J. Robb - Vengeance in Death

"Your life. I want to take your life. I've waited fifteen years and it's tonight."

Tears swam out of the eye he had left and the pain was a hideous thing. But still he swung out, tried to grab a leg. When his fingers swept air, he tried again, cursing now, threatening, weeping.

"This would be fun, but I have a schedule." He moved to the ladder, climbed nimbly while Pat's pleas and threats echoed up to him. "It'll take nearly an hour for the water to cover your head at the speed I'll use. An hour," he repeated, grinning at Pat through the glass wall as he climbed down. "You'll be nearly insane by then. The water will rise, inch by inch. Ankles, knees, waist. You'll be straining against the shackles until your ankles are raw and bleeding and burning but it won't help. Waist, chest, neck."

Still smiling he turned to the controls, adjusting until the water poured through the side channels.

"Why are you doing this, you bloody bastard?"

"You have nearly an hour to think about that."

He knelt, crossed himself, folded his hands, and offered a prayer of celebration and gratitude.

"You're praying? You're praying?" Struggling to focus, Pat stared at the statue of the Virgin as the water rose over her robes. "Mother of God," he whispered. "Dear Mother of God." And he prayed himself, as fiercely, as fervently as he ever had in his life. If she would intercede on his behalf, he would swear by her mercy never to lift a bottle to his lips again.

For a silent five minutes, the supplicates, one in the tank, one outside it, mirrored each other.

Then one rose lightly and smiled. "It's too late for prayers. You've been damned since you sold a life to a devil for profit."

"I never did. I don't know you." The water licked slyly at his knees, urging Pat to struggle up. "You've got the wrong man."

"No, you're just one ahead of schedule." Because he had time before he needed to make the necessary calls, he went behind the bar and helped himself to a soft drink as Pat shouted and begged for mercy. No spirits had ever passed his lips.

"I hope you remember me before you're dead, Pat. I hope you remember who I am and who I come from."

He broke the seal on the tube, carried it around the bar. Humming again, he set a chair directly in front of the tank and took his seat. And, sipping, watched the show.

It was exactly five a.m. when the 'link woke her. She shot up, fully alert, heart roaring in her chest. It took only an instant to realize it wasn't the 'link signal that had her pulse racing, but the dream it had interrupted.

And she knew it was him.

"Block video, set trace." She held a hand behind her to nudge Roarke back. "Dallas."

"You thought you could win by cheating, but you were wrong. All you did was postpone fate. I'll still kill Brian Kelly. A different time, a different place."

"You screwed up, pal. I could see you sweating when you realized we were waiting for you. We knew exactly what you were going to do, and how you planned to do it."

"You didn't stop me. You couldn't get near me."

"We're so close you feel our breath on the back of your neck."

"Not so close. 'Who scream? Who shriek? Who have strife? Who have anxiety? Who have wounds for nothing? Who have black eyes? Those who linger long over wine, those who engage in trails of blended wine.' I'm watching a man die. He's dying now. Do you want to hear who screams and shrieks?"

Quickly he switched off the filter and opened the 'link to the room.

Screams and sobs exploded through Eve's speaker and iced her blood. "Now who's cheating?" she demanded. "You're going to kill him, then give me a clue. That's what you did with Brennen. What kind of game is it if you don't take any risks?"

"He's not dead yet. I think you have almost, almost enough time."

She was already out of bed and dragging on clothes. "Where's the clue?"

"I'm even going to make this one easy for you. Dine and dance and watch the naked mermaids. It's after hours, but come on in. The water's fine. He's starting to gurgle, Lieutenant. Don't take too long."

Sick of him, she cut the transmission herself. "It's a club," she said to Roarke as she strapped on her weapon harness.

"The Mermaid Club. Naked water dancers."

"Then that's our best shot." She stepped into the elevator with him. "He's going to drown this one." She looked at Roarke as she pulled out her communicator to call in. "You don't own the Mermaid Club, do you?"

"No." His eyes were hard. "But I used to."

The sun was breaking over the East River as they shot southward through the still-slumbering uptown. Clouds scooted over the light, moving lazily, making it the thick color of powder.

Roarke chose to keep the car on manual, and avoided Broadway with its never-ending party and unfriendly traffic. He could feel Eve's frustration riding with them like a third passenger crowding the car.

"It isn't possible to outguess a madman."

"He's got a pattern, but it's coming apart. I can't get the threads of it." Think, think, think, she ordered herself as they bulleted through the change-of-shift traffic in midtown. "Do you know who owns the Mermaid Club?"

"Not personally. It was something I picked up years ago. One of my first downtown properties. Actually I won it in a dice game, kept it a couple of years, then sold it off at a tidy profit." Spotting a loaded commuter tram stalled across Seventh, he whipped west and headed crosstown.

"Has to be the owner or someone who works there." Eve pulled out her personal palm computer. Her teeth snapped together when Roarke hit one of the potholes neglected by the city's road and infrastructure teams. "Silas Tikinika? Ring a bell?''

"No."

"Then he's probably sleeping peacefully tonight. I'll run employees."

"We're nearly there," Roarke told her. "We'll know soon enough."

The animated mermaid, naked but for her glossy green tail, was dark and still over the safety grilled window. He pulled up at the all but empty curb. It was rare for people in this ugly little section of town to have personal transportation. Without the auto-shield and security feature on Roarke's car, it wouldn't be waiting when he came out.

He caught a glimpse of a couple of street ghosts hovering in a doorway two buildings down. They drifted out in the murky dawn, then faded back at the scream of approaching sirens.

"I'm not waiting for the backup," she told Roarke, pulling both her weapon and her master code. Then she reached down, tugged a stunner from her boot. "Take my clinch piece – and make sure it disappears when the uniforms get here." Her eyes held his for one quick moment. "You take the left."

Wild light and wilder music met them when they went through the door. Eve swung right, sweeping. Then sprinted forward with a shout of warning for the man clinging to the ladder on the side of the show tank.

"Stop! Keep your hands where I can see them."

"I've got to get him out." Summerset's knuckles scraped metal as he slid down a rung. "He's drowning."

"Get the hell out of my way." She all but dragged him off the ladder and threw him at Roarke. "Find the drain switch, for God's sake. Hurry." Then she was scrambling up, and diving in.

Strings of blood swam in the water like exotic fish. The man who was bolted to the floor of the tank was blue around the lips, his single eye open and staring. She could see both his fingers and ankles were raw from fighting the shackles. She grabbed his battered face, fit her mouth over his, and gave him her breath.

Lungs burning, she pushed off, fought her way to the surface, and sucked in more air. Without wasting the breath on words, she dived again. Her gaze flicked briefly to the face of the Madonna, its carved eyes watching tortured death with absolute serenity.