Page 25 of The Pawn
By the time I get inside, my bullets have run out, but I hold the Glock at my side as my eyes adjust. My shoulder is throbbing, but the rush of adrenaline is keeping the pain atbay. Inside is almost as dark as outside, but someone dropped a flashlight not too far away because I see the boots of a fallen soldier. I hurry toward the dead man, look at his still open eyes and swap his weapon for mine. It’s an AK-47. I pick up the flashlight and creep deeper into the house.
The only light apart from my flashlight is coming from the broken-out windows, the part of the roof that’s open. It’s an old stone mansion so it’s held up reasonably well. It’s why the fire didn’t devour it, although mother nature is swallowing it back up. Outside gunfire is still going strong. I ascend the stairs and know I’m nearing whatever soldiers were shooting at Jet and so I switch off the flashlight and turn the corner, gun ready. Two men stand at the windows, their backs to me. One is reloading his weapon and over the noise of bullets they don’t hear me come. Once I’m a few feet away, I switch on the flashlight and both men turn, surprise on their faces. I never did believe in shooting a man in the back, not even men like this. The moment they turn to me, I open fire, bullets raining down on them. I watch their bodies reverberate with them, arms flailing, weapons flying as they go down.
The sound of bullets has lessened, but in a distant part of the house they’re still fighting. I look around the room, see the ruined furniture. I notice the ashtray on top of the piano, see the partially smoked cigar in it. That’s recent.
I remember the residue of cigars smoked in Alaric Moretti’s office.
I recall the scars on the back of Allegra’s neck.
Malek was here. He brought her here. And maybe he left her behind when he ran like the coward he is.
Keeping clear of the windows in case Jet or one of thesoldiers mistakenly shoots me, I shine my flashlight down to follow the footprints, the disturbed layer of dust, dirt and ash. I approach the closed door and listen for any sound beyond, but hear nothing. Stepping off to the side, I throw it open and spin to aim the flashlight and gun into what’s beyond. If there’s someone there, I hope to catch them by surprise. But there’s no one. The corridor is empty. It leads in two directions and at opposite ends, two sets of stairs lead to the upper level. The house is enormous. She could be anywhere, if she’s still here. If she wasn’t in that car that sped off as we arrived.
Focus. I need to focus and not think about the what ifs.
Here in front of me are two grand sets of curving staircases that lead to the foyer, to the hulking front doors.
A chaos of footsteps goes in all directions here. Soldier’s boots are the only prints I can make out. I look for smaller steps. The heels Allegra was wearing or bare feet if she lost her shoes somewhere during her ordeal, but it’s a mess. A fresh outbreak of bullets from upstairs and outside makes the decision for me, and I hurry down the stairs into the foyer, out of the way of the long, narrow busted out windows. Around the stairs are corridors leading to what I guess to be kitchens or an area for the staff. It’s quiet, too quiet and the debris is undisturbed. I’m about to go upstairs, to take out the soldiers on the upper floors so I can properly search the house when my flashlight shines on the farthest door. It’s closed, but looking at the floor, there’s been a lot of activity here.
I creep toward it. It could be an ambush. A coward’s ambush, but I don’t expect anything different from Malek Lombardi. Keeping my weapon ready, I try the door, but it’s locked.
The sound of gunfire has slowed. That could be a good sign or a bad one. I can’t know yet.
“Allegra,” I say, standing to the side in case there is someone there. In case it’s not her.
Nothing. No answer. No cry for help. No one shooting at me.
“Allegra, if you’re in there, step away from the door. I’m going to shoot.”
Nothing. I’d rather be sure she’s not there, but as the sound of bullets slows even more, I know I may be running out of time. If Malek’s soldiers come out victorious, then I need to get to her and I need to get us out.
If she’s here.
If.
Fuck.
I aim at the lock, aim as low as possible toward the floor and shoot.
And I hear a scream. A woman’s scream.
Allegra!
My heartbeats surge. I shove through the door and rush down the stairs toward the sound of her scream into a cellar, rushing, following the sound of quieter, but continuous cries to a metal door. It’s pitch black here. Without the flashlight I wouldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
“Allegra,” I say quietly, pushing that door open. It’s heavy, one of the hinges rusted out and metal creaks as it scrapes stone floors. I’m surprised to find the door unlocked and prepare for an ambush, but when I shine my light into what appears to be a wine cellar, it’s not soldiers I see.
It’s her.
It’s her in a corner, huddled deep against it, small, so small I’d miss her if I wasn’t looking for her.
My heart stills at the sight of her and although there is a moment of relief, it’s short-lived because something is wrong. I feel it. I see it. I know it.
She’s naked, her skin dirty and bruised, her hair a wild mess, and her face when she looks up at me, squinting against the light, her eyes, they’re red and wild and I don’t know if she doesn’t recognize me, if her eyes need time to adjust, but she presses deeper into the wall shaking her head, whimpering, muttering words I can’t make sense of.
“Allegra. I’m here.”
She begins to rock, her whimpers growing more anxious and in her hands, she’s holding something. A dirty rag. Cradling it.
