I had the right house, judging by the two guards shifting restlessly on the rear balcony, both armed with guns. I could only assume the same for the front. A pan left and right of the yard showed no other movement and few hiding spots. The owners of the chalet had opted to keep the property clear of trees for a view of the slope.
I zoomed in to check out windows next. The dark ones provided nothing of interest, and as for those shining with light? Drapes had been drawn.
If I had more time or a team, I’d have probably snuck close—bum leg permitting—and taken out the guards quietly. However, I worried about Zaza—and Nicky. How long before she panicked and went after Zaza herself? Not long, which meant I couldn’t waste time.
Let’s see who is inside.
The quickest way to draw someone to a window? Make some noise. In this case, I fired two shots in rapid succession. The first hit the armed guard to the left in his gun-toting shoulder. The second bullet took out his friend at the wrist.
Not kill shots. My commanding officer would have been pissed. On the way over, I’d decided only one person deserved to die: Joseph. I’d give his employees a chance to live. But should they not take this opportunity to find a new job and tried to retaliate, they’d join their boss in death.
I kept my eye to the scope and watched the windows closest to the balcony. A curtain twitched, but didn’t open. No face pressed to the glass, and this despite the screams and banging of the men against the rear door.
Well, that didn’t work. Fuck.
Guess there was no point in hiding in my tree anymore since Joseph knew he had company. Time to move before the guards I injured got replaced.
Ignoring the screaming from my bum leg, I raced across the smoothed slope, my ski boots, with their clunky shape not the best for traction. As I neared the edge of the chalet’s yard, I dropped to a knee and swung the rifle up again for another look. The curtains remained drawn, sheer but not enough for me to see anything.
The pair of wounded guards finally got a reply.
Bang! Bang! Someone shot them dead through the window.
Cold, but also a measure of what I was up against.
Evil.
And I was an expert when it came to ending those kinds of people.
I kept low as I raced to the balcony, tucking myself under it and listening.
Not a sound, unless the dripping of blood counted. It didn’t quite sizzle as it hit the snow, but it pattered steadily enough between the wooden boards from the seeping bodies above.
I half expected to see any guards from the front come sweeping from around either corner. I stood ready to shoot only no one came and I couldn’t keep waiting. For all I knew, Joseph was trying to escape with Zaza out the front.
The stairs didn’t creak as I climbed, not that it mattered. I’d lost the element of surprise. I kept close to the wooden siding, inching towards the door from which the shooter had taken care of the guards. The bodies lay in front of it.
As I tried to decide my next move, the door in question swung open, spilling light on the balcony. An invitation to come in. Most likely someone waited to riddle me with bullets, however, what choice did I have? I couldn’t leave. Not without Zaza.
I ducked low and inched for the door jamb, daring a glance. Tiled floor, some stools clustered around an island, but no legs. None that I could see. I dove in and bounced to my feet, the rapid motion meant to distract anyone trying to aim.
Only no one was in the kitchen waiting to shoot.
I didn’t like it. It felt like a trap, but again, what choice did I have? With the revolver held out in front of me, and rifle slung across my back, I slowly advanced, the only sound that of classical music playing from the room just past the kitchen.
A male voice called out in accented English. “Can we hurry this up? I don’t have all evening.”
A perfect calm descended over me, a deadly focus that would allow me to react in a split second. A cool composure that for the first time shattered as I stepped into the living room.
The cozy scene that met me belonged in a sappy Hallmark Christmas movie. A decorated tree twinkled in a corner. The mantle over the cracking fire held green boughs wound with ribbons. In a plush club chair, a mother with tear-streaked cheeks lovingly held her child.
A man, wearing an expensive silk suit, held a gun to her head.
The chubby cheeked baby, gnawing on her fist, had no idea of the danger and actually made things worse when she saw me. She reached with winking fingers and squealed, “Bru!”
Joseph’s cold expression turned a shade chillier. “So you are the famous American author.”
“And you’re the man who kidnaps women and children,” I snapped.
