Mission road - By Rick Riordan Page 0,75
hands.”
• • •
THEY LEFT THE HOSPITAL TOGETHER. HERNANDEZ was calm. Way too calm. He made no attempt to run or yell for help.
When they got to Maia’s BMW, he took the wheel without complaint. Maia got in the passenger’s seat and took out her gun. Second time in one weekend, she thought grimly, that she’d had a hostage chauffeur.
She doubted Hernandez would remain compliant once she told him they were going to the White mansion.
She was about to give him his driving directions when her phone rang.
The sound distracted her only for a second, but that was enough. Morning sickness dulled her reflexes. Before she knew what was happening, Hernandez had wrenched the gun out of her hand and was pressing the muzzle under her jaw.
The phone kept ringing.
Maia sat perfectly still, her heart pounding.
“Change of plans, Miss Lee,” Hernandez said. “You’ll be driving. This is going to end where it began.”
Without taking his eyes off her, he managed to find her purse and fish out the phone. He answered it on the fifth ring.
“Mr. Navarre,” he said. “What a surprise.”
AFTER THE CALL, I DIDN’T CARE MUCH ABOUT THE KITCHEN burning around me, or the men with guns outside. All I cared about was getting out, getting to Maia.
“Twenty minutes?” Ralph cursed Etch Hernandez with Spanish epithets even I had never heard. “That’s impossible, vato.”
“Bigger fire,” I advised.
We splashed more brandy, piled on grocery bags and washrags and cardboard boxes, and in no time we had a nice blaze going along the back wall. Soon the curtains and the back door were in flames.
Ralph smashed out a window with his baseball bat. He threw a Molotov cocktail toward the driveway and was rewarded with a loud BA-ROOM and some surprised yelps from the men outside.
“The kitchen’s on fire!” one of them yelled.
Full points for powers of observation.
They banged on the back door, found it too hot to touch.
“Around to the front!” somebody yelled.
Perfect.
The guys on the interior door hammered away with newfound zeal. The refrigerator rattled and rocked.
“Another few seconds,” Ralph said.
“Smoke,” I warned. “No time.”
I could barely see. Forget breathing.
Ralph climbed onto the kitchen sink. He kicked open the only window that wasn’t in flames and jumped. I was right behind him.
The diversion almost worked. At least, there was no one waiting to shoot us as we crashed through a pomegranate bush and tumbled onto the back lawn.
We wove between banquet tables, trying to avoid broken champagne glasses and soggy paper plates of leftover food.
We were just passing the pavilion tent, about halfway to the woods, when Alex Cole yelled, “Freeze!”
He had anticipated our plan well enough to position himself on the back veranda of the house. He’d exchanged his Krispy Kreme doughnuts for an automatic assault rifle. Even from halfway across the yard, I was pretty sure a full clip would turn us into Swiss cheese.
Ralph dropped his baseball bat. I lowered my gun. I couldn’t bring myself to drop it. Not yet.
Alex smiled. He should’ve shot us immediately, but he was too busy enjoying the moment, surveying us as if we were two more fixtures on the estate that would soon be his.
“Come on over,” he called amiably. “Let’s talk.”
Smoke boiled from the kitchen windows, making a black twister that stretched into the winter sky.
Behind Alex, the glass doors opened. Two mobsters wheeled out a very annoyed-looking Guy White in a hospital chair. Madeleine stood behind him, still in her painting clothes, still looking stunned.
I called, “Good morning, Mr. White.”
Alex turned involuntarily.
Mr. White snapped, “Watch them, you idiot!”
That moment of surprise was all we needed. Ralph and I dove through the doorway of the pavilion tent and hit the ground as the assault rifle opened fire, ripping through the cloth sides of the tent, shattering punch bowls and glasses.
The firing stopped.
My ears were ringing, but, miraculously, Ralph and I both seemed to be unharmed.
Mr. White was wheezing, “—thousand-dollar rental tent! Put that damn rifle away!”
Alex: “But—”
“Go get them, you idiot! Madeleine, you, too!”
Ralph and I were surrounded by broken glass ornaments and smashed finger sandwiches. Red punch made a waterfall off the edges of the tablecloth.
“Go out the back,” Ralph told me. “I’ll distract them.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“Vato, you got to get to Maia—”
“No, Ralph. We leave together. Come on.”
I didn’t wait for an argument. I ran for the back exit, but before we could bust through, the tent flap opened. I found myself staring down the barrel of Madeleine White’s pistol.
“Drop it,” she said.
I couldn’t think of