Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [69]
Just then an explosion shook the entire building, slamming both Hector and Miñana against the floor. Grabbing the bars kept Charlie upright.
Drummond plucked him away, flinging them both toward the corner of the cell near the cots. They landed on their knees. Drummond pressed a pillow over the back of Charlie’s head, guided him into a crouch, then reached up, snaring the other pillow and placing it behind his own head—all of this was done in about a second and as naturally as if Drummond had been zipping his fly.
“Grenade?” Hector shouted to Miñana.
The guard gave no indication of having heard Hector, likely due to a near-deafening onslaught of machine-gun fire. Hurrying to his feet and waving for Hector to follow, he ran for the stairwell.
The barrage continued, darkening the air with dust and loosened mold. Individual bullets ricocheted, shattering glass or ringing against metal fixtures and furnishings. After about a minute, the gunfire dwindled to sporadic pops. Finally the building’s familiar silence returned, followed by the sound of somebody running up the stairs—somebody new, judging by the squeal of rubber-soled shoes.
The smog parted, revealing Bream standing outside Charlie and Drummond’s cell. Dust whitened the pilot’s hair and coated his face, except where blood dripped down. He carried an assault rifle, his pants pockets bulged with fresh mags, additional guns protruded from his waistband, and grenades dangled from his belt along with a sheathed knife almost as big as a machete.
“I had to whack an attractive lady from the CIA in the head with a teakettle to get out here, but otherwise you fellas did well in getting thrown in this clink,” he said. “I had no damned idea how we were going to get you off Martinique after we took care of the bomb business.”
Could this be Bream to the rescue? Charlie was at a loss.
The pilot stepped out of sight. The cell’s front wall slid open with a resounding clank. Reappearing, Bream grumbled. “Course, now we gotta get off this island.”
“Thank you, J. T.,” said Drummond, exiting the cell.
“My pleasure.” Bream drew one of the pistols from his waistband.
Charlie was too far away to do anything more than watch in horror: Had Bream decided that Drummond was now expendable? Drummond, for his part, barely registered the pistol.
“Either of you got a preference for the Glock 17?” Bream asked.
“I do.” Drummond claimed the stout black pistol as if slipping on a glove. He racked the slide, inspected the chamber, hit a button ejecting the clip, and studied its contents. Satisfied, he rammed it home, checked the safety, and found a comfortable grip. “Nice.”
“Fly me, you do get some frills,” Bream said.
He offered Charlie a rugged gray pistol, a Sig Sauer. Charlie happily accepted, though in his estimation his skill as a marksman was limited to hitting a target directly in front of him. If the target was large and stationary.
He followed Bream and Drummond to the stairs, imitating the way they led with their guns, as if lighting the way.
At the lower landing, Bream sidestepped the crimson pool surrounding Miñana. “I got this guy and Ricky-Ricardo-on-Steroids on their way down from the cellblock. The other guard was dead on my arrival. Who else have y’all seen since you’ve been here?”
“We heard there was a maintenance man.” Charlie tried to avoid looking at the dead man.
“Yeah. Overalls. Him and a ponytailed version of Ricky Ricardo and another thug were loading the washing machine onto a cig boat when I puttered up. They dropped what they were doing and started shooting at me. I had to fire blind.” Bream pantomimed ducking beneath his boat’s gunwale and firing without looking. “I got lucky,” he concluded with false modesty.
Sticking his gun out ahead of him, he hugged the doorframe, then darted out of the stairwell.
“We’re good for now,” he called back.
Drummond exited with catlike movements similar to Bream’s. Charlie brought up the rear, clumsily, slipping off the short step down from the landing to the