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  She lay on her back, breathing deeply as if asleep, her arms and legs outflung. A beautiful, slim, smallbreasted blonde. Just his type. To o much his type, perhaps. But he’d known a lot of women over the years, and only a handful had turned out to be plants. He should’ve been a lot more careful, after Friday’s disaster. He should’ve expected something like this.

  Confidence kills.

  She began to stir, her eyelids squeezing tight with a stab of pain, a hand rising to her head. She pursed her lips and said, “Oooh.” Then her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed at Dukane with confusion for a moment before her memory apparently returned and she bolted upright.

  Dukane clutched her throat and slammed her down. “Who sent you?”

  She sneered. “No one.”

  “I don’t have time for games.” He jabbed his knife down. Her body jerked as if jolted by a cattle prod, mouth springing open to scream. He stopped the point of his knife above her bulging right eye. An eighth of an inch above it. She blinked, her lashes flicking over the steel tip. “Who sent you?”

  She said nothing. Slowly, the panic left her face. Her body relaxed. Even the straining tendons and muscles of her neck went slack under Dukane’s hand. She smirked up at him. “Do as you like,” she said. “Cut out my eye, if that’s what pleases you. Take what ever you wish. My breasts?” Her hands moved, stroking them. The dark nipples stood rigid. “I am all powerful,” she whispered. “I am immortal.”

  “Have you drunk at the river?” Dukane asked.

  “Oh yes, oh yes.”

  He eased the blade away from her eye.

  “Immortal,” she said. “All powerful.”

  He removed his right hand from her throat. “Okay, get up.” As he inched the knife away, her fingers caught his wrist. Dukane tensed, expecting an upward thrust. But she tugged down. He wasn’t ready for that. The blade punched into the pale flesh between her breasts.

  Dukane snatched it free.

  The woman bucked, clutched the wound, and sat up with a look of sudden terror on her face.

  Blood spilled out between her fingers. She glanced at it, then gazed at Dukane with eyes like a hurt child.

  “Shit,” Dukane muttered, suddenly feeling sorry for her. “Don’t worry, you missed your heart. I’ll call an ambulance.” He rushed around the end of the bed. “Press down hard on the wound.” He picked up the phone.

  As he started to dial, the woman grabbed the bed and pushed herself to her feet.

  “Lie down, damn it!”

  She suddenly ran.

  “Hey!” Dukane dropped the phone and scrambled over the bed, hoping to stop her before she reached the sliding door to the balcony.

  She was too quick.

  Her forehead rammed the door. The plate glass burst. She lunged through a spray of tumbling shards that slashed her bare skin, and disappeared onto the balcony. Dukane rushed after her. As he ducked through the smashed door, she threw herself headfirst over the railing. Dukane lunged, reached for her foot, and touched its heel with his forefinger. Then all he could do was watch.

  She kicked and twisted for a second that seemed like minutes even to Dukane, then threw out her arms to break her fall. The concrete slab of the pool’s apron smashed her arms out of the way, and she hit it with her face.

  Dukane looked down at her body, and sighed. He knew he shouldn’t feel sorry for her; she’d probably planned to kill him to night. But Christ, the waste…a beautiful girl…Why the hell did she ever get mixed up in such…

  He clutched the railing, frozen by a sudden chill as a huge, black-robed man darted from behind bushes beside the pool. The man crouched at the broken body, flung it over his shoulder, and lumbered away.

  Dukane pried his fingers off the railing. His skin was crawly with goose bumps. He stared down at the dark figure and knew he should give chase, but he couldn’t move.

  Besides, he told himself, Scott has priority. He watched, rubbing his prickly arms and thighs, thinking it strange that he should be so spooked. Whoever the bastard was, Dukane could probably nail him in unarmed combat, even with one hand tied behind his back. Probably. The thought didn’t give him much comfort.

  He picked bits of glass out of his feet, then hobbled down the long balcony to its guest room entrance. He slid open the door and stared at the pale carpet.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  One ruined carpet was enough for one night.

  On hands and knees, keeping his feet elevated, he crawled across the carpet. In the guest bathroom, he found iodine, adhesive tape, and gauze. He quickly bandaged his feet.

  Ignoring the slight pain, he rushed back to his bedroom. He glanced at the clock. Less than five minutes had passed since Scott’s call.

  A long time, five minutes.

  A long time for that dumb woman. A long time for a guy like Scott, waiting to get bailed out.

  It took him under a minute to dress.

  Then he ran downstairs, through the dark house, and out to his garage. He jumped into his Jaguar. Thumbed the garage door switch. Keyed the ignition. The engine thundered, shaking the car.

  In his rearview mirror, he watched the door rise. The gap widened. He saw the dark-robed man looking in at him, the naked body of the girl still over his shoulder.

  Dukane jammed the shift to reverse and floored the gas pedal. He popped the clutch. The car leapt backward. He gripped the wheel, expecting an impact, but the car shot past the figure. Caught in the headlight, the man turned slowly to face him.

  Dukane’s foot hovered over the brake. He could easily stop and have another try.

  But Scott was waiting.

  He’d already wasted too many minutes.

  So he sped backward to the street, leaving the strange man alone in the driveway with the corpse.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “What was that about?” Lacey had asked as soon as Scott put down the phone.

  “Saving our hides.”

  “Dukane? Who’s he?”

  “The real-life Charlie Dane. Excuse me a minute, I want to get dressed.” He left her alone in the room.

  Lacey got up and followed him. When she reached the bedroom, Scott was stepping into his pants. “There really is a Charlie Dane?”

  Scott fastened his trousers and picked up his shirt. “Sure is. No trench coat and battered fedora, and he operates now instead of the forties, but the rest is pretty close. A hell of a guy. He’ll get us out of here. We just have to stay alive for the next four hours, till he arrives.”

  “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “What good would they be against an invisible maniac?”

  “What good will this Dukane be?”

  Scott grinned, for the first time since the attack looking calm and confident. “Good enough.”

  “What time is it?” Lacey asked.

  “Eleven forty.”

  “Is that all?” Only twenty minutes had passed since Scott’s talk with Dukane. For the past ten, Lacey had been sitting cross-legged beside the barricaded door, her pocket knife open on her lap, the paint can beside her ready to spray if the door should be forced open.

  Scott had spent much of the time wandering the suite. He’d looked out the windows and determined that no ledges ran over from adjacent rooms. He’d shoved the couch against a locked, connecting door. Then he’d knelt down to remove the knife from Carl’s throat.

  “Should you do that?” Lacey had asked. “What about fingerprints?”

  “We need it.”

  “But the police. My God, we don’t want them thinking we killed Carl.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t help it.”

  “The police are the least of our problems, right now.”

  Lacey had looked away when he pulled out the knife. He arranged the blanket again over Carl’s head, then took the knife into the bathroom and cleaned it.

  Now Scott was turning over the coffee table.

  “What’re you doing?”
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br />   “Clubs,” he said, and began to unscrew one of the short, tapering legs. When it came free, he tossed it underhand. It thumped the floor near Lacey, and rolled toward her. She picked it up by the narrow end. It felt like a small baseball bat. A thick, inch-long bolt protruded from the top.

  As Scott twisted another leg off the table, Lacey heard voices in the hallway.

  “Six fifty for a Piña Colada,” said a man. “You believe it?”

  “That’s not so bad,” a woman said. “It included the glass.”

  “Sixty cents’ worth of glass. A nickle worth of booze.”

  “They’re awfully cute glasses.”

  “Maybe we should get a few more.”

  “It would be nice to have a complete set.” The woman’s sudden yelp made Lacey jump. Her mind flashed an image of the two under attack, and she grabbed the spray can, tensing, ready to unblock the door and rush out to help. But the yelp led into a giggle. A different kind of attack. “Jimmy, don’t! Christ, I almost dropped the glasses.”

  “Anything but that.”

  Lacey heard a key ratchet into a lock. A knob turned. A door swung open with a barely audible squeak, and banged shut.

  “Hope they got in alone,” Scott said, starting on a third leg.

  “I sure hope so. They sounded nice.”

  “The guy’s a cheapskate.”

  “He was just kidding around.”

  “Yeah. On the surface. Underneath, he’s a cheapskate.”

  “He did buy two of those drinks.”

  “At six fifty a whack. Not only a cheapskate, but he likes to play martyr.”

  Lacey looked at Scott, and saw he was smiling.

  The door’s lock button snapped out. Lacey turned, saw the door lurch, the chair tip forward a fraction. She thrust herself to her knees. The knife fell from her lap. She grabbed it. Scott threw himself against the wall on the other side of the door. He held a table leg in one upraised hand, the knife in the other. The automatic remained tucked in his belt.

  The door eased back silently, then rammed the chair again, this time forcing the legs to scoot an inch across the carpet.

  “Shoot him through the door,” Lacey whispered.

  Scott shook his head. “Louder,” he mouthed.

  “Shoot through the door!”

  “Right.” Clamping the club between his legs, he pulled out the automatic. He held it close to the door and worked its slide, jacking a live cartridge out.

  The door settled back into place.

  Lacey waited, holding her breath, expecting another thrust. Scott picked up his bullet and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

  Nothing happened.

  “What ever he is,” Scott whispered, “he doesn’t like bullets.” Tucking away the pistol, he shoved the chair more firmly under the knob. “I think we’re all right for a while…till he figures a new way to get at us.”

  “What’ll he do?”

  Scott shrugged.

  “What time is it now?”

  Scott glanced at his wristwatch. “Five minutes later than the last time you asked.”

  “Encouraging,” she muttered.

  “Three and a half hours to go.”

  “If your man’s on time.”

  “Knowing Dukane, he’ll be early.”

  “I hope so.” Lacey sat down again, feeling a slight pain as her shorts drew taut across her wound. Raising herself for a moment, she tugged the shorts to loosen them. Fortunately, the cut was high enough so that she didn’t rest on it, sitting upright. It hurt very little, except for a frequent, achy itch. It itched now. She scratched it gently with her fingernails. “What makes you think this Dukane will do us any good?”

  “He’s brilliant, innovative, a crack shot…”

  “Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

  “Damn near. Won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam. Dropped in behind the lines, killed God-knows how many gooks, freed two dozen POWs and led them all back. Alone.”

  Scott shook his head, looking astonished by the feat. “He’s been a private investigator and bodyguard for nine years. An amazing guy. He’s actually lived the Charlie Dane stories. Most of them are based on incidents from Dukane’s past.”

  “Hope I live long enough to meet him.”

  “I keep trying to figure out what he’d do, if he were here instead of me.”

  “What would he do?”

  Scott shook his head. One corner of his mouth smiled. “He’d make clubs out of the table legs.”

  “Would he shoot through the door?”

  “More than likely.”

  “I wish you had.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but my shooting has been limited to pistol ranges. I’ve never killed a man.”

  “That would’ve been a good time to start.”

  “Well…” Scott sighed. “I’m not against it—morally, I mean. Sort of a big step, though. Besides, I’d still rather take him alive. I mean, can you imagine the story? It’d be terrific! Do it up non fiction. A hardbound sale. Major advertising and promotion. Whammo, a best seller!”

  “Give me your gun,” Lacey said, scrambling to her feet. She held out her hand. “Come on, give it. If you aren’t willing to shoot him, I sure am.”

  He held onto it. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry won’t get us out of a coffin. Now come on! You’ve missed two big chances to blast this bastard to hell. Let me do it.”

  “Lacey, don’t get…”

  She lunged, reaching for the automatic. Scott knocked her arm away. He shoved her backward with the table leg, its bolt biting into her chest. “Calm down!”

  “You’ll get us killed!” she blurted, and suddenly started to cry. She turned away. She wanted to run for the bedroom or bathroom, to let out her despair in private, but was afraid to leave him. So she faced the wall, crying into her hands. She heard Scott approach. His arms reached forward and folded lightly across her belly.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his breath warm through her hair. “I promise.”

  “What about your best seller?”

  “I won’t let him get you.”

  Lacey turned around. Blinking tears away, she stared up into his serious eyes. “You could shoot to wound,” she said, and tried to smile.

  “That’s it.” His fingers brushed the tears off her cheeks.

  Lacey put her arms around him and shut her eyes. If she could only keep on holding him, feeling his strong body against her, the easy rise and fall of his chest, the gentle stroke of his hands on her back, then maybe nothing bad would happen.

  The handle of his automatic felt flat and hard against Lacey’s belly.

  She might reach for it. But that would end the closeness, the trust. Better to keep that, to stay with him, than to risk losing it by going for the gun.

  She felt another hardness, lower down.

  Scott plucked the tails of her tank top from her shorts, and reached up inside it, caressing her back, then easing her away and moving gently to her breasts. He held them in each hand, his palms gliding against her turgid nipples. Lacey moaned. The hands continued to caress her for nearly a full second after she heard the crash of shattering glass.

  Scott looked at her, stunned. “The windows!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The noise of the bursting window came from a distance, from the bathroom or bedroom. Lacey broke for the door. Dropping to a crouch, she grabbed her spray can and pocket knife. She glanced back. Scott was at the hallway entrance, pistol out.

  “Let’s run!” she snapped.

  Scott glanced at her, frowning.

  She kicked the chair. It dropped backward to the floor, and she tugged the door open.

  “Come on!”

  Scott whirled around and ran. He scooped up a table leg and dashed after her through the door. He jerked it shut. “Get ready. When he comes out, we’ll…”

  Lacey raced up the corridor. When she reached a corner, she looked back. Scott glanced from the
door to her. She motioned for him. He muttered something through his teeth, then ran to join her.

  “We had a chance…”

  “We’ve got a better chance if he can’t find us.” She shoved open a fire door.

  They entered a dimly lighted stairwell. Scott thrust the door shut and leaned against it.

  “Come on,” Lacey said. She started up the concrete stairs. “He’ll expect us to head down.”

  “Where we going?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned at the first landing, and started up the next flight of stairs. Above her, she saw the blue metal door to the fourth floor. She raced up, Scott close behind her, and grabbed the knob. As she pushed the door open, Scott patted her arm. He pressed his forefinger to his lips. They stood motionless, listening.

  For a moment, Lacey heard nothing. Then the metallic sound of a springing latch echoed quietly up the stairwell.

  Scott shoved the door hard. It flew open, and he pointed to the upper steps. The door banged against the outside wall as they turned away and leapt up the stairs three at a time. In seconds, they reached the landing. Lacey charged up the remaining stairs. Halfway to the top, she heard the lower door clump shut.

  Would it fool him? If so, he would only be delayed long enough to leave the stairwell and glance down the fourth floor corridor.

  Scott, slightly above her, was first to reach the door. He held it open for Lacey. She raced through. Scott eased it shut, turning the knob to prevent the latch from snapping back into place.

  With a few steps, they passed an ice machine and rounded a corner. Scott stopped, looking each way.

  To the right, the corridor led past the doors of only half a dozen rooms, then abruptly ended. To the left, it seemed to stretch on forever.

  “This way,” Scott muttered. He ran to the left.

  Past rooms. Past a fire hose and ax. Past swinging doors of staff rooms.

  Lacey, sprinting to stay beside him, saw a bank of elevators ahead. “Let’s try those,” she gasped.

  They ran for them. The doors of all four elevators were shut. Scott threw himself against the nearest panel and jammed fingers into both buttons. Double disks of light appeared between each of the door sets: one with an arrow pointing up, the other down.