F Wilson - Midnight Mass

Considine peeked into the elevator car, then stepped over to the fallen Vichy, picking up his assault pistol on the way. He turned him over with his foot and—to Lacey's shock—shot him in his good shoulder, then once again in the stomach.

"Not exactly a kill shot," Lacey said as the Vichy screamed and writhed in agony.

Considine's face was a grim mask as he returned to the elevator and pulled the first body clear of the door.

"Not intended," he said.

"We don't want to leave any live ones."

He motioned her into the car. "That one we do. Between the messed-up shoulders and the gut shot, he's out of the fight."

The doors closed and he pressed the lobby button.

Lacey stared at him. "You've got something personal going on here?"

Considine's eyes remained fixed straight ahead on the doors. His voice was dead flat. "Back in January two of this guy's buddies held me and made me watch while he raped my wife. Said if I didn't cooperate they'd pass her around the cowboys like that until they were tired of her, then she'd be turned and sent to kill me."

Lacey swallowed. The terror, the humiliation this man had had to live with .. . she couldn't think of anything else to say except, "I'm sorry."

"And now he's sorry. It should take him hours to die. If I'm real lucky, maybe a couple of days, every minute of it in excruciating agony."

"My kind of guy," she said. He glanced at her. "That is, if I liked guys."

JOE . . .

Joe winced as he saw the point of the stiletto indent the flesh of Carole's throat.

"Don't hurt her,"

"Then stop dragging this out," Barrett said. "We make the switch and we all walk away free and clear." He smiled. "Until I come and hunt you down."

Joe felt his strength beginning to slip. He glanced toward the observation windows. He couldn't see the glass or anything beyond, only a featureless blaze of white. The sun was nearing the point where it would suck off his energy and reduce him to a crawling weakling like Franco and his get.

What could he do? If there was a way out of this, he couldn't see it. He could barely think.

So close to success—ending Franco and all his get, no matter where in the world they were. Ending himself.

Maybe that was the answer: shove Franco into the sun, and while his screams caused a distraction, make a leap toward Carole and Barrett.

Did he dare?

As if Barrett were reading his mind, he moved into the patch of sunlight, pulling Carole with him. Joe could barely look at them.

"No funny stuff," Barrett said.

Joe slumped. Now what?

"I sense indecision," Barrett said. "Let me offer some incentive." He held up the stiletto, twisting it back and forth to catch the light. "Always wanted one of these, but they've been illegal for decades. Found it in the house I'm occupying. Snap it open and you feel like a juvenile delinquent from a bad fifties movie. But it's a good street-fighting knife. Know why? This slim little blade doesn't get caught up in clothing. Watch."

With that he stabbed it into Carole's flank right below her ribs. Joe cried out as he saw her stiffen in pain and try to pull away. But Barrett had her by the neck.

"Don't worry," he said. "The cut's only an inch or so deep. Nothing that'll do serious damage. But it can cause a lot of pain." He angled the blade. "Especially when I drag the point along a rib."

Carole gasped as all the color drained from her face. Her knees buckled but Barrett held her up.

"All right!" Joe shouted. "All right! Just stop it! Please!"

Carole was shaking her head. "No!" He could barely hear her voice. "You can't!"

Barrett jabbed her again and this time she screamed. The sound was like shards of glass being driven through his brain. He wanted to cry.

"Carole, he's got us. We've lost this round."

"Just as you'll lose every round," Barrett said.

"I can't let this happen, Joseph," she gasped.

What was she saying? Thank God she couldn't get her hands into her pockets.

"It'll be all right, Carole."

"Forgive me, Joseph, forgive me, Lord. I love you both."

She turned her head, lifted her left shoulder, and bit something there that looked like a knotted thread.

What's she doing?

"Yeah, I know," Barrett said. "You love everyone. That's why you haven't a prayer of winning."

Joe saw a string clenched in Carole's teeth, saw her close her eyes and jerk her head back.

"No!"

The explosion hit him like a falling slab of concrete, knocking Franco into him and sending them both flying. He lost his grip on Franco and slammed into the marble wall behind them, then tumbled to the floor. For a moment he lay there dazed, not sure of where he was, and then it came back to him.

"Carole!"

He struggled to his feet and looked around. Red . . . everything, including Joe, was splattered with red. The blast had shattered the observation windows and now a small gale rushed through the atrium.

Where was Carole? He staggered around, searching, but could find no recognizable trace of her. There had to be something left, something more than the bits of flesh clinging to the walls. Something glinted in a corner: a single bloody handcuff.

Gone . .. she was gone ... as if she'd never been.

Movement caught his eye. The get-guards had been tossed around by the blast but were recovering now. They were crawling back toward the stairwell, dragging Franco with them, and licking the blood from

the floor as they moved.

With a cry of rage in a voice he didn't recognize, Joe lurched toward them. His strength was leaking away like water down a drain. Had to do this while he still was able.

He grabbed Franco's ankle, ripped him free of the guards holding him, and dragged him toward the light. No hesitations, last words, no taunts, just finish the job he'd come here to do. He pulled Franco to his feet at the edge of the sunlit patch and shoved him forward with everything he had.

Franco must have been an old one because he burst into flame as soon as the light touched his skin. His scream was musical, at least to Joe. He spun as his skin charred to black and his eyes bubbled in his head, tried to lunge back to the shadows but his legs wouldn't support him. He collapsed in a flaming heap. Joe fell back against the nearest wall and slid to the floor, arms open wide to embrace his oncoming death.

LACEY . . .

Lacey and Considine had reached the eightieth floor and were headed for the final elevator bank when the building shook. Lacey saw glass and debris rain past the windows.

A sick certainty about what had just happened nearly drove Lacey to her knees.

"Oh, no! Carole!"

"Your friend?" Considine said. "What—?"

She waved off his questions as she leaned against a wall and sobbed. Oh, Carole. Did you have to? Did you really have to?

"Look," Considine said, "I know we decided to stay off the stairwell, but if there's been an explosion up on the deck, these elevators won't be trustworthy. We're going to have to take the stairs. You have a cross?"

Lacey pulled one out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Here. But I've got a feeling we're not going to need it."

He led her to the stairwell where they were backed up by a blast of smoke when they opened it. The air cleared quickly, however, propelled by the wind blowing through the doorway. The lights were still on, and they hurried up the steps.