David Morrell: The Fifth Profession

Savage checked beneath the bed. He peered behind closed draperies, finding bars on a window, then searched behind a settee and a chair.

Where the hell was she?

He opened a door, found a bathroom, and turned on the light. The shower door was closed. When he looked inside, the stall was empty.

Where…?

He tried another door. A closet. Dresses. Rachel Stone lunged through the dresses. Scissors glinted. Savage clutched her wrist an instant before she'd have stabbed his left eye.

“Bastard!”

Her anger-contorted features suddenly changed to a frown of surprise. Noticing Savage's black camouflage-greased face, she struggled backward.

“Who-?”

Savage clamped a hand across her mouth and shook his head. As he yanked the scissors from her grasp, his lips formed silent words. Don't talk. He pulled a card from his pocket. The card was sealed in transparent, waterproof plastic.

She stared at its dark hand-printed message.

YOUR SISTER SENT ME TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE.

He turned the card, revealing a further message.

THIS ROOM MIGHT HAVE HIDDEN MICROPHONES. WE MUSTN'T TALK.

She studied the card… and him… subdued her suspicion, and finally nodded.

He showed her another card.

GET DRESSED. WE'RE LEAVING. NOW.

But Rachel Stone didn't move.

Savage flipped the second card.

YOUR SISTER TOLD ME TO SHOW YOU THIS.

TO PROVE SHE SENT ME.

He held up a wedding ring, its diamond enormous.

This time when Rachel Stone nodded, she did so with recognition and conviction.

She grabbed for a dress in the closet.

But Savage squeezed her arm to stop her. Shaking his head, he pointed toward jeans, a sweater, and jogging shoes.

She understood. With no hint of embarrassment, she removed her nightgown.

Savage tried to ignore her nakedness, directing his attention toward the door through which guards might any moment charge.

Hurry, he silently pleaded. His pulse hammered faster.

Glancing again in her direction, he was too preoccupied to dwell on the jeans she tugged up over smooth, sensual thighs and silken bikini panties that revealed her pubic hair.

No, Savage's attention was directed solely toward two other-the most significant-aspects of her appearance.

One: Rachel Stone, though ten years younger than her sister, looked like Joyce Stone's twin. Tall, thin, angular. Intense blue eyes. A superb oval face, its magnificent curves framed by spectacular shoulder-length hair. There was one difference. Joyce Stone's hair was blond whereas Rachel's was auburn. The difference didn't matter. The resemblance between older and younger sister remained uncanny.

Two: while Joyce Stone's face was smooth and tanned, Rachel's was swollen and bruised. In addition to repeatedly raping his wife, Papadropolis had beaten her, making sure his fists left marks that couldn't be concealed. Humiliate- that was the tyrant's weapon. Subdue and dominate.

Not any longer, Savage thought. For the first time, he felt committed not just professionally but morally to this assignment. Rachel Stone might be-probably had been-spoiled by luxury. But nothing gave anyone the right to brutalize her.

Okay, Papadropolis, Savage thought. I started this for me, to prove myself. But I'll end this to get at you.

You son of a bitch!

His skull throbbed with anger.

Turning from the door, he saw that Rachel Stone was now dressed.

He leaned toward her ear, his whisper almost soundless, conscious of her perfume. “Take the few things you absolutely need.”

She nodded with determination and leaned close to him, her words as soft as her breath. “I'll give you anything you want. Just get me out of here.”

Savage headed toward the door.

With the grace of a dancer, Rachel Stone rushed soundlessly down the stairs. In the shadowy vestibule, Savage touched her arm to guide her toward the living room, intending to reach the hallway near the kitchen and leave the mansion through the same door he'd used to enter.

But she twisted away from his grasp, her long, lithe legs taking her quickly toward the front door.

Savage rushed to stop her before she opened the door and triggered an alarm.

But she didn't reach for the door, instead for a switch above it, and Savage understood abruptly that, despite her compulsion to escape, she retained sufficient presence of mind to deactivate the alarm.

She opened the door. Rain lashed beneath a balcony. Savage followed her onto wide white steps and gently shut the door. Feeling exposed by a misty arc light, he turned to give her instructions.

She was gone, racing past pillars, down the steps, into the storm.

No! He ran to catch up to her. Christ, doesn't she realize there might be guards out here? She can't just scramble over a fence. She'll trip an alarm!

The rain was stronger than when he'd entered the mansion, and colder. But though he shivered, he knew that some of the moisture streaming down his face was sweat. From fear.

He reached her, about to tackle her, intending to drag her toward the cover of a large statue to his left. At once he changed his mind. She wasn't fleeing at random. Rather she stayed on a concrete driveway that curved in front of the mansion. Constantly heading toward the right, she reached a short lane that intersected with the driveway. At the end of the lane, a storm-shrouded arc light revealed a long, narrow, single-story building with six large doors of a type that opened upward.

The estate's garage. That was her destination. They could hide behind it while he explained how he planned to get her past the sensors.

Gaining speed, Savage flanked her, his voice low but forceful. “Follow me. Toward the back.”

But she didn't obey and instead lunged toward a door on the side of the garage, in view of the mansion. She twisted the knob. It didn't budge.

She sobbed. “Jesus, it's locked.”

“We have to get in back-out of sight.”

She kept struggling with the doorknob.

”Come on,” Savage said.

He spun toward a shout from the mansion.

A guard charged out the front door, pistol raised, scanning the storm.

Oh, shit, Savage thought.

A second man charged out.

Savage hoped that the rain was too dense for the men to see the garage.

Then a third man charged out, and Savage knew the entire guard force would soon be searching the grounds.

“No choice,” he said. “Your idea's lousy, Rachel, but right now I can't think of anything better. Stand back.”

Rain drenched him as he frantically picked the lock. When he opened the door, Rachel shoved past him, reaching for a light switch. He managed to shut the door just in time, before the sudden illumination would have attracted the guards.

He faced a long row of luxury cars. “Is it too much to hope you brought keys? I can hot-wire one of these cars, but it'll take me a minute, and thanks to you, we don't have that much time.”

Rachel darted toward a Mercedes sedan. “The keys are already in them.”

“What?”

“No thief would dare to steal from my husband.”

“Then why was the door locked?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“No.”

“To stop me from taking a car if I somehow got out of the house.”

As they spoke, Savage ran after her toward the Mercedes. But she got behind the steering wheel and slammed the driver's door before he could stop her. She twisted the ignition key she'd predicted would be in place. The car's finely tuned engine purred; acrid exhaust spewed into the garage.

At once she pressed a button on a remote control attached to the dashboard. A rumble reverberated. The door ahead of the Mercedes slid smoothly upward.