Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

Adrenaline fizzed in his veins like agitated champagne, sharpening his senses to a fine edge. If Harry had gotten in un-challenged by Mike Peters, it was safe to assume that the agent was dead and at least one of the assailants was in the house downstairs. He could only hope that the man on the roof had been the sole backup for whoever lay downstairs.

Now that the backup was dead in spectacular fashion, Mercer had no idea what the partner would do. There was a chance he would flee, but it seemed unlikely. This was the second attempt on his life in twenty-four hours, and they would want to end it now. Since he knew the brownstone better than his adversary, his only chance was to go on the offense. He had to think about Aggie and Harry.

He stalked to the balcony, ducking his head over the railing to make sure the foyer below was empty before pumping three rounds into the marble floor, the bullets sparking off the stone like fireworks. He dashed from his perch, retracing his steps across the bedroom to the back stairs. Whoever was below him would assume that the shots were covering fire for a descent of the spiral stairs, but he planned to outflank, not charge in headlong.

The narrow back stairs were empty as he cautiously made his way down, the Beretta held at the ready, his finger no more than an ounce away from squeezing off a round. The doors to the two guest bedrooms were closed. Mercer guessed that his adversary hadn’t had the time to stage an ambush here, so he ignored them. The bar was a little farther along the hallway, and he was torn between forming a defensive position around Aggie or keeping on the offense. The question was answered for him.

“Come out, or your father dies.” The voice was heated with anger but commanding.

The library, thought Mercer. The guy has Harry in the library and thinks he’s my father. He raced down the back stairs, gliding so quickly that his bare feet barely scuffed the steps. Through the hallway that divided the kitchen and the billiards room and out into the foyer he ran, not making a sound but knowing he was going too slow. The attacker would expect an answer within a few seconds, and he’d already taken too long.

He came to the spiral stairs and started up, his gun trained before him. Just below the second floor, he heaved himself over the railing, hanging ten feet over the foyer and continued upward, his toes finding purchase on the outside of the oak steps. He raised himself to see into the library, a quick motion that would have gotten him killed if he’d stayed between the banisters of the staircase.

The gunman was positioned in the juncture of two book-cases, his back tucked into the corner, Harry held before him as a human shield. The motion of Mercer’s head ducking over the railing caught the assassin’s eye and he fired off a snap shot that went wide but would have drilled Mercer if he’d come up where expected. Mercer had only a split second to react; the next shot would compensate for his deception.

He launched himself off the staircase, lunging for the thick newels that lined the front balcony of the library, his body stretched far out into open space. He grasped the heavy oak in one hand, the momentum of his leap swinging him in a wrenching arc that felt as if it would tear his shoulder from its socket. The barrel of his pistol cleared the library floor. He fired too fast. The shot caught Harry White just below his knee, the impact of the nine-millimeter slug folding his leg under him. He took the gunman down with him when he fell to the floor.

Mercer caught another banister with his right hand, clutching at it desperately while trying to maintain a grip on the Beretta. He slithered over the railing as the assassin untangled himself from a stunned Harry, ignoring the blood pooling under them both. The gunman recovered just a fraction of a second before Mercer did, raising his weapon in a steady, side-arm stance. Mercer took another snap shot, the concussive explosions coming as one thunderous sound.

A molten stream of acid ran across Mercer’s shoulder as a bullet gouged a shallow trench through his flesh. The force of the shot slammed him back into the railings, splintering three of them and threatening to send him down to the hard marble below. Through the pain, Mercer saw that his shot had caught the other man in the middle of his chest, the 115 grain bullet driving him off his feet as if he’d been yanked by a marionette’s strings.

The body landed in the bar, sprawled on the floor in the unnatural pose of death. Aggie’s shrill scream pierced the air like a siren, rising and falling in terror. Mercer ignored her; her wailing was fear, not pain. Harry lay motionless on the floor, his face deathly pale and waxen. Mercer crawled to his old friend, the drops of blood oozing from his shoulder soaking into the beige carpet. Mercer feared he’d hit Harry in the wrong leg.

“You son of a bitch.” Harry turned, holding the shattered remnant of his prosthetic limb in his hands, the flesh-colored plastic shredded where the bullet had passed through. “Do you have any idea how much these fucking things cost?”

Relief made Mercer sag to the floor, his face pressed into the deep pile of the carpet, the adrenaline rush dissipating like an alcohol buzz. “Bill me,” he panted.

“Mercer!” Aggie screeched, the fear in her voice jolting him like an electric shock.

The gunman was struggling to his feet, his pistol trained on Aggie where she crouched near the edge of the bar. A burgundy stain ran down from his thigh where Mercer’s first shot must have caught him after passing through Harry’s artificial leg. He was heaving great drafts of air, struggling to regain the breath that had been knocked from him when the second shot had been stopped by his Kevlar vest. Mercer let out a roar as he charged into the bar, his gray eyes fixed with rage.

The assassin turned toward the sound, his aim swinging from Aggie to Mercer in a quick arc. Mercer ignored the pistol wheeling toward him. He crashed into the gunman after six powerful strides, his damaged shoulder pounding into the other man’s chest, throwing them both against the back wall and rattling glasses behind the bar. Mercer used his slight advantage to torque his pistol into the assassin’s belly just under the protective vest that had just saved the man’s life. He pushed with all of his strength, feeling the hard muscle resist for an instant. Mercer screwed the gun in deeper, almost tearing through skin, before angling the barrel up and firing four rounds into the chest cavity, tearing internal organs into wet chunks that exploded through the gunman’s back and sprayed the wainscoting beyond.

Mercer staggered back, letting the corpse fall to the floor, his hand covered with the assailant’s blood. He turned. Aggie had regained her feet, though somewhat shakily. She clutched the edge of the bar, her knuckles white with the tenacious grip. She stared at the body with a mixture of fear and revulsion even as she came across the room to collapse into Mercer’s arms.

He gasped as her hand slid across his shoulder, forcing fresh blood to well to the surface. As he sank to the floor, Aggie went down with him, her arms still around his neck, her eyes still fastened on the body only a few feet away.

“That’s, that’s…” she stammered but could not continue.

“What is it?” Mercer panted, his heart racing three times normal speed, his hands only now beginning to tremble from the fear he’d been able to ignore.

She tore her eyes from the body and noticed Mercer’s wound. “He shot you.”

“I’m all right. The bullet only grazed me.” Even as he spoke, he gingerly pulled her arm off his damaged shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry admonished at the entrance of the bar. “I’ve had my leg shot off and you end up with a woman in your arms.”