Rattle, page 13
“That is your bag!” Finn insisted, already backing up. He’d probably never make it to the door, but his nerves didn’t care. “I stashed it at the hotel, until this one,” he gestured to Berlin, “made me pick it up! She’s had her hands all over it since then.”
“Finn,” Angelina growled, stepping over the discarded stories to close in. Berlin stood by the chair, head tipped down slightly as a cat might watch a mouse with its leg snapped by a trap. “Where is my bag?”
Still backing up, Finn, shook his head, gesturing fruitlessly at Berlin. “Ask her! I had it, but she had your man put it in the trunk! I haven’t touched it since! I—those aren’t mine!” He felt himself back right into the husky warmth of the goon who’d opened the door. Straightening tall as if he could ward her off like a bear, Finn, fixed insult across his features. “I don’t even read!”
Angelina clenched her fist around the fabric of his nice vest, yanking him close before she lifted her hand and pressed it to his cheek. Having his mind read didn’t hurt, but he swore he could feel her crawling through his brain, picking at his thoughts like a toddler trying to play an out of tune ukulele. He watched her as she rifled through his skull, considering her expression as it faded slightly from murderous to merely harmful.
Seconds passed before she turned to face Berlin, still touching Finn’s cheek. “He’s telling the truth.”
Berlin looked disappointed, but didn’t voice it. She seemed to consider the options for a few moments, before taking a breath as if shouldering a heavy burden. “Would you like me to interrogate the desk agent? Perhaps someone there discovered what was in the bag and switched the contents.
“Suzi wouldn’t do that,” Finn insisted, worrying for the cute redhead and her easily removed digits. “She was on the level.”
Angelina turned back to Finn, slapping him just this side of lightly. “Many have thought the same about you. Go, check out the hotel,” Angelina said, addressing Berlin even though she was still contemplating Finn. “Speak to this Suzi. Do what you need to. I want my things.”
Berlin nodded, catching Finn’s eye just long enough to let him know with a wink that she was going to enjoy her work, and then strolled out of view. Finn squirmed slightly as Angelina leaned in closer, her eyes taking in his features.
“You look—”
The sound of gunfire interrupted her, and Finn jumped hard at the sound of Berlin’s feminine grunts of pain.
Chapter Sixteen
The goon who had previously blocked Finn’s exit, shoved him roughly to the side, grabbing for Angelina as if she were precious.
“Boss,” he said gruffly, putting his massive bulk between her and the doorway. Finn stumbled, lost his footing and dropped hard onto his ass, cracking his elbow on the edge of another fancy table. He swore, cradling his arm to his chest, before realizing that he’d fallen next to Berlin. Gunfire belted through the foyer again and he wondered if she was dead.
“Fuck,” she moaned after a second, making Finn yelp and jolt away. She ignored his cowardice, shaking her head as she pushed into a crouch and moved out of view of the open doorway. “Hate getting shot.”
“What the hell is going on?” Angelina demanded. Finn looked to her sharply, found her still protected by the large goon, and figured he should probably get somewhere safe as well. Lacking any other options, he scrambled around the side of the nearest curved, old couch and peered around the side to watch Angelina.
“We think it’s Shaw,” the goon said, lifting a hand to his earpiece. “There are too many. I’m going to get you out of here, Boss.”
“And me?” Finn said, trying to catch Angelina’s eye with an alluring smile. She refused to even look his way, focused on Berlin at the doorway. Finn risked a glance over the top of the couch and found she’d crouched around the edge of the doorjamb and pulled her pistol.
“You expect me to walk through fire to get out?”
“I can cover you,” Berlin said. Finn yipped when she fired twice, sure she was close enough to accidentally hit him, even though she was aiming in the opposite direction.
“And me!” Finn repeated when he could make his voice work.
“You can stay here and amuse yourself,” Angelina said, sneering his way. “There’s plenty to read.”
“I told you I don’t read!” Finn insisted, pushing to his knees with panicked outrage. “Can’t, even! I never learned! You wouldn’t just leave me here to die, now? That’d be cruel! Leaving such an uneducated man as myself to fend for—” He let out another yowl as Berlin fired three more times, and dropped to flatten himself face first to the gleaming floor.
“Would you shut the hell up?” Berlin growled. “Give me two seconds to—” she fired again. “Go.”
Finn lifted his gaze enough to see the goon hunch as close to Angelina as he could before nudging her toward the door. They disappeared around the edge of the couch, and Finn was left to whimper against the wooden armrest. Berlin kept firing intermittently and he heard her grunt twice more, before she spoke.
“Nice knowing you, pumpkin. I’ll tell Suzi you said hi.”
Before Finn could argue or demand once again to come with, she took off, firing as she sprinted away in her expensive heels. Finn whimpered.
****
Veruca jolted herself awake, instantly regretting the sharp movement, as it highlighted the fact that she felt like she’d been sleeping at a right angle. Groaning a bit, she straightened slowly, rocking her neck back and forth trying to work out the kinks. Finn was nowhere around, but she figured he’d probably gone in search of a vending machine or an attractive nurse.
The idea that he may have found both and lured a stranger into a broom closet to share a sweet treat made Veruca chuckle as she pushed to her feet to stretch out.
“Ms. Lake?”
“News?” Veruca asked, turning to the approaching nurse.
“Just to say your friend’s still doing well. He’s still out, steady as can be.”
“Thanks,” Veruca said with a smile, her gaze roaming toward where she could see Erik’s soul still pulsing weakly beyond the doors. With a sigh, she figured she might as well indulge in a treat of her own to shut down her suddenly roaring stomach. She noticed Finn’s note as she grabbed her purse off the uncomfortable chair. Her hunger died as she read the note, replace by a low, irritated burn in her belly.
He’d gone back to Angelina, citing selflessness and regret instead of what had really driven him: stupidity.
“You stupid, beautiful idiot,” Veruca mumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder and moving toward the nurse’s station. “I have to go, but please call me if anything changes.”
“You—”
“Won’t need any more updates unless they’re important,” Veruca said, turning away. She got three steps before she regretted her tone and turned back. “I appreciate that you were being so helpful, I just have to go. Thank you.”
She called Donald on the way down to the lobby, could barely keep the anger out of her voice when he answered.
“Ms. Lake.”
“Meet me at the hotel. I need a ride.”
Donald was quiet for a beat and she recognized the silence as, “I told you so.” Aloud he said, “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Veruca hung up, glaring at the numbers on the elevator as if she could will them to move faster.
****
Finn bellied across the floor, trying not to whimper and give away his position to anyone who may come charging into the room with the aim of putting holes in him. He had already ruined enough of the clothes Veruca had bought him and he didn’t want to destroy these too. Plus, if he was going to die, he wanted to at least leave an attractive corpse.
“Bollix to that,” he grumbled, instantly irritated at himself for such dour thinking. Switching tactics, he twirled himself on the floor, scooting as fast as he could toward the doorway. The foyer was still intermittently filled with the sounds of a firefight, screams here and there, gunshots, the occasional cracking shatter of a vase that probably cost more than Finn had ever made in his life.
Trying to remain as flat to the floor as possible, Finn strained toward the door, whacking it the second his fingers came into contact with the wood. The door moved no further than if he’d aimed a stiff breeze its way and Finn swore louder than he meant. The sound of his own voice shot panic through his limbs and he scooted forward enough to grab the door and force it shut.
He lay panting on the ground for a few seconds, sure he’d drawn the attention of every trigger-happy torpedo in the building, but nothing came crashing through the door aiming a tommy gun his way and yelling, “We got you now, you rummy harp!”
Finn considered for a second that his references might need some updating once he got out of the line of fire, and then risked pushing to his feet. No bullets ripped through the door, and he didn’t hear the sounds of feet fast approaching his position, so he loosened up slightly, turning to scan the room.
He had locked himself in the library, the closest thing to a weapon he could see being the poker next to the roaring fire. Finn grabbed it, tested its weight in case he needed to defend himself and then took another look around. The only exit was through the foyer, which didn’t bode well, he thought.
“Unless,” he mumbled to himself, eyeing the walls of bookshelves. They looked old, expensive, crammed with leather-bound books in reds and browns, and decorated with the occasional expensive trinket in gold or silver. Finn eyed the walls beyond the shelves, hoping his lucky streak would persist. Throwing the fire iron down, he bolted toward the far wall, grabbing for books and busts, yanking them forward and off the shelves, letting them crash to the floor as he flailed his arms in desperation.
Surely one of these would open a secret passage. The house looked like it had hosted elegant dinner parties ending in murder and espionage. If yanking down on a statue or novel didn’t yield safe retreat into an underground tunnel, Finn would eat his tie.
Three out of five bookshelves down, Finn had made such a mess he’d tripped twice and stubbed his toe four times. He was getting desperate. The gunfire was tapering off, but hadn’t completely stopped. Just as he heard a shout closer than was comfortable, he pulled hard on a tome the width of his wrist, and found it wouldn’t budge.
Hope sprung, danced, and climbed up through his chest to claw its way over his tongue in a cry of excitement. Throwing aside the tiny, jeweled statue he’d planned to pocket, he reached up with both hands, curling his dusty fingers over the lip of the binding and yanking with all his might. This had to be it, stuck in place by years of disuse. The book stayed stubborn, refusing to give even a bit.
“Come on, you arsehole,” he growled, hoping anger would give him strength. He felt his nails scrape the edges of the pages as he hopped, putting his full body weight into the action. He felt the book give ever so slightly and he gasped in delight at the prospect of escape. It took a few seconds to realize it wasn’t just the book that had come loose.
Wood groaned, trinkets plummeted, and Finn felt gravity grab hold and yank at him like he was a bust on a shelf. He barely had time to cry out before his back hit the floor, and weight of the bookcase crushed down upon him.
****
“Your friend’s missing?” Donald asked as Veruca pulled open the door to her room.
“My friend’s an idiot,” she said, turning and going to sit on the couch to lace up her shoes. “Remember the woman I had visit me at breakfast?”
“The redhead?”
“She’s some sort of low level crime boss, after Finn for something he was given by an ex-girlfriend.” Donald tipped his head and a smile touched his lips.
“That’s not the whole truth,” he said, making Veruca chuckled lightly.
“No, but it’s more than I want to get into right now. Did you bring what I asked?”
“It’s in the car, but I can’t imagine why you’d need it.”
“Because I didn’t think to bring my own,” Veruca said, getting to her feet. She’d changed out of her nice clothes into comfortable, practical cotton pants and a loose shirt that would allow her to fight should she have to. Yanking on her jacket, she caught Donald’s eye. “You ready?”
“Always.” He opened the door for her with a smile.
****
Straining, Finn hooked his arm under the edge of the bookshelf, shoving with all his might. He grunted, groaned, growled, but none of it helped. The bookshelf weighed enough that he could tell it wasn’t going to budge.
The sounds outside the room had died down to a level that made him wonder if one side had given up. Every so often he’d hear an unintelligible shout, but mostly it seemed the fighting was over. At the very least, he could hope that someone might come to find him and take pity on his situation. If whoever had shown up had been there to take out Angelina, he might find a friend in the newcomers.
The longer he considered the likelihood of that, the less he liked his chances.
In a fit of panic, he shoved at the shelf again, felt it lift ever so slightly off his chest. Triumph sang through him and he let it give him strength. He heaved once more, the shelf lifted enough that he was able to wiggle marginally backward, and then the door opened behind him. Shocked, he dropped the shelf, regretting it immediately when some sharp, hard part of it jammed directly against his groin.
“What the hell happened here?”
Unable to answer, Finn wheezed out a breath, cursing every choice in his life that had led to that agonizingly painful moment. A gun barked somewhere beyond the room and the newcomer dropped into a silent heap. Finn froze, pain still singing through him, terror doing its best to drown out the feeling radiating away from his nether regions.
The house was silent for a full minute while Finn took shallow breaths to avoid aggravating either his crotch or whoever had shot the man lying dead in the doorway.
“What the fuck happened here?” Berlin asked, making Finn jerk his gaze up overhead. She stood in the doorway, a handgun down by her thigh, her mouth open as she surveyed the mess he’d made of the room. When she noticed him, she laughed.
“I need help!” Finn insisted, trying to wiggle out of his predicament. It only seemed to jam the shelf harder against his crotch and he groaned, freezing instantly.
“You certainly do, pumpkin, but I’ve got to go.” Berlin shook her head. “I’ll give you credit, though, even trapped under ten tons of wood, you’re still pretty.”
She kissed his way, winked, and then moved to hug the wall as she left him to die. Finn’s jaw worked as if he’d argue or call her back, but no sound came out. Still in shock, he stared at the empty doorway for as long as his twisted neck would tolerate, before turning his attention back to the problem at hand. As if the universe wanted to really drive home the point that he was trapped, several books jammed against each other down by his hip came loose to drop onto the floor and startled him. Jumping in panic only jabbed the hard part of the shelf harder against his crotch and he wailed.
Chapter Seventeen
Finn didn’t know how long he’d been trapped under the wreck he’d made of the library, but he was fairly certain he was the only one left in the entire house. The corpse Berlin had left was still there, of course, but it wasn’t offering Finn any help, so he had ignored its presence except to occasionally curse its laziness.
“You stupid, dead bastard,” he griped. “Just laying there, no help to anyone. Taken down by a woman wearing heels tall as my forearm, for crissakes.” He snarled at nothing, turning his head to look over the room. The fire was still going, the mess he’d made was still present. He was starting to get hungry, which only depressed him more. What the hell would he eat? He doubted any of the books currently jabbing into his ribcage would have much nutritional value. He’d told himself he’d eat his tie if he didn’t find a secret passage, but that seemed even less appealing.
His eyes fell on Angelina’s mug of tea and he made a thoughtful sound. It would be something, at least. Sugar was sustenance, could give energy. Maybe energy to give him feats of strength great enough to move mountains. Or at least great enough to move one bookshelf. He’d never reach the cup, he realized.
“Grab me that teacup, would’ya?” Finn asked the corpse, making himself giggle. It took him a full minute to realize that his joke didn’t have to be a joke. He was a necromancer and the dead guy was, well, dead. This had potential.
Finn perked up, twisting to see the body in hopes he could judge the distance between him and it. Like the teacup, he’d never reach the dead man from his position, but he really only needed to get part of himself to the doorway, and blood could really fly if flung hard enough.
Squirming, he set his gaze on the teacup, frowning to himself as he thought of the possibilities. He really did hate to make himself bleed, but slicing himself open was a better bet than starving to death under a mountain of paper and leather. He fished around by his hip as much as he could, pulling out any books he could get his hands on until he found one heavy and thick enough to do the job he needed done. Taking a deep breath, willing all the strength in his body to localize in his right arm, he heaved the book as hard as he could toward the table. It slapped uselessly against the high-backed chair.
Finn swore, tried again. And again, and three more times until he finally hit the table. It scooted back a bit, wooden legs groaning across the wooden floor, and he cussed up a storm, throwing a little fit. When his fists hurt from being slammed against the shelf, he forced himself to calm, to take a deep breath and work out what it was he needed to do.
He’d hit the middle of the legs and that had just knocked the table back. He needed to knock it over, but in such a way that the glass would fall toward him rather than away. Finn squinted at the table, trying to see the angles and the possibilities like a diagram drawn across his vision.
The house remained quiet around him, giving him some much-needed time to think and to process. It took him another full minute to work through what he needed, and he grabbed the edge of a book by his left hip, jerked his wrist a few times as if testing its range, and then sucked in a breath. Holding it tight, he whipped the book forward, aiming for the closest table leg, wincing as it flew through the air.
