Page 56 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

I EDGE CLOSER TO THE OPENING into the living room.

I can’t help myself. Of all our traps, this one worries me the most. A snake as big as Marge, most people are going to jump and run from as fast as possible.

Pythons as tiny as the babies, fling away and dance in the other direction.

No reptiles harmed in the line of duty. But Petunia, if she does what she’s capable of doing…

We hear it the moment the first trip wire is snagged.

Followed by what is definitely a curse in any language.

Odor hits next. Earthy and pulpy, with top notes of banana and orange. Second trip wire.

“Fu…”

A bucket of fresh apple peels joins the produce buffet dumping over Habib’s head and shoulders. Iguanas have a highly developed sense of smell and are attracted to the scent of food, including most fruits and vegetables.

Sure enough, there’s the clackety-clack as Petunia goes scurrying across the tiled floor in search of this late-night treat.

A low muffled moan of horror echoes through the space, followed by a sharp: “Let go let go let go,” cursing cursing cursing. “Let go!”

I simultaneously beg Petunia to release whatever ankle, leg, or hand she has her teeth sunk into, while praying for Daryl to appear. Or Roberta. What’s keeping them?

Then, the solid thwack of flesh hitting living flesh, three times in quick succession.

As if someone’s trying to kick or punch a solidly built iguana away.

Now I want to kill Habib myself.

Clackety-clack, swish-swish. Petunia, beating a hasty retreat, hopefully with some prized piece of fruit or possibly a human finger in her mouth. I vote for a finger. Or a testicle.

I quickly withdraw. This is it.

I round the island to position myself with Sabera behind me, both of us tucked up against the granite counter for support.

Hoping for Daryl and Roberta to appear. And then…

Habib half stumbles into the kitchen, his shoulders covered in orange peels, his shoes dragging banana skin. Blood drips down his left hand, and there’s a crazed look in his eyes.

But that doesn’t keep him from smiling in triumph as he staggers to a halt in front of us.

And we get our first unpleasant surprise for the night.

Habib hasn’t come alone.

He’s dragged a bound and gagged Aliah, who appears absolutely terrified, behind him.

Now he jerks her in front of him, then in one fluid movement jabs a sinister-looking curved dagger against her throat. Long and slender, with a vicious edge, this isn’t a discarded steak knife. This is the real deal.

Aliah makes more muffled noises behind her gag. Her eyes bore into ours, her initial fear starting to give way to rage. Run , I can see it in her face. Or maybe it’s kill the bastard .

But we stand perfectly still as Habib presses the razor-sharp weapon against her skin and delicately carves a gleaming line of red.

His threat is clear enough. If he so much as sneezes, she’s dead. Which leaves Sabera and me rooted in place, just as Daryl finally looms in the doorway, only to immediately draw up short.

For a minute, we stand in silence, a perfect tableau of pending doom.

Finally, Habib laughs harshly. “All right, cousin, this is it. The key. You will write down everything, or I will start slicing up your friend piece by bloody piece.”

Come on , I mentally will Roberta to appear, or perhaps my Hail Mary backup plan.

But nothing.

We gambled.

We lost.

And now we face the consequence.

“I… I NEED PAPER ,” Sabera manages finally. “A large sheet. To draw the map.”

I don’t know of any map, just magic squares, but I do recognize stall tactics when I hear them.

I leave her side, rounding the island to start scrabbling through kitchen drawers, making a show of searching for pen and paper.

Honestly, I have no idea where Genni keeps her art supplies.

Mostly I’m praying I’ll come across something useful, except I’m so rattled, I can’t fathom what that might be.

“What happened in the warehouse?” I ask now, trying to keep Habib talking.

Distract him. Possibly open up a window of opportunity for Daryl to pounce.

At the moment, there’s no way he can ambush Habib without leading to Aliah’s slit throat.

“I mean two of your teammates, pulverized to death by a math professor? While his wife escapes? Not exactly a good showing on your part.”

“I wasn’t there! We’d left Rafiq and Ahmad in charge. They paid for their mistake.”

The way he says the words…

I pause, glance up at him. “Isaad didn’t kill them?”

“Isaad gave them a tap or two. My compatriots, on the other hand, when confronted by their failure…” Habib shrugs. “Rafiq and Ahmad were Hazaras. They should’ve known it would end badly.”

I feel slightly ill, especially given the casualness of Habib’s delivery.

Just another day in the life of ethnic cleansing.

I open a fresh drawer, discover whisks of every conceivable size.

I know you’re not supposed to bring a knife to a gun fight, but what about a whisk to a knife fight?

My entire head hurts. From major concussion to this. I might black out after all.

Except I can’t.

“Isaad was too slow. We caught him just a few blocks away.” Another careless shrug. “I honor the man’s courage. No matter what we did… he would not reveal your secrets, Sabera. Pity for him. They were not easy on him, as I have experienced myself.”

There’s an edge to his voice at the end. According to Sabera, the Taliban had tortured Habib first, before he sold her out in order to save his own skin. Now he’s apparently grown comfortable with the business of death. Or perhaps just inured to violence.

“You would aid such people, Habib?” Sabera asks harshly. “They destroyed our country. Murdered our family.”

“My father had a plan! You betrayed him. His blood is on your hands.”

“And now my husband’s blood is on your hands. Are we even? How many more lives must you destroy? You know they will only kill you in the end, just as they did Rafiq.”

“Surely you know by now, dear cousin, that I don’t die that easily.”

“I had squeezed the final breath from your lungs!” Sabera cried.

“My last sight was your bitch-whore face looming over me. My next, the bright glare of a hospital room. It is not for me to question the will of God.”

Sabera looks like she wants to scream in frustration. I hastily open a fourth drawer. Graters. Again, in a full range of sizes. What the hell does Genni do in this kitchen?

“The information I possess has no value. I explained this before. Two halves of one whole. You heard my mother say that our entire childhood. Without Farshid, I know only one piece. Deliver such useless results to your compatriots, and your fate will be even worse than Rafiq’s.”

“I don’t care about mineral mines,” Habib grits out. “I want the gold. The piles you stole from my father and his friends. I know you know where it is—you’re the one who moved it.”

“As you wish. I’ll draw the map. You’ll deliver it. Then you’ll die.” Sabera’s turn for a careless shrug.

“Perhaps I’ll take a page from your mother’s book and keep half of the information to myself,” Habib counters. “They will have to bring me along.”

“Torture you for it, most likely. You still think you’re so clever. No.” Sabera waves a dismissive hand. “You are as stupid as ever, cousin.”

Habib hisses in a sharp breath.

I pause, momentarily stunned. What the hell is she doing, antagonizing the homicidal maniac? Then I get it. She’s distracting the homicidal maniac, drawing him back into the tit-for-tat patterns of their childhood.

Even now, Habib gestures at her with his right hand, knife momentarily pulled away from Aliah’s throat and directed at Sabera instead.

Daryl doesn’t need a second invitation. With a roar, he explodes forward, catching Habib hard in the shoulder and spinning him around.

Habib doesn’t have a second to get his bearings before Daryl has both arms wrapped tightly around the man’s torso in a massive bear hug, pinning Habib’s arms in place as he squeezes.

Aliah stumbles back. I catch her elbow, pulling her behind the kitchen island with me. One of the drawers had kitchen shears. I grab them, snipping quickly at her bindings as Habib begins to gasp.

He butts his head back, catching Daryl in the face. The big man’s nose gushes blood, but he merely grunts, continues crushing.

Habib tries to twist and kick his way out of it. His hand, down by his side, jabs at Daryl’s leg with the wicked blade, but his movements are too constrained to inflict any real damage.

Sabera has moved forward. She’s staring at her thrashing cousin with the most intense look on her face.

“This is for Isaad,” she states clearly, then drives her steak knife into Habib’s side, four times in quick succession, as fast and lethal as any prison shanking.

Habib looks at her wide-eyed. His body grows slack. He mumbles something, a whisper so low I can’t make it out. It must not be a request for forgiveness, as in response, Sabera spits in his face.

And then…

Daryl slowly lowers the man’s body to the kitchen floor. We’re all breathing hard, clearly stunned.

This is it? We did it? We have Aliah, we have Sabera, now we can get Zahra and—

“Sorry,” Daryl murmurs. “I thought I saw movement near the pool house, went to check it out.” Then, frowning: “Where’s Roberta?”

I gaze at him, and, in the next instant, realize our second unfortunate surprise of the evening. We assumed Aliah was being held somewhere else. But Aliah is right here. Meaning the other two captors didn’t have to stay back. They must be here, too, somewhere on the grounds.

Which Roberta was going to quickly cover before making her own appearance. Except she hasn’t appeared. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

I’m just opening my mouth to warn Daryl…

The glass sliders explode. Another pump of a shotgun. Second explosion, this one taking out the chandelier overhead.

I fling my arms over my head as the ceiling rains down pebble-sized shards. Aliah collapses beside me. A scream from the other side of the island—Sabera.

I glance over to see Daryl, sprawled unconscious on the kitchen floor. There’s blood everywhere.

I have one thought: Habib’s knife. If I could just grab it for protection…

Then a dark-bearded man appears, blocking my view of Daryl as he leers at me from the end of the island.

He holds up Habib’s curved dagger. He smiles.

In his black gaze, I see a dozen different kinds of hell.

And his gleeful anticipation of inflecting each and every one.