Wayne knew he was going to have one chance. Not even that. A fragment of a chance. Maybe less. Maybe the only way he could do it was take a hit. One thing for certain, though. Wayne was not going inside that trunk.
What did they call those people, the ones that got stuck with arrows or boiled in oil, and got their agony frozen in colored glass for their troubles? Martyrs. Right. That was him. Wayne Grusza. A martyr for broken promises and impulse control.
Just like now.
“Move.”
Wayne wanted Eric talking. A talking guy meant part of the brain was occupied with something other than watching. “Why, Eric?”
The shooter behind him said, “No questions.”
“Why did you—”
Wayne stopped because the guy he’d dropped in the pool whacked the back of his skull with the pistol. “Shut up.”
But Eric took the bait. “Why does anyone do anything? Profit and personal gain.”
“Triton?”
The space between the house and the property’s side wall was constricted by the limo and the shrub border. Tall blooming oleander in shades of ivory and coral framed the drive and hid the cement wall. The ground underneath Wayne’s feet smelled of the cedar chips bordering the trees. Wayne’s every sense was on full alert.
Jerry was directly in front of him. The cop shuffled with shoulders slumped and wrists bound behind his back. Julio was in front of Jerry. One shooter stood by the open trunk. Another, the guy from inside the house, was out back somewhere readying the boat they used to get here. The limo driver stood on the car’s other side, watching it all with a sardonic smirk. The other shooter followed directly behind Wayne, his wet pants flapping with each step. Wayne slowed slightly, as though uncertain where to go. The shooter stepped in close enough to prod the pistol into his spine. “Step it up.”
Eric said, “I had always considered the islands too restrictive a place to live. But that was before Triton introduced me to the pleasure of flying by Lear.”
“Talk about flying.” Wayne saw Julio glance into the limo’s trunk and blanch. “Sorry about what happened to your Ferrari.”
The pistol jammed Wayne’s skull this time.
“No. Wait.” Wayne heard the approaching footsteps. “What’s the matter with my—”
Wayne used the limo’s fender as a launching pad. He climbed straight up, the last thing in the world they expected. He knew that because of how they all stared as he tightroped two steps alongside the open trunk lid, pausing only to spin and toe-kick the wet shooter in the temple, sending him flying into Eric. The limo driver had his gun raised but was clearly worried about hitting his boss. The guy behind the limo was blocked by the open trunk. Or so Wayne hoped.
He pounded across the limo’s roof and sprang impossibly high. He crested the oleanders and the wall, but barely. He did not so much step across the wall as try and keep himself erect for the landing.
The wall’s opposite side was laced with gravel bordered with rail ties. His hands were bound behind him, so he just rolled and rolled until his face met grass. A rock or rail tie or something had jabbed him hard. The way it hurt when he pushed himself to his knees, using his chin for balance, Wayne feared he might have cracked a rib. He stumbled away from the muffled shouts coming from the wall’s other side. He jackrabbited over the low hedges lining the front walk and raced around this home of stone and mock coral.
Wayne was spurred on by his one glimpse into the limo’s trunk. When his climbing had rocked the lid, the opening between the lid and the car had sliced across a vision of dark hair, taped mouth, and terrified grey eyes.
The boundary walls were faced in stone like the house. Shouts and curses bounced at Wayne from every side. He could not tell where they were, but he knew they were coming.
For once, he hoped for motion sensors in the lawn. But he couldn’t count on them. Tatyana’s survival depended upon his getting the one chance not just right, but solid. So when he rounded the neighboring home’s rear corner, instead of peeling for the water like he should, Wayne raced midway back across the lawn.
Then he turned around and took aim for the home’s rear glass doors.
Fast as he could.
Head down and legs pumping almost to his chest.
Not even thinking how much it was going to hurt when he hit.
Wayne’s catapulting leap took out not just the glass but one entire door panel. He slid on the interior tiles and heard the broken shards beneath his body. He knew he was going to pay for that one. But right then he didn’t feel any pain, not even from his rib. Because out front was the sweetest melody, a constant whoop-whoop of the house alarm.
“Come and get me!” He actually yelled it out loud.