The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,124
dragged out, another. Then just as Clay thought she would freeze up altogether, she blurted out in choppy Greek, ‘He wants me to water his plants while he is away. I always do it for him.’
The man laughed. ‘I’m sure you do.’
Katia crisped her lips. ‘Pig,’ she hissed. ‘One of D’s men. He … he does things to me. D lets him. As payment.’
Clay put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Okay, Katia, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to call the boy. Tell him you’re going to make him something in the kitchen. A treat. We’re going to try to get out of here without anyone getting hurt.’
She nodded, smoothed her skirt, wiped her eyes.
‘Alexi,’ she called out. ‘Would you like some ice cream?’
‘What?’ came the man’s voice.
‘Can he have ice cream with me?’
‘Bring me some too,’ called the man again.
‘Go to the kitchen,’ murmured Clay. ‘Start getting out the stuff. Then call the kid.’
‘What if he comes out?’ Her voice was shaking.
Clay could see the bruises under her makeup now, felt the anger rising in him, the burning shame, too, coming hard and bloodstained and stomach-emptying. He doubled over, put his head to his knees. His heart was loping. He gulped for air, fought it back. When he looked up again, Katia was staring at him, terror in her eyes.
‘Go,’ he said.
Katia pushed herself forward, tottering on her heels. Clay moved to the corner of the hall. From there he could see all of the apartment’s main room, the open kitchen to his right, the door to the bedroom. Katia reached the kitchen, opened the freezer, banged the ice cream container down onto the counter.
‘Alexi,’ she called out. ‘Ice cream.’
The bedroom door clicked. The sound of Greek TV. Clay took a step back, flattened himself against the wall, the Beretta’s Braille grip familiar as a recurring nightmare. He watched Katia. She smiled towards the bedroom door. Then the tacky peel of bare feet on tile. Little steps. The feet moving in an irregular shuffle, a limp. The boy.
Katia stood there with the spoon in one hand and a bowl in the other, her eyes flicking from the boy to Clay and back again, and he saw, in the harsh kitchen light, her hand and the spoon and the ice cream dripping white onto the black granite counter top.
‘Where’s my fucking ice cream?’ yelled the man, voice louder now that the door was open.
‘Coming,’ said Katia, staring right at Clay, eyes wide like a terrified animal.
The boy was in the middle of the main room now, about three metres away. Clay could see the back of his head, the dark curly hair, the way he swung his left leg slowly forward without bending the knee, overbalancing on the right. Clay glanced around the corner towards the bedroom. Just the television light strobing on the far wall. He pocketed the gun and stepped towards the boy.
The boy heard him coming and twisted at the waist just as Clay reached him. His face was bruised, eyes mere slits cut in the swollen purple flesh. His lower lip was three times its normal size, split and oozing blood. Clay clamped his hand over the boy’s mouth just as it opened, muffling a scream, scooped him up under the knees with his stump arm. The boy was struggling, wriggling and flapping like a landed fish, strong. Clay squeezed him hard, looked at Katia. ‘Let’s go,’ he mouthed.
Katia dropped the spoon into the bowl, started walking.
‘What’s going on out there?’ the man’s voice again.
‘Sorry, just dropped something,’ said Katia.
Clay was at the door now. The boy had stopped struggling, lay panting through his nose in Clay’s arms.
Clay put his mouth close to the boy’s ear. ‘Your mother sent me to get you, Alexi,’ he whispered in English. ‘You’re safe. We’re going now.’
The boy went limp in his arms as the fear fled.
Katia was beside them now. She opened the door, trying to be quiet, but she rushed and the bolt slid back with a loud click.
‘What’s going on, Katia?’ the man shouted from the bedroom.
Clay pushed Katia out into the corridor, started guiding her towards the fire escape at the end of the corridor. More shouting from inside the apartment. They were about halfway to the stairs when the fire door swung open. A man burst into the corridor, back turned.
Clay swung the kid under his left arm, started reaching for his gun. The man pivoted, faced them. It was Crowbar.