The lower level was shrouded in darkness, but he could see it was mostly used as a games room. The pool table, a regulation six-by-twelve, was the centerpiece, with a shuffleboard against one wall, a dartboard on another, and a twenty-foot walk-up bar covering the far wall. He moved slowly through the open room, watching the corners of the room for security sensors. His eyes, adjusting now to the low light levels, picked up the sensors, but they were turned off. First the dogs in their pen and now the security system turned off. Bruce Andrews was a little lax on his security tonight.
Gordon started up the staircase to the main floor. It was curved, carpeted, and open to the main level. The light increased as he rounded the corner and the well-lit main floor came into view. His grip on the rosewood handle of the Colt 1911 tightened. He stopped two stairs from the top and fumbled with the gun, trying to find the safety. He switched off the upswept grip safety and continued on, now moving into the wide hall leading from the front entrance to the great room in the rear of the house. Soft music played over the sound system, and he could hear a television somewhere in the back of the house. He moved quietly along the hall into the great room. The ceilings were at least eighteen feet and the entire back of the room was a bank of windows, looking out over the grass that ran down to the river. The room was unoccupied. He skirted the great room, keeping close to one of the interior walls. The sound from the television was louder now, and when he reached a narrower hallway, he could see the flicker from the television reflected on the hall walls. He tiptoed across the hall, took a deep breath, and leapt into the television room, the Colt outstretched in front of him.
His brain processed the scene in a split second. A leather love seat flanked by two leather chairs, a coffee table, two glass-top end tables, and an entire wall taken up by a built-in entertainment center with a sixty-inch plasma television. But no sign of Bruce Andrews. As he turned to leave the room, there was a voice from directly behind him.
“Don’t move an inch or I’ll kill you.”
Gordon froze, the pistol still pointing into the media room. He heard a slight rustling behind him and then a whooshing sound, and everything went black. When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back in the center of the great room. His head was throbbing and his eyesight was blurred. He started to lift his head and got a boot in the stomach for his trouble. He doubled over into a fetal position and caught sight of his attacker for the first time.
Bruce Andrews was standing over him, a gun in his hand and a sneer on his face. “You dumb country hick,” he said, aiming another boot for the midsection. The kick connected with Gordon’s solar plexus and winded him. Gordon struggled for breath as Andrews hovered over him. Then the man backed off a bit and leaned against one of the couches. “Everything was going just fine until you and that dumb bitch had to stick your goddamn noses into something that was none of your business. You have no idea the damage you’ve done.”
“You killed my brother, you sick piece of shit,” Gordon managed to wheeze.
“Are you talking about Triaxcion?” Andrews said. “A doctor prescribed that medicine and your brother willingly took it. He died because he was vain and wanted nice thick hair. Don’t blame me for your brother’s death.” He leaned forward. “But you can blame me for Jennifer Pearce’s.”
Gordon managed to struggle up on one elbow and glower at Andrews as he tried to catch his breath. Unbridled hate burned in his eyes. “How do you know about Jennifer?”
“It’s all over the television, you dumbass. Do you really think you can have a shoot-out in the office of the Under Secretary of the DHS and not have it end up on prime-time television? How do you think I knew you were on your way? I penned the dogs and turned off the security system because I wanted to kill you myself. There would be no justice in letting the dogs rip you apart.” He moved a little closer, the gun pointed at Gordon’s head. “You ever been shot, forest boy?”
“Once,” Gordon said. “By one of Allenby’s thugs. Didn’t do much damage, did it?”
The sound of the gun firing was almost deafening in the confines of the room. The instant the sound hit his ears, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. He grabbed at the area where the bullet had hit and his hand came away covered with blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You bastard.”
“We aren’t responsible for your fall from grace,” Gordon snarled back. “You knowingly marketed a defective drug and killed innocent people who stood in your way. You threatened and terrified the entire country with a deadly disease just to get your latest drug on the market. Nobody brought this on you but you.”
Andrews leaned over and picked up an object from one of the end tables. It was the Colt 1911 pistol Gordon had brought with him from Washington. Andrews checked the clip, then snapped it back in place and set his pistol on the table where the Colt had been.
“Is this Jim Allenby’s gun?” he asked. “Jim always preferred a Colt 1911 with the rosewood grip. It looks like his.”
Gordon didn’t say a word, just stared at him.
“Well, I think it’s fitting that Jim’s gun is the one that kills you. I think he would like that.” He stretched his arm out straight and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He aimed and pulled the trigger again. “What the…”
Gordon was on his feet and lunging at Andrews just as the man pulled the trigger for the second time. Andrews dropped the Colt and grabbed for his pistol. Too late. Gordon hit him in the midsection with his right shoulder, driving Andrews back and toppling him over. Andrews swung at Gordon, but he ducked and countered with a fast right. The fist caught Andrews half on his nose and half on his cheek. Blood instantly poured from the broken nose, and Gordon swung a roundhouse left at the prone man’s head. It landed but was totally ineffective, all power in the arm sapped by the bullet wound. He got two more quick shots in with his right before Andrews managed a counter and caught Gordon in the side of the head.
The blow stunned him for a second and Andrews used the opportunity to push Gordon off and leap back to his feet. For a big man, he moved with surprising alacrity. He barreled down on Gordon, aiming to drive him into the floor. Gordon rolled at the last possible split second and Andrews slammed into the hardwood. Gordon spun around on his back on the hardwood and used the momentum of the spin to drive his foot into the side of Andrews’s face. He heard the jawbone break, and Andrews bellowed with pain. Gordon spun again, this time kicking out at the end table Andrews had set the pistol on. His leg caught the table and knocked it over. The gun came crashing down on the floor, and Gordon grabbed it.
He slipped his finger into the trigger guard and jumped on Andrews, ramming the barrel of the gun into the side of the man’s head. The room took on an eerie silence as Gordon cocked the gun. Neither man moved for a few seconds, save to breathe.
“Until yesterday, I’d never killed a man,” Gordon hissed. “I didn’t like it, but somehow I don’t think killing you is going to bother me.” His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Don’t do it, Gordon.”
Buchanan looked up, the business end of the gun still pressed firmly against Andrews’s head. Standing in the doorway was J.D. Rothery. Immediately behind him were Craig Simms and a couple of faceless agents. They moved slowly into the room, their guns trained on Gordon.
“Don’t kill him, Gordon. It’s not worth it.”
“Oh, I think it is,” Gordon said, the gun unmoving in his hand.
“You pull that trigger and you’ll be charged with murder,” Rothery said. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. And for what? Killing him is giving him the easy way out.”
“How do you figure that?” Gordon asked. He and Andrews’s eyes were locked, neither man flinching.
“Bruce Andrews is finished. You know it and I know it. He’s going to jail for manipulating his company’s stocks, terrorism, and murder. He’ll never see freedom again in his life. Not from the second we take him out of this house. He’s ruined, Gordon. There’s no reason to kill him.”
“He was responsible for my brother’s death and now Jennifer’s. Letting this prick live is wrong. He deserves this bullet.”
“Gordon, wait for one minute. Just one minute. Let me check with the hospital in Washington to see if Jennifer is alive or dead.” He nodded to one of the men behind him, who was immediately on the phone. “What have you got to lose, Gordon? If she died, we’re still faced with the same problem we have now. But if she’s alive,
