Читать книгу Serpent Song - Toni Grant - Страница 7

“I’ll see your $50 and raise you another $50.” He placed the notes between them and waited.

“Aww. Come on. You’re bluffing!” The other looked from his hand directly across the table into the hardened face. He searched the grey eyes for a sign of emotion. A weakness. A give-away.

“We’ll see.” Cold eyes stared back at the new kid and felt nothing.

On the overhead platform, Detective Francesca Salucci pressed her body uncomfortably against the iron structure. Through the grimy window of the small room, she made a quick assessment.

“I have a visual. There are two, I repeat, two offenders in the room,” Francesca said quietly into the mouthpiece. “I see five handguns, three assault rifles and ammunition.” She drew a mental picture of the shed. “On a bench. South facing wall. Behind internal door. Target has direct access into warehouse. Through open window.”

“Copy,” a voice buzzed in her earpiece.

Francesca pushed against the steel. In the centre of her back a tubular prong dug into the bulletproof vest. Another beam pressed against her temple, jutting dangerously out. It was about three inches in both length and width. She filled her nostrils with the smell of dusty steel, relishing the childhood comfort it recalled. The third was in line with her shin, a real bruiser at a length and width that could do some serious damage should she move forward carelessly. Sliding silently down the wall, she crouched in the darkness.

From here, she could provide cover for the team on the ground. And she had a bird’s eye view of the whole interior of the warehouse. But those steel beams allowed limited movement and despite her agility, this section of the overhead walkway was too narrow to be truly effective. Likely she would fall and kill herself. She decided to leave her post and move to a more satisfactory location.

“Come on, make a decision Rick. The boss will be here in ten and I need to do another round.”

Francesca froze as a metal chair slid along the concrete. She was now in direct sight of the doorway to the room. If he opened the door of the staff room and looked up, she would blow the whole operation. She fought the urge to move. Movement attracts attention. People only see what they want. Concealed in the shadows, the detective controlled her breath and through the window watched him walk to the fridge. He grabbed a beer and flicked its cap, which went skittering across the concrete floor. He sat back at the table.

“You’re a bastard. I know you’re bluffing but if I lose tonight the missus will nut me. I’m out.”

Francesca breathed out slowly. She moved quickly, contorting her body to fit between a second set of steel bars. Today was not the day to watch from afar. She had to get closer.

For long minutes, she dodged the bars with careful steps and kept an eye on the suspects below. As the top of her head clipped another steel prong, Francesca grunted quietly. She stopped mid-way through the manoeuvre, listening intently. Piles of rat poo dislodged and fell as her bare hands found purchase on the narrow ledge. The solid pellets of shit hitting the gas cylinders directly below, in a musical plink-plink rhythm.

She gagged. The smell was incredible.

Satisfied she’d remained undetected, the detective proceeded along the ledge, standing fully and easing closer to the small room. Here the tight ledge opened onto a viewing platform. Directly above, a large hook and pulley system covered in dust-ridden cobwebs hung menacingly. From it, in silent wonder, a chain made from impressively large linkages dangled.

She was too exposed. Silently she climbed down; the lower level gave her protection as well as visual awareness. She nodded to herself. She was almost directly above the room and behind the open doorway.

“I’m in position,” she whispered into the mouthpiece, giving them an update of her new post. Again a mental picture of the building layout filled her head as her earpiece buzzed. Each of her team had reached their designated post, checking in their locations with a central command.

“Copy. Stand by.”

Any minute now she would receive the order to go. Any minute now their target would arrive. Any minute now the chopper would be overhead, giving her team back up and support. Francesca wrapped long fingers around the handle of her standard issue pistol.

She waited in the dark. Silent. Poised. Still.

“Got you!”

Francesca’s scream of surprise caught in her throat; she felt his familiar warmth pressing against her bare skin.

Night turned to day and the warehouse interior morphed into a magnificent mansion basking in an Italian Riviera summer. Around her, laughter and instructions echoed as two teams took each other on in a game of tactics. Water fight tactics.

Girls versus boys. Winner takes all.

“Nicholas! What the hell?” Francesca disengaged from his hold, turning as her friend Justine squealed a loud entrance.

Bursting through the house at pace, Francesca cleared the sandstone steps in one almighty jump. She landed heavily, rolling commandostyle, hiding behind the twisted trunk and dripping heaviness of a flowering crepe myrtle.

Close behind, two young men followed, hands raised in anticipation of a direct hit as they breached the doorway. Beside them, hidden by the lush foliage of a potted clivia, Mel readied her aim. In both hands the bright yellow glow from two dangerously full water bombs. At her feet, a pile of backup ammunition was ready.

“3 o’clock! Look out!” Nicholas yelled, warning his team as the girl landed on target, hastily following through with a watery barrage.

“Now, Miss Francesca. What am I to do with you?” the Italian said, wedging his prisoner firmly between an abundant garden and the white colonnade of the wide veranda. The boy stepped closer, blocking her only escape path.

Francesca instinctively stepped back, her buttocks pressing against the sandstone edge. Discreetly reaching behind, she grasped the yellow water-bomb resting on the stone.

Nic smiled menacingly.

With one arm he reached behind her, grabbing her wrists tightly together. The other was raised above her head squeezing the liquid contents tightly, willing the latex bubble to burst.

“No Nicci!” Francesca squirmed in his hold. Her team’s narrow lead hinged on her outmanoeuvring this foe. “Please.”

“Nic! Incoming!” Paul yelled to his brother. The boy weaved slightly as a yellow missile landed close beside them, splashing against the stone wall of the mansion. Using the distraction Nic secured his prisoner.

Discarding a blue cannon in the direction of her friends, he snatched the yellow balloon from her grasp. Victory was sweet. All the better for dousing the girl in her own watery ammunition.

Capturing Francesca, aside from his own personal pleasure, heralded the added enticement of a resounding win. Nicholas anticipated the gleeful gloat to his team that he had secured a hostage and won them the game.

He cocked his head, raising a questioning eyebrow. Why shouldn’t I? He demanded silently.

Her soft eyes pleaded. She held her breath as his eyes travelled across her features. She felt him relent a little.

Struggling against him was pointless. At the realisation, Francesca stood still. She looked at him face-on in surrendered defiance.

His expression changed again. “You’re mine,” he said, his black eyes boring into hers as his mood intensified. Francesca caught a short husky breath. Only wit would save her now.

“Oh yeah? Prove it,” the girl goaded, her own green eyes sparkling with delight as she prepared to escape his capture and join her friends.

Nicholas met her challenge. In one swift movement he released her hands and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss that left her breathless.

“Francesca! Where are you? Ring the bell! Ring the bell!” Mel cried from a distant place.

Francesca awoke with a start, temporarily disorientated, as the tolling bell called from her cell phone.

“Pronto? Salucci.” She cleared a sleepy throat.

“It’s Johnno. We have a floater. Pick you up in twenty.” Her work partner’s voice slurred with sleep and he coughed to clear his throat. “Your old friends are back. It’s Chi You.”

Francesca glanced at the bedside clock. 4.30am.

“I’ll be ready,” she said, flopping heavily into the pillows. She hugged at herself, wrapped in the imaginary warmth of her lover’s embrace; caught in that mysterious place between dreams and full awareness.

At the silent briskness of her small Sydney bedroom the detective sighed wearily. That dream. Haunting again, weaving within her psyche. Again commanding unwanted attention.

“Nicholas,” she whispered his name in the darkness. “Always Nicholas.”