Page 85 of Emerald

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24

Ivan

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.

Ernest Hemingway

When the lights cut out, I have a split-second advantage, because I’m the only person in the room who was anticipating it.

In a high-tech, modern house like Remizov’s, the security system, the lights, the music, and the power all run off a single grid, controlled remotely.

I had no idea if Zima would be able to hack into that system. But it was the only idea I could come up with on short notice.

And of course, I couldn’t exactly time when the lights would go out. But I was waiting for it. Hoping for it.

The moment the room plunges into darkness, I dive for the legs of the guard closest to me. He goes down hard, and I scramble for the gun at his waist. Before I can get hold of it, someone grabs my feet from behind, jerking me backward.

At the same moment, I hear a thunk, and the sound of a heavy body dropping next to me. For a second I think the other two guards must have gotten confused and attacked each other, but then I hear Sloane struggling with Remizov across the room, and I realize what actually happened—she threw something at one of the guards.

Instead of taking her chance to run or to attack Remizov, she tried to help me instead. She knew I was outnumbered—she helped shift the odds in my favor.

I kick backward hard against whoever has hold of my legs. I hear a grunt of pain as my heel connects with their face. From the sound of it, I think it’s the smirking asshole who shoulder-checked me at the door.

I feel hands grasping at me from the other side, and I start punching and pummeling the first guard I tackled before he can pull his gun from his belt.

The smirking guard jumps on my back, and we’re all rolling around in a maelstrom of fist and elbows.

Here, too, I have an unexpected factor in my favor—I can kick and hit and gouge anybody I can get my hands on. But in the darkness, the two guards have no idea who they’re striking. They’re hitting each other as much as they’re getting me, and their confusion and frustration is making them ineffective.

With a roar of rage, the larger of the two, the smirking guard, starts swinging haymakers. His sledgehammer fist connects with his colleague’s jaw, and the man collapses on top of me. I feel his gun trapped between our bodies, and I try to wrench it out of his belt while the other guard is scrabbling at my throat, his fingernails clawing at my skin, before he finally gets purchase and starts to choke me.

The limp body of the unconscious guard is pinning me down. The other man, abominably strong, is digging his iron-hard fingers into my neck.

“Now I’ve got you, you fuck,” he grunts, his face so close that I can feel his spit on my face.

My fingers are tugging at the holster, trying to free the handgun trapped beneath the dead weight of the other guard. My head is swimming. If I could see anything, the room would be spinning around.

I yank the gun free at last.

I can’t see it, of course, but from the feel of it, I think it’s a Glock. Which means there’s no safety to release, just a trigger safety.

I put my finger in the correct position, point the gun right at the smirking guard, and fire three times.

He lets go of my throat, jerking backward. I don’t know if all three shots hit him, but I think at least two did. He thrashes around for a minute, then falls still.

In the insanity of the fight, I couldn’t hear what happened to Sloane.

All I know is she’s not in the room anymore. It’s dead silent, other than my own labored breathing.

I don’t think she and Remizov passed me—which means there must be a back door out of the dining room.

I’m about to feel my way in that direction when I remember that one of the guards, the one that Sloane hit, was wearing an AR slung over his shoulder.

I feel around on the floor, looking for his body. My hand comes down in a wet patch first, what I think must be blood, until I smell the fermented scent of the wine, and feel the bottle tipped over on its side. That must be what Sloane threw. I find the guard’s body next, slumped over close to the table. He’s still breathing, but he’s going to have a hell of a hangover from that wine.

I get his rifle, slinging it over my own shoulder instead. Then I try to find my way to the back exit, following the table the length of the room, and then feeling along the wall until I find the doorknob.

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