They entered into a broad, long hall. Almost like a kids’ playground. Sparkling globe lights on the ceiling, reflecting silver stars. Soft toys scattered. Brightly coloured wallpaper. Doors on either side. At the end of the corridor, a single door, with a numbered keypad. The exit, assumed Black.
He knelt down to the girl.
“Did you come from one of those rooms?”
She nodded, and pointed.
“I need you to go back. Stay inside. Don’t leave, until I return.” He held her gaze, looking into her eyes. “And I promise I will.”
She nodded again, eyes filling suddenly with tears. She turned, went to her room, looked back quickly, disappeared inside.
Black straightened. How the hell was he going to get out? He paused. An idea struck him. It was a long shot, but it might just work. He returned to the room, to Lord Reith. Even in death, he might prove useful.
71
The guard sitting at his post sipped from a can of lemonade. He was bored. Nothing happened on this particular watch. He preferred doing the patrol route round the periphery of the ranch. At least when he did that, he got to stretch his legs. And chat. Maybe even a smoke. But here, cooped up in this tiny box of a room, nothing ever happened. He’d been working for Falconer for two years. And during this time, he hadn’t seen even a hint of excitement. But he got well paid for it, so he didn’t make it his business to grumble. And what went on in the basement wasn’t his problem. He did a job, he got paid. End of.
This evening had been a little different. Guests from Japan. A big guy in a dinner suit kept prisoner in Lampton’s room. And now he’d just taken another guy in. Blood would spill, he thought. But it wasn’t his problem. His job was to watch one single monitor on the desk in front of him. The view was the entrance in and out of the big hallway, where the kids sometimes played.
He took another sip. An image appeared. It startled him. A man was there. The guy in the dinner suit. Wearing a crazy mask. He was pointing to the door. Probably forgotten the key code. Stupid fucker, he thought, as he pressed a button, releasing the electric locking mechanism, opening the door.
Black was in. He stepped through, into a room with one man sitting at a desk in front of a monitor screen. The same man who had escorted Reith.
“You forget the code?” asked the man.
Black nodded.
“Three, three, four, three. I like the mask. A bit creepy. You finished now?”
“I’m not, but you are,” replied Black. The man was sitting, looking up. Black revealed the knife. It flashed in his hand. He clamped one arm round the man’s face, used his other hand to stab him in the heart. The man uttered a choking gasp, slumped forward. Black rested the man’s head on the desktop. If it weren’t for the blood, he might have been mistaken for sleeping on the job. Black pulled the Beretta from his side holster. Checked the magazine clip. Eight cartridges. That would do just fine.
He kept the knife, wiped it clean on the dead man’s shoulder, tucked it in his inside jacket pocket. It had been lucky for him so far. He might need its luck again.
Black pressed a button. A soft chime. A door slid open. He entered a lift. He pressed the internal button. The doors slid shut, he sensed movement. Going up. Seconds later, the lift stopped, the door swept open automatically.
Another small office-type room, another man, sitting in front of a desk. Before him were several screens, showing views of different parts of the building. Some interior, some external.
“Nice mask,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Black shot him once in the head. He bounced off his chair, onto the floor. He suspected the room was secure enough to muffle the gunshot. He retrieved his pistol. Another Beretta. Same model. He faced a door. Another keypad. He tapped in the numbers given. The lock clicked, the door opened.
Black was out.
He was in a corridor, the walls decorated in a warm orange swirl, Mediterranean style, the light muted from candle bulbs flaming on bronze brackets on the walls. He had no idea where to go. He turned to his right, along a corridor, past pieces of exotic furniture, emerging at length into a large open-plan split-level living room, dominated by a massive cream suede corner couch. An entire wall was cloaked in heavy drapes. The light was subdued, casting a strange, witchy quality.
Black hugged the shadows, moved quietly through to an adjoining study, cluttered with antique furniture, an exquisite writing bureau, a simulated log fire. He detected noise. Laughing. Not far away. He waited by the side of the door. He still wore the mask. He might just get away with it.
He strolled out through the door, and into a connecting miniature courtyard of sea-green flagstones, illuminated in soft hues of pink and amber from silken box lanterns hanging from low stick-like trees. On the other side, French doors, opening to the dining room. He could see Falconer through the glass, talking animatedly. A single guard stood on one side of the doors. The guard stepped forward. He would be unsure. Black still wore the Death Doll mask. Black caught Falconer’s eye, waved. Falconer waved back, ushered him through. The guard relaxed. Black had his hands behind his back, clutching both Berettas. He could have been walking in the park on a summer’s day. He nodded to the guard. The guard nodded back. Black brought his
