Chuck Hogan - Devils in Exile

Maven slid the bag out into the foyer, and the gunman turned and opened up his tiny, full-auto Steyr on the decoy. Maven rushed out, cutting down the gunman at the stairs, then firing down the side hallway to push back the gunman returning from the library.

Then he grabbed his bag and took to the stairs. He leapt up onto the oak handrail to get a look at what awaited him on the second-floor landing.

One gunman. Maven held the bag in front of him like a shield, firing, diving into the first room on the right.

Royce dropped the armored vest over his head, tightening the Velcro fasteners one-handedly as he slid off the Beretta’s safety, rushing into Danielle’s bedroom.

He found her seated before a three-part table mirror in the far corner. She was adjusting the straps of one of the new dresses he had bought her, running her fingertips along her décolletage, as though getting ready to go out.

“What the hell are you—”

More gunfire. Danielle just looked at him, all three of her in the mirrors.

Royce grabbed her by the arm, pulling her out of the room toward the servants’ stairs.

Maven cut through an adjoining bath into a large, furnished bedroom. He paused there to switch guns, and the lights went out. A few rooms at a time — Royce’s goons switching off circuit breakers — everything going dark and silent, the heat going off in the floor registers.

Maven dropped to a crouch. The exterior security lights still worked, shining in the windows from below, throwing dramatic shadows onto the ceilings. Maven loaded up from the bag, knowing he had to leave it. His empty eye ached. He shed his slicker, revealing twin holsters and extra magazines taped to his vest.

Maven went low around the corner, back toward the head of the hallway. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and some in the wide hallway.

“Maven,” said Termino, calling out from somewhere nearby. “Why don’t you—”

Maven didn’t wait, he darted out and started firing, striking the body on the stairs. Someone opened up on him from the other end of the hall, and Maven returned, holding him off long enough to duck through another door.

Maven bumped up against a wall and smelled cedar. He realized he was inside a broad, empty closet. He rushed back out, taking rounds in the side and back, his vest repelling them as he folded inside the next doorway.

Another bedroom. This one smelling of perfume. Danielle, he thought, though he was alone there — for the moment. He waited behind the door, ears ringing, unable to hear footsteps.

Flashlights now. In the hallway. Going door-to-door.

Maven got low and stayed that way.

Two flashlights and submachine guns pushed inside, scanning the room. Their beams picked up a three-part mirror in the far corner, bouncing their light and movement around the room. They opened fire on the perceived ambush, shooting wildly, everything staccato and strobed in the room. Another gunman rushed in to join them, and Maven fired low from behind, dropping all three.

The flashlights fell, throwing odd slants of light across the floor. The gunmen groaned, gasped. Maven stayed where he was.

Termino moved inside. His flashlight playing over the faces of his wounded men, looking for Maven.

By the time his beam found the shattered mirrors, Termino understood what had happened. He never turned. He didn’t bother.

He saw his reflection in the glass fragments remaining in one side of the mirror. Maven standing behind him, gun out.

“Fine,” said Termino. “Whatever.”

A single gunshot punctuated the barrage of automatic fire on the floor below. They got him, Royce thought, belt-tucking his Beretta, keeping hold of Danielle’s arm as he dug out his phone.

“Termino,” he said, using the push-to-talk function. “Lew. Lew?”

Maven’s voice answered, “He’s unable to take your call right now.”

Royce hardly believed it. Danielle squirmed under his grip, he was squeezing her biceps so tight.

He recovered, reasserting himself, a note of command in his voice. “You listen here, Maven. I’ve got Danielle with me, so be very fucking careful where you—”

Ponk! Ponk! Ponk!

Three chips cracked open in the floor around Royce’s feet. Maven, firing blindly up at them. Royce staggered backward, unhit.

He had only three guys left upstairs with him. He grabbed a submachine gun off the nearest and shoved the guy toward the stairs.

“Hold him off!” said Royce, pushing Danielle toward the bedroom door at the end of the darkened hall.

Maven located the side stairway, rushing up to the third floor. He exited the alcove and entered the middle of the hall, behind the gunmen watching the main stairs. Maven had the drop on them.

Then a three-round burst from behind ripped up the back of his vest. Maven twisted, went down, fired behind him.

It was Royce, spitting flame from a door at the end of the hall.

The gunmen, alerted by Royce’s volley, spun and opened up on the end of the hall, half-blind.

Maven rolled to face them, firing from the floor, shins and knees, dropping them.

He rolled back to face Royce, who had closed the door by then.

Maven rolled back again, finishing off two gunmen, a third alligator-crawling into a doorway to die.

Maven crabbed into a room to reload.

Royce dumped his phone and the Beretta onto the dresser, needing both hands free for the Steyr. It carried a thirty-round magazine, but he had no time to check how many were left.

He went to the east-facing window and looked down into the security light shining upward. A lower corner of the roof was near enough, but then what? A long fall onto the courtyard and two broken legs.

Barricading the door would be an idiot’s play. He wanted Maven blundering inside, didn’t he? Walking right into the chain saw.

So he set up along the shadows of the side wall, ten feet laterally from the door. He gripped the Steyr, ready to open up on the first person to walk inside. All he had to do now was to provoke Maven into making one final mistake.

Royce looked to Danielle, standing at the dresser with her back to him, her eyes catching some of the window light, teary, glowering.

“Call him,” hissed Royce, crouching against the wall with a tight smile. “Call to him!”

Maven was sore from the armor hits, but still not carrying any lead. His breath was short and shallow, coming from high in his chest. He couldn’t get enough air.

He had finished reloading when he heard Danielle’s voice.

“Neal! Neal...”

Like stabs from a knife. Driven by thoughts of Samara, he rushed into the hallway. A thin strip of silver light lay at the bottom of the door at the end, small fingers of light reaching out from bullet holes in the wood.

Royce was behind that door. Maven didn’t hesitate, starting toward it, pistols up.

Bang! Bang-bang!

The reports stopped him. He expected more holes in the door, but the shots had remained inside the room.

He ran at the door, striking the knob square with the heel of his boot and busting it open, crashing inside.

The barrage he had expected — the one he was relying upon to tell him the source and direction of his target — did not occur.

Instead, he found Royce on the floor at the base of the shadowed side wall. A puddle of darkness was expanding beneath his neck. The Steyr was inches from his hand, though he showed no interest in it.

Maven turned. Danielle stood in the shadow of a dresser, smoke rising from a Beretta pistol cradled in her hands.

Maven looked back to Royce. He kneeled on his chest. Royce’s mouth was open, but he made no attempt to talk. His eyes were full, staring up at the snowy shadows drifting against the ceiling.