhouette, but I could tell he was biting his lip.

“Not at first,” he said quietly.

“You prepared the dossier against us?” I made it a question, but I already knew the answer. I had seen everything I needed in Carapaz’s file, starting with Martin’s initials right at the start of the coded string of characters in the margin. MF—so appropriate, as it turned out.

“Yes. Naomi didn’t brief the board for the last meeting. I did. She had morning sickness and couldn’t travel,” he said, lowering his head.

I poked him in the sweater vest. “It was a shitty thing to do to us. Was it your idea or Vance’s?”

I turned and saw that Vance was watching us.

“Martin came to us,” he said. “With evidence that the four of you were taking payments to conduct hits on the side.”

“And you believed that bullshit?”

Vance shrugged and I turned to Martin.

“So you faked information that we were working freelance. Why?”

“Because the little shit thought he could outflank me,” Vance said, a smile in his voice. “He thought he could turn the board against the four of you and get us to issue a termination order. Then he would give you just enough information to come after us, using the four of you to take us out so he could take over the organization. I mean, exterminating the entire board would leave a hell of a power vacuum, wouldn’t it? You see, Billie, this was never about you. It was about Martin, thinking he could use you like his very own little puppet, jerking your strings to make you dance. You and the other three would remove the board and leave him in charge of everything.” Vance leaned over to speak to Martin directly. “But you underestimated me, didn’t you?”

Martin said nothing and Vance reached across me to give him a quick slap. A passing streetlamp threw a patch of light onto Martin’s face and I could see a line of dried blood beneath one ear. He had the look of a man who’d been roughed up a little and hadn’t enjoyed it one bit.

“And now you’ve gotten caught with your hand in the cookie jar,” I said to Martin. “What did you think, that you could move everybody around on the chessboard and when the smoke cleared, you’d be the last one standing?”

“Something like that,” he said, his jaw tight.

I looked at Vance. “So if we agree that Martin was playing us against each other, maybe we could come to terms.”

Vance shook his head. “No chance. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

I nodded. “Of course it was. You’re happy we took out Carapaz and Paar. What’s the matter? Board getting too crowded and you’d like to run things alone?”

“Billie, the Museum started as a noble endeavor, but in the last few years, it’s gotten tired. And do you know why? Too many cooks. There has always been a Provenance department to identify targets, a board to vote on issuing termination orders—and that only once every quarter. It’s just so goddamned slow. That might have worked back when the Museum was founded, but it’s a whole new world now, and we’re still stuck in the dark ages. It’s time to modernize, to streamline, to overhaul and build it back up with the right leadership. The Museum has the potential to be a private army of the greatest assassins in the world.”

“Under your command,” I finished.

I saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled in the darkness. “Somebody has to be in charge.”

I turned back to Martin. “Wow. You really got played.”

He choked back a laugh that might have been a sob. “You’re one to talk. The only reason we even found you is because you were stupid enough to send that text message.” His voice rose as he mimicked the words. “Thanks for all your help. Next time I see you, drinks are on me.”

I gave him my best outraged-old-lady look. “I didn’t tell you where we were.”

“You left your location services on,” Vance said, his voice scathing. “As soon as Martin traced your phone to Benscombe, I had a team en route to secure the others.”

The car braked to a stop. The driver stayed inside, but Vance, Martin, and I piled out with the other four. A guard was standing at the front door of the house and he stepped up to brief Vance.

“The property is secure. Three subjects in the kitchen.”

Three. I let out a breath in relief. Mary Alice, Natalie, and Helen. That meant Akiko and Minka were safe with Taverner. Whatever Vance had managed to do, he hadn’t gotten his hands on them.

I was herded into the house ahead of the others, and Martin was somewhere in the middle. I didn’t know what they planned to do with him, but I was sure it wouldn’t be pretty.

We moved down the hall and into the kitchen. Mary Alice, Helen, and Natalie were seated at the table, the surface covered with a piece of flowered oilcloth. Two guards stood against the wall, weapons unholstered. Clean dishes were stacked in the drainer, but baking goods were arranged on the worktops, and somebody had left a candle burning on a saucer in the middle of the table. And coffee had been made at some point and not cleared away. A pot stood next to a sugar bowl and a few bottles of powdered creamer, but the mugs were empty.

I sniffed the air. “Bath and Body Works?”

“Marks and Spencer,” Mary Alice said. “They were having a sale.”

“It’s nice,” I told her. Somebody nudged my back with a gun and I joined them at the table. Vance took a chair also and we looked around at each other.

“So, shall I fill them in?” I turned to the others. “Correct me if I leave something out. Martin,” I said, pointing to where he stood, sniveling a little in his sweater vest, “started it all. He decided to take over the Museum. So he faked evidence that we’d been working against the board, which he presented to them, causing them to issue a termination order against us.” I looked up at him. “I guess you were thinking that once Vance was dead, you could just slip into his office and nobody would care?”

“There is an interim director clause,” Martin said quietly. “When I first came to work at the Museum, my job was digitizing the founding documents. I came across the section dealing with what would happen in the event of a succession crisis and I thought that was kind of useful information to keep handy.”

“A succession crisis?” Mary Alice raised her brows. “That sounds so official.”

Martin went on. “When a board member’s seat is unexpectedly vacated, their immediate subordinate is automatically advanced to interim board member in their place.”

Helen pursed her lips. “So if the whole board were terminated, then you and Naomi would take over? Only Naomi is out on sick leave, so that means you would have the entire control.”

“And it wouldn’t be too difficult to push out a pregnant woman working remotely,” Natalie finished. “Pretty misogynistic, if you ask me.”

“But instead,” I went on, “Vance clocked what he was up to and let him use us to take out Carapaz and Paar, leaving Vance free to revamp the Museum however he wanted.”

I leaned forward. “What was it, Vance? The money? Director’s salary not stretch as far these days?”

He shook his head. “I don’t usually hold grudges, Billie. I make an exception for you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you still pissed about Zanzibar?”

He leaned close and I realized the Fisherman’s Friend smell was long gone. He smelled like old man. “You took my Nazi, Billie. That was my assignment, my mission. You were there as backup only. You were supposed to handle the art and fill in our cover story. That’s all. But you couldn’t help yourself. You rushed in and took her.”

“I saved your life,” I said quietly.

He slammed a hand to the table, causing the mugs to jump and the candle flame to flicker. “You really think I couldn’t handle one old woman? She got off one lucky shot and she wouldn’t have gotten another. I had everything under control. And you ruined it. The very last Nazi ever taken by the Museum. And you got the credit.”

“Vance, she’s dead. That was the mission. What does it matter who made the kill?”

“It mattered.”

“Enough for you to decide to plot my death four decades later?”

He grinned. “No. But enough to make your death completely acceptable as part of what happens now.”

“And what does happen now?” Helen asked quietly. “You kill us and take over the Museum?”

“Something like that,” he said. He rose, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “With Martin gone,” he said, flicking a glance to Martin, who flinched, “and Naomi on leave, it will be easy to institute a few changes.”

“Such as abolishing the other two board positions,” Natalie suggested.

“And rolling their functions into one job—yours,” Mary Alice finished.

He shrugged. “Downsizing. It happens to every organization sooner or later.”

He motioned for us to stand. “Up on your feet. It’s time.”

“It’s not the worst plan in the world,” I told him. “And you’d have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for us meddling kids.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestured around the room. “Four assassins and two guards, five more guards outside. And that’s not even counting me. Look, you played and you lost. There’s no shame in that. But it’s over now.”

He turned to go, leaving the wet work to the others. My gaze dropped to the phone on the table. Mary Alice’s. The Menopaws! app was open, the little cat circling as numbers counted down.

“Vance,” I called.

He paused in the doorway. “What? You got any last words?”

“Yeah.” I looked at the other three. Mary Alice. Helen. Natalie. Then I turned to Vance. I took a deep breath and smiled. “Assuming that because a person is sixty she doesn’t understand location services is ageist bullshit.”

Just then, the numbers on the app hit zero and the little cat on the app meowed. Helen’s phone meowed too, and at the same second, Natalie’s joined in. Outside, Minka had my phone, set to sync with the others, and as the four mechanical cats yowled in unison, we dove under the table just as the window shattered and the room erupted into flame.

The fight was over faster than you might expect. To begin with, we had the element of surprise. Mary Alice and Helen had screwed the tractor panel to the underside of the table, reinforcing it and buying us some time as we flipped it on its side and sheltered behind. The window blowing out was a nice little diversionary tactic thanks to Taverner’s prep with the potatoes and Akiko’s throwing arm. Each potato had been fitted with a firework, giving a nice little pop and a nasty amount of smoke as they came flying through the window. Taverner had built Akiko a snug bunker in the garden, and the plan was for her to keep lighting and hurling while he lay in wait for whatever guards Vance had sent ahead. I suspected Taverner had brought a few toys he hadn’t shared with me, but he would be lethal enough with just the boning knife from the kitchen. Minka stayed with Akiko, lighting and pitching. One of them hit Nielssen squarely in the face, and he charged outside, one hand clapped to the bloody crater where his eye used to be. A quick gasp told me Taverner had finished him.

That left Wendy Jeong, Carter Briggs, and Eva Nowak. Martin had ducked out through the smoke and confusion, and I wasn’t sure where Vance was. Nat grabbed the oilcloth and dragged it off the table, catching one container of coffee creamer in midair. She pitched it directly at Eva, the powder exploding as it hit her faux Chanel. Mary Alice followed with the lit candle and the whole thing went up like the Fourth of July. (Most people don’t realize exactly how flammable nondairy creamer is. Consider this a PSA.)

Nielssen had left the back door open as he ran, and we had a clear line to it as long as we stayed behind the table. With a heave, we lifted it in front of us like a Spartan shield, running as fast as we could as Wendy and Carter emptied their guns at us. Bullets ricocheted around the room, and one of them winged Carter. Just then, Wendy’s gun jammed, and as she worked the clip, Mary Alice noticed the small bit of powdered creamer burning near her shoe. Her aim wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. The bottle of cooking oil she threw smashed at Wendy’s feet, splashing her up to her knees. Carter had transferred his gun to his nondominant hand, and he emptied another clip. The table was giving way, the wood splintering to hell, and I knew it wouldn’t stand another round.

I looked around for something to throw, but before I could lay hands on anything, Mary Alice snatched up a heavy iron skillet and swung it like she was batting cleanup. There wasn’t much left of his head after the second swing, and she turned to Eva, finishing her off where she’d fallen while Nat took care of Wendy. Helen looked shell-shocked, but I grabbed her hand and hauled her outside, my other arm around her waist.

“It’s almost over,” I promised her.

Just then a bullet winged through my hair, clipping the very bottom of my earlobe. It was Vance, coming through the garden at us. I shoved Helen aside, and she stumbled back into the house. Mary Alice and Nat were putting the fire out, and Akiko must have run out of potatoes. God only knew where Taverner was, and I realized it was probably always going to end like this.

I stood up, shaking with adrenaline and fatigue because, let’s face it, I’m not as young as I used to be.

I squared up to Vance, blood dripping down my shirt. “Goddammit, Vance. That was silk.”

“Smartass, right to the end,” he said, raising his gun. He squeezed and nothing happened. He didn’t try again. He tossed the gun aside and reached inside his pocket, coming up empty. He must have miscalculated or misplaced his backup because he had nothing, and as he straightened, he stripped off his jacket and cracked his neck.

And then the bastard smiled at me. He smiled the same smile I’d seen a thousand times, a hundred thousand. The smile that said, I know best. The smile that said, I’m better than you. The smile that said, I’m safe here and you’re not. The smile that said I have a dick, so I win.

Rage rolled up in me like the sea and I felt it sweep over my head, threatening to drown me. And then I heard a voice, small and still, a voice I hadn’t heard in forty years. I closed my eyes and listened.

It isn’t your anger that will make you good at this job. It is your joy.

The rage ebbed and, in its place, only happiness. Fierce, rampant happiness.

It wasn’t the prettiest fight I’ve ever been in, but it was the most ferocious. I hit him with everything I had and he damned near won. We were on the grass, wet with dew and slippery, his legs locked around mine, his hands squeezing my throat until my vision was going dark. He’d managed a few good hits to my ears and they were ringing so loud I couldn’t hear anything except my own heartbeat.

I could tell he was surprised I’d held my own for so long. But then, Vance always did underestimate women.

I waited, holding my breath and lolling my head to the side, sticking my tongue out just a little for effect. He eased the pressure in his hands. They were shaking and I reminded myself that he was five years older than I was and carrying a little martini weight.

The instant his hands relaxed, I jerked my head back and slammed it into his nose, breaking it in a gush of blood and cartilage. He staggered back as I got to my feet, grinning. “That can’t really be the first time a woman has faked it with you.”

He came at me with a roar, and I let him. Twenty years ago, I could have countered with a hurricane maneuver, running my feet up his torso and wrapping my legs around his neck to fling him to the ground. But that shit takes stamina, and I was tiring fast. I had one good move left and then it would be game over, one way or another.

He put his hands out to take me by the throat again, shaking me like a doll, the blood spraying from his broken nose. I let him bear me down to the ground, landing on me, hands squeezing, tighter and tighter, narrowing my vision to a pinpoint of blackness. I grabbed at his hands with my left, scrabbling at his fingers, but they were like iron. With my right, I reached up into my hair and took out the barrette, flicking it open. Natalie had sharpened it for me, honing it finer than a razor, and when I snaked it into Vance’s armpit to slice the axillary artery, it slipped in like butter.

He didn’t know what had happened at first, but I brought the blade out, holding it in front of my face, the metal wet with his blood. The sight of it threw him off and he loosened his grip. Before he could regroup, I twisted my hips and flipped him onto his back. Our legs were still locked and I used mine to hold him in place, my hip flexors screaming as I rose, looping one arm under his chin, just like Mad Dog had taught me. I put my other hand on top of his head, and as I looked down into his eyes, I realized he knew exactly what was coming.

He opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. And then I jerked hard, snapping his neck with a quick flick of the wrist. His body settled against mine, before he slid slowly down, like a rock coming to rest on the bottom of the sea. I laid him on the grass, rolling onto my knees. I was bleeding and out of breath, the stitches on my shoulder popped open and part of my earlobe entirely gone. Mary Alice and Natalie, bruised and bloody, were standing on the edge of the garden. Mary Alice was holding an axe and what was left of two guards was stacked up like cordwood between them.

I lifted a hand to wave, too tired to call out. Just then I felt a cold muzzle against my neck.

“Get up, slowly,” Martin said. The gun shook in his hand and I didn’t like it.

A nervous hand is a hand that will accidentally pull the trigger. Mary Alice hefted the axe, but Martin jerked his gun around to her. “Don’t move. And don’t come any closer. I just want to get out of here.”

“You tried to get us killed,” Natalie pointed out. “I don’t think we’re going to let that happen.”

“Jesus, Nat, you could lie,” I muttered. He jammed the gun into my neck and Nat and Mary Alice stayed where they were.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Mary Alice said patiently, “we have friends here. You won’t get out alive.”

“I will if I have her,” he said, pushing the gun further. I wondered if he’d managed to pick up Vance’s spare. I doubted Vance would have let him keep his own piece.

“Martin,” I said, “let’s just be reasonable. I’m happy to come along for a little ride, okay?”

His laugh was shaky, edged with hysteria. “And have you kill me when we’re alone? You might be old, but I don’t like those odds.”

“Then I think we’re at an impasse,” I pointed out.

He held me tightly, so tightly I could feel the hammer of his heartbeat. “Stop talking. I just have to think.”

“Well, do you think maybe you could ease up on your grip?” I asked. “That gun in my neck is uncomfortable.”

“Shut up, shut up,” he said. He dragged me to the edge of the garden where the rosebushes had grown up in a thicket like Sleeping Beauty’s. There was a little gap and I realized what he meant to do when we got there. Both of us would never fit. He was going to shoot me and drop my body, using it as a shield as he made his escape alone.

He paused, raising the barrel of the gun to the back of my head. I felt the exhalation of his breath against my hair as he prepared to fire. A flash, a bang, and blood, hot and metallic, on my neck. It was over. I turned to see him slide to the ground, a hole in his forehead the size of my fist. I put a hand to my neck and brought it back wet. His blood, not mine.

And behind him stood Helen, holding Constance Halliday’s beloved Colt revolver and smiling.

It really was just like old times.