blockade the yacht and storm the house, the director doesn’t think it’s going to be enough. We need to find the real escape route. And you’re the only asset we have for that.”
The only man who could do the job. And he was slowly bleeding to death, concussed, most likely about to go into shock. This job kept getting better and better.
“All right, Angel, let’s talk about what I need to do that. Do you have floor plans for this house? And I’ll need a rundown on everyone here, how many guards there are likely to be, what kind of weaponry they carry, their locations if you can—”
He stopped because he was sure he’d heard something.
“Chapel?” Angel asked.
“Gotta go,” Chapel told her, and hung up the phone.
He had definitely heard people in the hall outside the kitchen—a lot of them, and their footsteps were getting closer.
16.
H e could hear their voices out in the hall. At least three men, and from the noise they were making, probably more. They were arguing, trying to come up with a plan for how to take the kitchen. They didn’t know Chapel was all but defenseless, and they didn’t want to just come racing into an ambush. At least somebody out there had half a brain, and that was a problem as far as Chapel was concerned.
He moved as far back from the door to the hall as he could get. He scanned the kitchen, looking for defensive positions, and saw that the counter was the best cover he would get. Not that it would make much difference. Unarmed as he was he could only hide, and that would only buy him a few seconds. He looked around for weapons, and found plenty of them—an entire block of sharp kitchen knives, a cleaver, even a rolling pin that would make a good club.
The men coming for him would have guns. There was no question about that.
He grabbed a good long carving knife anyway—he refused to go down without a fight. As he was reaching for it he saw there was a third door in the kitchen, partially hidden in an alcove. It looked like it led further into the house. He rushed over and pulled it open and found a dark stairway leading down into a cellar.
Except in the case of an artillery barrage, going underground was rarely a good idea when you were trying to evade capture. It was unlikely there would be any other exits from the cellar, so he would just be backing himself into a corner. And the cellar door would be the first place his pursuers looked after they stormed the kitchen and found it deserted.
There comes a time, however, in any operation, when you realize you’re out of options. Chapel had definitely reached that point. He hurried down the cellar stairs, trying not to make too much noise about it. Instantly he was plunged into darkness so profound he couldn’t see his artificial hand in front of his face. Taking just enough care to make sure he didn’t fall and break his neck, he dashed to the bottom of the stairs and tried to think of what to do next.
The cellar wasn’t completely lightless. A little bit of light from outside streamed in through a narrow window at the far end—just enough for Chapel to make out basic shapes. He saw rows of shelves, all of them laden down with things he couldn’t identify. He saw what looked like a workbench, covered in what he imagined were probably power tools. Nearly half the basement, though, was crammed full of big boxy shapes that were the right size for shipping crates. There were several dozen of them and they stood in towering stacks, some five and six high, and if you crawled in between them they would make an excellent, if rudimentary, maze.
The cellar door burst open even as Chapel was feeling his way over to the crates. Light burst down from above, blinding him again—a situation that only got worse when someone switched on the overhead lights.
Scurrying like a rat, Chapel shoved himself in between some of the crates, worming his way into the maze while making as little sound as he dared.
The
The only man who could do the job. And he was slowly bleeding to death, concussed, most likely about to go into shock. This job kept getting better and better.
“All right, Angel, let’s talk about what I need to do that. Do you have floor plans for this house? And I’ll need a rundown on everyone here, how many guards there are likely to be, what kind of weaponry they carry, their locations if you can—”
He stopped because he was sure he’d heard something.
“Chapel?” Angel asked.
“Gotta go,” Chapel told her, and hung up the phone.
He had definitely heard people in the hall outside the kitchen—a lot of them, and their footsteps were getting closer.
16.
H e could hear their voices out in the hall. At least three men, and from the noise they were making, probably more. They were arguing, trying to come up with a plan for how to take the kitchen. They didn’t know Chapel was all but defenseless, and they didn’t want to just come racing into an ambush. At least somebody out there had half a brain, and that was a problem as far as Chapel was concerned.
He moved as far back from the door to the hall as he could get. He scanned the kitchen, looking for defensive positions, and saw that the counter was the best cover he would get. Not that it would make much difference. Unarmed as he was he could only hide, and that would only buy him a few seconds. He looked around for weapons, and found plenty of them—an entire block of sharp kitchen knives, a cleaver, even a rolling pin that would make a good club.
The men coming for him would have guns. There was no question about that.
He grabbed a good long carving knife anyway—he refused to go down without a fight. As he was reaching for it he saw there was a third door in the kitchen, partially hidden in an alcove. It looked like it led further into the house. He rushed over and pulled it open and found a dark stairway leading down into a cellar.
Except in the case of an artillery barrage, going underground was rarely a good idea when you were trying to evade capture. It was unlikely there would be any other exits from the cellar, so he would just be backing himself into a corner. And the cellar door would be the first place his pursuers looked after they stormed the kitchen and found it deserted.
There comes a time, however, in any operation, when you realize you’re out of options. Chapel had definitely reached that point. He hurried down the cellar stairs, trying not to make too much noise about it. Instantly he was plunged into darkness so profound he couldn’t see his artificial hand in front of his face. Taking just enough care to make sure he didn’t fall and break his neck, he dashed to the bottom of the stairs and tried to think of what to do next.
The cellar wasn’t completely lightless. A little bit of light from outside streamed in through a narrow window at the far end—just enough for Chapel to make out basic shapes. He saw rows of shelves, all of them laden down with things he couldn’t identify. He saw what looked like a workbench, covered in what he imagined were probably power tools. Nearly half the basement, though, was crammed full of big boxy shapes that were the right size for shipping crates. There were several dozen of them and they stood in towering stacks, some five and six high, and if you crawled in between them they would make an excellent, if rudimentary, maze.
The cellar door burst open even as Chapel was feeling his way over to the crates. Light burst down from above, blinding him again—a situation that only got worse when someone switched on the overhead lights.
Scurrying like a rat, Chapel shoved himself in between some of the crates, worming his way into the maze while making as little sound as he dared.
The
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