Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

There was no point in being subtle now.

They had analyzed every possible way of getting into Kransten's English home. It was impossible to anticipate what would be waiting for them inside, but Justin didn't expect overwhelming resistance. Somebody like Kransten would have a bodyguard, maybe two. There'd be no need for more than that here. Exterior security was reasonably lax. Understandably so. The castle's isolation was security in and of itself. It had been built in an era when there were two classes of people-landowners and serfs-and its geographical location was for one reason only: protection. From its position atop the highest point in the area, it was possible to see anyone and anything that was coming within several miles. No surprises were possible. Not from warring armies or lower-class uprisings.

Certainly not from a midsize rental car with two desperate people inside it.

So Justin went the no-surprise route.

They drove up to the top of the hill. Justin didn't know how close he could get; it turned out to be not too close. A high stone wall surrounded the grounds and the only break in that wall was a spiked metal gate that opened into the driveway leading to the house. Climbing over the wall did not seem practical or effective. So Justin pulled up in front of the gate, went to the intercom that was attached to the stone post, and pressed the buzzer. He rang twice and there was no answer, so he just kept his finger on it, pressing down. After thirty seconds or so, a man's voice, with a brittle English accent, spoke through the intercom.

"Who is this and what do you want?"

"My wife and I thought this was a museum or something," Justin said in the most crackerlike voice he could assume, "but we can't get in."

"It's not a museum, it's a private home. Now please stop ringing."

The man clicked off. Justin immediately put his hand on the button again and kept it there.

"I told you to stop ringing. Go away," the voice said after several seconds.

"I'd like to," Justin said, "but now I got a problem. My car's over-heated. Looks like it's ready to blow up. Can we come in to use the phone and call some kind of garage?"

"No, you cannot."

"That's not very friendly of you. We're stuck and this place is in the middle of goddamn nowhere."

"That's not my problem."

"Well, if we can't come in, could someone bring out a cell phone or something? All I want to do is get someone to fix my car."

"No. Now, stop bothering us."

He clicked off again and Justin immediately put his finger on the buzzer. He left it there for several minutes. Then he got the result he wanted. The front door of Kransten's retreat opened and a man stepped out carrying a rifle. As he approached the gate, Justin could see that it was a shotgun.

"There's no need for guns," Justin said as the man approached. "I'm just trying to get some help, for God's sake."

The man walked up, stopped maybe two feet from the gate, lifted the shotgun, and pointed it straight at Justin's chest.

"Get the fuck out of here," he said.

Justin did his best to look terrified, which was not, in fact, all that difficult. "I'm s-sorry," he stammered. "My car's overheated."

"Then push the fucking thing," the man said.

Justin nodded nervously, scurried to the rental car, opened the door, and got behind the wheel. The man stood directly on the other side of the gate, the rifle now pointed at the front of the car. Justin shifted the gear into place, turned to look over his shoulder to check that nothing was behind him as he backed up.

"You're not in reverse," Deena said. "You're in first."

"Put your seat belt on," he said as he turned the key in the ignition.

"This guy's got a rifle pointed at my head and you're worried about an accident?"

"Put it on," he told her, never turning to face front, "and duck."

Her eyes widened but she managed to click her seat belt on just as he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the car sped forward. The bodyguard didn't even get a shot off as Justin slammed the car through the gate. The bodyguard ricocheted off the right fender and he screamed in pain.

Justin screeched the car to a halt, leaped out, saw the bodyguard on the ground, the man's face contorted in pain, on his hands and knees trying to drag himself over to the shotgun several feet away. Justin beat him to the rifle, picked it up. As the man looked up pleadingly, Justin jabbed the butt down hard into the side of his head and he lay still and silent.

Justin dragged the man's body into the bushes, shoved him in so he wouldn't be easily visible. He went back to the car, told Deena that she should get behind the wheel and drive out of the grounds. She started to argue but he said, "It's dangerous now. Too dangerous. I want you to take the car, drive about half a mile away, and wait for me. If I don't show up in two hours, go back to Luton. Go to Jordy's plane, tell them to take you home."

"I'm not going to leave without you, Jay."

"If I don't meet you in an hour you're not going to have much of a choice 'cause I won't be leaving." She started to shake her head; he could see the stubborn resistance in her eyes and the set frown on her face, so he said, "You can't help me now. You can only hold me back from doing what has to be done. You know that's true. Please. It's almost over, Deena. Let me end it. I brought you with me so I could keep you safe. Let me keep you safe."

He watched the tip of her tongue snake out to lick her lips. Justin could see that she was torn. Part of her wanted to stay with him, felt she should stay. But she couldn't hide the fear, the desire to escape. Or the fact that she didn't want to see and have to take responsibility for what was about to happen. Her eyes met his and she nodded once, curtly. She lowered her gaze, got behind the wheel, and backed the car into the road. Justin waited until he couldn't hear the car's engine.

Then he reached into the front of his pants, pulled out his gun, and started toward the house. It was eerily still.

He reached the thick and ancient front door, pressed down on the cast-iron latch, and the door swung open. Justin wiped the sweat off his right hand onto his jeans, made sure he had a tight grip on the pistol, and stepped into Douglas Kransten's house.

The foyer had stone floors and exquisitely carved wood paneling. The detailing along the floor and ceiling was elaborate and formal. An enormous grandfather clock stood in the corner to the left. The ticking echoed throughout the room. A circular stairway, also stone and probably ten or twelve feet wide, dominated the space, leading upstairs. Against the curl of the stairway was a massive carved wooden couch. A huge, round candle chandelier hung down from the ceiling, which was a good thirty feet high. There were doors to the right and left leading to other rooms. The door to the left was shut. The door to the right was ajar. Justin took a cautious step inside. Then another. When he was in the middle of the room he stopped, hesitated, then took one more step in the direction of the closed door.

He heard the click-a double click really, but he was moving after the first one-and without thinking, without turning, without hesitating, he dove headlong behind the couch. His arms were scraped raw as he slid along the stone floor and his shoulder slammed into the base of the stairway. He heard the roar of the shotgun blast and above him saw the stairway railings explode and splinter. Justin heard the double pump again, rolled away from the couch onto his side, his gun ready to fire. Another blast from the shotgun and this time the wooden couch was blown apart. Justin fired twice at the figure in the open doorway, saw blood spurt from the man's shoulder, and then watched as the man's chest turned red and he dropped the shotgun and fell forward onto the foyer's cold stone floor.