Steve Gannon - Kane

“Count on it,” said Snead. “And Kane?

“What?”

“Good luck.”

The front door was locked. I banged on it with my fist. “Carns. I’m coming in.”

No answer.

Using my house key, I unlocked the dead bolt and stepped inside.

“Close it,” a voice hissed.

I turned. In the darkness I could make out a dim figure crouched in the kitchen. Arms extended. Gun.

I closed the door. A flashlight beam stabbed out, pinning me in its glare.

“Lock it.”

I inserted my key into the double cylinder and twisted. Suddenly I heard a muffled pop, followed by a sharp stab of pain. My left leg buckled. I crashed to the floor, landing hard on my side. I clutched my knee in agony, blood hot and sticky on my fingers.

“Face down. Do it, or I’ll take your other knee.”

With a groan, I rolled onto my stomach. The floor tiles were cold against my face. Grit pressed into my cheek.

“I assume those are handcuffs on your belt. Take them out. Secure one manacle to your right wrist and place your hands behind your back.”

“Where’s my family?”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Maybe you’d rather I took something from your wife. She’s right down the hall.”

I reached into a leather pouch at the small of my back and withdrew a pair of cuffs. “Any deals are off if they’re not released.”

“Around your right wrist. Now.”

I snapped on one of the cuffs, then lay with my hands behind me.

Footsteps. A knee bore down between my shoulders. Something hard pressed against the back of my skull. The other cuff closed around my free wrist. Then a restraint was looped around my ankles and drawn tight.

“That’s better,” the voice said. “Now let’s see what you’ve brought with you.”

A rough search followed-arms, back, legs, groin. Carns found my holdout gun, a. 38-caliber revolver, concealed in an ankle rig beneath my trousers. “Tsk, tsk, Detective. It seems as if I won’t be able to trust you.”

I heard the. 38 clatter across the entry, banging against a wall near the closet. Unexpectedly, the restraint around my ankles loosened. A moment later I was yanked to a sitting position. I looked at Carns, noting a. 25 automatic in his right hand. What appeared to be a homemade silencer was fastened to the barrel.

“Let’s go where I can see you better,” said Carns. “On your feet.”

Slipping in my own blood, I struggled to stand. A shove sent me hopping one-legged down the hallway. I stumbled into the living room, Carns close behind. A glow from the police spotlights shone through the drapes.

“Stop.”

I turned, my knee throbbing.

Carns stared at me. “Where’s my helicopter?” he asked, his eyes as unreadable as coddled eggs.

Before I could respond, a bullhorn sounded outside. “Victor Carns. This is Sergeant Bruce Moore of the Los Angeles Police. The house is surrounded. You have no chance of escape.”

“The civilians leave first, then the helicopter,” I said, hoping the SWAT negotiator didn’t say anything to the contrary.

The bullhorn again: “Mr. Carns, please pick up the phone.”

“Let them go,” I said. “After that, you and I can go anywhere you say.”

“Mr. Carns, unless we talk, we can’t resolve this situation,” the voice outside continued. “Please pick up the phone.”

Carns moved closer. He shoved his pistol against my forehead. “There is no helicopter, is there?”

“It’s coming,” I lied. “It will land on the beach once the civilians are released.”

“Bullshit.”

I shook my head, deciding to change tactics. “Give it up, Carns,” I said quietly. “Even if you do get out of here, where will you go? Off to some deserted island to live on your millions? The world isn’t big enough.”

A secretive smile flashed across Carns’s face. Then the amusement seeped from his eyes. Without warning he swung his pistol, backhanding me. A clamp on the homemade silencer sent a gush of blood sheeting down my face. Already unsteady on my crippled leg, I went down again.

“Mr. Carns, pick up the phone.”

Ignoring the drone of the bullhorn, Carns descended on me, lashing out with his feet, fists, knees, gun. He grunted with each blow, his face twisted with rage.

Unable to defend myself, I tried to squirm out from beneath his assault. When that failed, I fought to free my hands. Couldn’t. Dazed, I attempted to fend off Carns’s attack with my uninjured leg. No good. Soon the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth and nose and throat. A kick caught me in the eye, snapping back my head. The automatic thunked against my skull. And again. A flash of light, then another kick to the face. And another to the stomach, the back, the groin. Before long I simply concentrated on breathing, trying not to choke on my own blood. Slowly, through a haze of pain that was dulling with each blow, I felt darkness closing over me.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Carns snarled, his breathing labored from his one-sided battle. He grabbed my hair, lifting my face from the carpet. “I’m not done with you yet. Not by half.” Suddenly he froze.

I thought I heard a rustling in the hallway.

Apparently Carns thought he heard something, too. Leaving me bleeding on the floor, he charged to the front door. Then I heard him banging down the hallway, slamming open the kids’ bedroom doors as he went. Moments later he returned. Seeming puzzled, he hesitated, then turned and made his way to the kitchen. He reappeared carrying a knapsack, from which he withdrew a roll of duct tape. Still panting, he knelt beside me and removed the silencer from his automatic.

Fumbling with the tape, Carns took several turns around the gun barrel, then held the muzzle to the side of my head. A number of passes secured the pistol to my temple. Not satisfied, Carns took a half dozen additional wraps around the gun, then more around my forehead. Finally he taped his own hand to the grip, finger locked inside the trigger guard.

His breathing finally beginning to ease, Carns paused to inspect his handiwork. I knew my fate was now inextricably joined with his. If he were to stumble-or a more likely possibility, take a shot from a police sniper-I was dead, too.

“Get up,” Carns commanded. Awkward with his hand fastened to my head, Carns dragged me to my feet. “You and I are going for a car ride, but first there’s the little matter of your wife and son to decide,” he said, forcing me toward the master bedroom. “You’re in no condition to drive. And as you can see, I have my hands full. It will have to be one of them.”

“Let them go,” I begged, my mouth filling with blood. “Just take me.”

“Still playing the hero? I thought you would have tired of that by now.”

“They won’t let you leave if my family isn’t released.”

“I doubt that,” said Carns, continuing to push me toward the bedroom. “Especially when they understand their options. And I’ll make absolutely certain that they do. But now there’s something else to attend to. We need only one person to drive. Who gets to live? The beautiful wife? The handsome son? I know. I’ll let you decide.”

“You’re making a mistake. They won’t-”

Carns gave me another shove. “That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Made your selection yet? Better hurry if you don’t want me to make it for you.”

We reached the end of the hallway. Carns kicked open the door.

The bed was empty. Tags of rope trailed from the corners of the frame.

“What the-” Carns whirled, his eyes searching the dim room.

Travis was on his knees across from the bed, tied to the closet door. Allison was kneeling beside him sawing at his bonds, using a knife I recognized from our kitchen.