Chapter Nineteen

The basement door was already locked and barricaded from inside, revealing where Margo and the household staff had taken cover. Erik and Roger ran to find another hiding place, taking a path through the dining room, and a hail of bullets ripped through the windows, spraying them with glass.

More bullets were fired from farther away, and the closer guns returned fire. The gunmen exchanged volleys, and Erik and Roger didn’t need to look to know that Josh and Howie were trying to come to the rescue. From the sounds of it, the friendly forces were outmatched, and neither musician took the time to analyze the fight.

“Up here,” Erik told him, leading him up the stairs. In the hallway by the bedrooms, he pulled a dangling string, and a folding staircase descended from the ceiling, revealing the way to the attic. Roger didn’t need to be told twice. He scampered up those stairs and headed to the back corner, where a stack of steamer trunks gave cover. Erik followed him, closing the door behind him and trying to latch it. He hid behind a piece of furniture that was covered by a dusty sheet.

The shooting went quiet, and Erik motioned for Roger to stay silent and still. They watched each other, the sight of a friendly face giving some comfort in their fear, and listened.

Heavy footsteps – three sets of them – came clumping up the stairs from the bottom floor. They listened as those men kicked open the bedroom doors and checked the closets. Roger’s mind whirled in shocked confusion, unable to comprehend why this was happening, and how he had ever become involved in this. He hoped against hope that the studio lock was holding, and that Kyle and Rich could keep Mickey from bolting out again in search of him. He prayed, something he had rarely if ever done, that they would survive this day.

The searchers finished with the bedrooms and the bathroom. They were none too gentle in their examination of the place, as the sound of breakage attested. Roger was shaking, and he started looking around for something he could use as a weapon. Nothing presented itself.

Erik was doing much the same, his blond head turning from side to side as he scanned the attic’s contents. He kicked off his boots so his steps would make less sound, then crept across to a gun safe in the corner. He opened the door and took out a weapon, an antique pistol that had seen much better days. From where Roger sat, the thing looked rusty and useless for anything but a bludgeon, but it was better than nothing.

Erik tossed the weapon to Roger, who tried to catch it but failed. The gun bounced heavily against the wooden floor. Beneath them, the sounds of rummaging stopped, and Erik glared evilly at him. He wanted to die, and he presumed that he soon would.

The blond found something else in the gun cabinet and took up a different position, one that faced the stairs with a bit less cover. It was a position for shooting, and Roger knew that he should have done the same, but he was too afraid to move. He picked up the pistol and looked at it, wishing he knew how to determine if it was loaded, totally unfamiliar with such things. He had been raised on Bollywood musicals, not Westerns, and in his life so far his closest association with guns had been being shot at during the crazy drive from Alex’s house.

The stairs creaked and the latch complained as the rope was pulled from beneath. The latch snapped, and the stairs lowered.

Bright light streamed up through the opening, and the dust motes in the attic made a perversely beautiful display before being shadowed once again by the shape of a man.

“I know you’re up there.”

It was Dave Campbell’s voice.

Behind his crates, Erik cocked the gun that he had found, and he waited.

Roger tried to do the same, and he thought he did, although he couldn’t be sure. The action on the pistol in his hand was stiff, resisting him, and he wasn’t certain it would fire when and if the time came. He hoped that Erik was a good shot.

Footsteps thudded on the stairs, and then the crown of Dave’s head showed above the level of the attic floor. It was a poor target, so he was able to take a look without being fired upon. He chuckled.

“I can smell you, Roger.”

He should have been insulted, but he could only think that it was probably the truth.

“Erik? I think you’re up there, too, aren’t you?”

“Why don’t you climb those stairs and find out?”

A Swedish lilt colored his words, the first time any accent had revealed itself in Erik’s speech. It was all the confirmation Roger needed to tell him that his friend was just as terrified as he was. It was cold comfort.

Dave laughed, and it was an oily sound. “Alex sends his regards.”

“Fuck you.”

“We can arrange that, if you’ll cooperate. Or even if you don’t cooperate – that’s one I haven’t done yet.”

Moving quickly, Dave scrambled up the stairs and dove for cover, his training as a policeman serving him damnably well. Roger shifted, afraid that Dave would be able to see him from the side. Erik held his ground.

“If you give up and come out with me, Roger, I’ll let all these other people go. That includes your dancer,” Dave offered.

“I can’t trust you!”

“I give you my word.”

Erik set his jaw. “He’s lying.”

“That’s not fair,” he complained. “You’re biased against me, just because of that little peccadillo with your ex-husband. He was just an item on a list for me to scratch off. You know that, don’t you? It was never anything personal.”

“I don’t care.”

Dave laughed. Roger’s fear was starting to slip toward anger, and his adrenaline was racing. He swiveled in the dust and pointed his borrowed pistol toward the sound of Dave’s voice.

“How did you know where we were?” Roger demanded.

“Penny Torsen,” he answered, sounding pleased with himself. “Erik, your little sister doesn’t have a lot of endurance. Well… pardon me. Didn’t have.”

Erik fired. The bullet blasted a chunk out of the wall and sent splinters and plaster dust everywhere. Dave laughed.

“Is that the best they teach you in the Swedish Army?”

“Come closer and I’ll show you what else I learned.”

“Ha! I think I’ll pass. I’m not here for you, anyway. Played out drug addicts aren’t my thing.”

“Everybody is your thing,” Roger retorted. “You have a list that says so.” His anger flared, and he roared, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Dave switched positions, coming closer, but they couldn’t see where he was in the jumble of objects that both protected and impeded them. Erik gestured to Roger and caught his attention. When Roger looked, the Viking mouthed, ‘When I shoot, run.’

Roger shook his head. He was certain he’d trip, or get in the way of Erik’s bullet, or any number of horrible alternative outcomes. There had to be a better way. There had to be help coming.

He just didn’t know from where.

“Roger, I’m getting tired of this game. I gave you an offer. Do you accept, or do you reject?”

He licked his lips, tasting grit and sweat. “If I come out, what then?”

“Then we retire to the helicopter and we go somewhere more private to work out our differences.”

“’Work out our differences?’ What is that supposed to mean?”

“Come out of hiding and find out.”

They were at an impasse, and everybody knew it. Dave changed his approach.

“Those engineers in the studio… they belong to me. I’m the one that sent them here. If I give them the signal, they’ll kill your band, and then they’ll have some fun with Mickey. As I recall, he’s a gifted little cock sucker, am I right? I guess they’ll get to find out…”

Roger shook, but this time it wasn’t from fear. “If you do anything to him, I swear to God, I’ll….”

“You’ll what? Trip and fall on me? I’ve seen how capable you are.”

He pointed his gun toward the sound of Dave’s voice. “Come out and get me.”

“Ha! No. You come to me.”

There was the sound of a quiet thud on the stairs, like a footfall. They all fell quiet, listening, but it wasn’t followed up. Erik tried to shoot toward Dave again, but his gun only clicked.

“Ooh, antiques. They’re so unpredictable, aren’t they?”

Roger hated him. He hated him with every fiber of his being, and he’d had enough. He’d had enough of being chased, stalked, threatened, and demeaned. He’d had enough of the fear and the anxiety and the feeling of being hunted. He’d had enough of his lover being threatened and he’d had enough of Dave Campbell to last him for a lifetime.

Maybe his lifetime would be short, or maybe Dave’s would be. This was where and when that question would be decided.

Roger tried to fire, but the trigger wouldn’t move, too rusted into place to fire. With an inchoate shout, he hurled the gun across the attic toward the post where he thought Dave was hiding. He leaped to his feet and followed it.

“Roger!” Erik cried, trying to stop him.

He heard his name but didn’t care. He rushed toward where Dave was crouching, roaring his rage, and at the same time, more footfalls came from the attic stairs. He knocked over a sheet-covered dresser and found Dave behind it, looking startled. Roger leaped on him, pounding him with his fists, battering that hatefully handsome face with every ounce of strength he could muster.

He heard bone splinter, and he didn’t know if it was in his hand or in Dave’s face, and he was too infuriated to care. The next time he hit him, blood spattered up into the air, and he took encouragement from the sight. He beat him with both fists, one after the other, and then Josh Warsinski was there, his gun in his hand.

“Hold it right there!” he shouted. “Interpol! Put your hands up!”

Dave was too stunned to comply, and Roger was too far gone to register what had been said. He just knew that he had to erase this human stain.

Erik grabbed him and pulled him back, and then Josh was kneeling over Dave, manhandling him. Roger struggled against Erik’s grip, but the Viking held on tight.

“Shh. It’s over, man. It’s done. We got him.”

Warsinski rolled Dave onto his stomach and finished zip-tying his wrists. He dragged him to his feet and hauled him out of the attic and to the floor below.

Roger finally calmed enough to understand what Erik was saying, and he stopped flailing.

“You got him, man. You got him. You got him.”

He held still, and Erik let him go. He looked at his hands, which were covered with blood. None of it appeared to be his own. He looked up at his friend and hugged him, relief pouring out of him in a rush. Erik thumped his back, and then they followed Warsinski down the stairs.

Dave was hogtied on the dining room floor by the time they descended, his wrists and ankles connected by zip ties. Howie, bleeding profusely from the shoulder, was leaning against the wall, being attended to by Araceli, who was speaking to him in rapid-fire Spanish. Warsinski was on his cell phone, talking to someone about something. Roger frankly didn’t care.

Roger’s knees felt watery, but he managed to stagger out the back door of the house. He almost tripped over two men lying dead on the ground, weapons not far from their lifeless hands. He froze, staring at the blood, then raced on to the studio.

“Mickey!” he shouted, pounding on the door. “Mickey, it’s okay! He’s gone. They’re all gone. It’s over.”

The door lock clicked, and then his lover was in his arms, holding him tight. Kyle was the next one out, and he stopped short at the sight of the corpses on the ground.

Mickey kissed Roger soundly, then noticed the blood specks staining his shirt. “Oh, honey, are you okay?” He pulled away and saw Roger’s hands, the knuckles split and bleeding, and he hugged him tight again. “You are so brave,” he praised. “I’m so proud of you.”

George stepped out, his eyes wide. “What the hell…”

“Long story,” Erik, who had followed Roger, told him. “But I think we might have the time to talk about it now.” It was all over but the shouting.