Page 78 of Code 6

The muscleman laughed and cranked up the stereo. Inkface cracked open another liter of rum.

“Take those pants off, Olga. Let’s have a look at the jewels that fetch Javier such a high price.”

“Leave her alone,” said Patrick.

Inkface chuckled. “Stupid boy. Did you think I meant it when I said your girlfriend could have the night off?”

Patrick couldn’t say if this was the end of the line for Olga, but it was debatable whether death would have been worse than what Inkface had in store for her. It was time to act, and Patrick had to seize the first opening.

Inkface raised the bottle to his lips and belted back more rum. As he swallowed his third gulp, Patrick leapt to action. In a blur, he sprang from the floor, grabbed the bottle, and smashed it against the tattooed side of his head. Patrick was acting on instinct, not according to any well-conceived plan, and the neck of the broken bottle became his weapon. He lunged toward Inkface and burrowed the jagged glass into his neck, pushing down hard, twisting and turning the razor-sharp edges, gouging directly at the carotid artery, until his hand was covered in gushing crimson. Inkface fell to the floor, screaming as blood spouted from his neck like a fountain.

Olga dived toward the chair, grabbed the pistol, and started squeezing off one round after another. The muscleman by the stereo went down first, followed by the guy with the gold teeth—definitely a kill shot, the second slug taking out those golden chiclets before exiting through the back of his skull.

“The blood, stop the blood!” shouted Inkface. He was rolling on the floor and grabbing his throat. But the bleeding was unstoppable, and Olga didn’t waste a bullet by putting him out of his misery. She let him writhe and, instead, delivered a swift kick to the nuts of the naked pig on the floor, which roused him from his unconscious state just long enough to see her deliver a bullet between his eyes—and told Patrick all he needed to know about what had happened in this room before Fat Boy had passed out.

Inkface groaned, and one last gurgle emerged from the hole in his throat before his body was suddenly still.

Party music was still blaring from the stereo, but Patrick hadcounted six shots, which was far too many to have gone unnoticed by the other kidnappers down the hall or in the next room. Olga took aim at the sick guy in the corner, but the sicker he got, the more boyish he looked to Patrick.

“Enough,” said Patrick, turning Olga’s gun away.

She didn’t resist, but she went from body to body, rifled through pockets, and grabbed ammunition and cash. She handed the dead muscleman’s Glock to Patrick.

“Do you know how to use a gun?” she asked, as she pulled on her shirt.

“My dad used to take me to the shooting range with him. But to be honest, I’m much better at paintball.”

“This is a nine millimeter. Semiautomatic. Fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the pipe. Make your dad proud.”

“Got it.”

“The only way out of this building is to shoot our way out. Can you handle that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

No answer was required. “Follow me,” said Olga, and she started toward the door.

Patrick said a quick prayer, his quickest one ever, and was right on Olga’s heels as she flung open the door. She grabbed Patrick’s hand, leading with her pistol as they burst into the hallway, greeted by thepoppoppopof return gunfire.

“Olga!” Patrick shouted.

She hit the floor, never letting go of his hand, taking Patrick down with her.

Chapter 36

Christian Gamble waited alone at a table in the prison visitation center. It was his first trip to FCP Alderson, and it would be his first communication with Sandra Levy since the day of her arrest. His lawyer would have killed or at least maimed him had she known he was there.

“Inmate’s on her way,” the corrections officer said.

Gamble thanked him, still finding it bizarre that Sandra was an “inmate.” Even stranger was the fact that he was third on the list of Gamble family visitors, after his wife and daughter.

“Was that your Super Puma that touched down on the helipad?” the officer asked in a West Virginia accent.

Gamble had flown up from Virginia on the company helicopter, a Eurocopter EC225 Super Puma. Kate had called twice during his flight, which he’d ignored, not wanting to have to explain where he was going. It was another trait Kate had inherited from her mother, the innate ability to know exactly when he was stepping out of line.

“Yeah, that was me,” said Gamble.

The guard whistled and said, “That’s one sexy bird.”