Page 26 of The Valiant (Spy Girl 4)
It's not.
"I told you, I don't know that man from the bar. We literally just met. I was tipsy and walked into the wrong party."
"Yeah, sure ya did," he says. This man sounds like he's an American.
I can hear the rev of the motorcycle as it gets close to us again. The man on my left turns all the way around, tells me to duck, and gets what I assume is one of the automatic weapons out of the back.
"I'll take care of this asshole once and for all," he says.
I know, based on his body movement, that he's putting the rifle out the window, ready to take aim.
When the driver makes a sharp right, I purposefully flail my side into the shooter, but I'm too late.
"Target down," he says, pulling the gun inside. "We're clear."
The second the words come out of his mouth, the siren that has been wailing in the distance is upon us, causing the driver to swerve wildly as he races down the street.
"Red light!" the passenger yells out seconds before we are hit from the side, causing the vehicle to skid sideways. But it doesn't stop us.
It's obvious, based on the tactical maneuvers the driver is making, that the police are hot on his tail.
"Take them out!" the driver yells in accented English. "I can't shake them."
The men on both sides of me turn around. I hear them shoot out the back window as they fire away.
There's a loud bang, a whoosh, and what sounds like a car rolling across the pavement before it comes to a creaky halt.
More shots are fired in both directions before there are the sounds of tires screeching. A quick turn sends me flying across the seat as we enter a darker area, make seven tight corners, and then emerge back into the light.
"We're clear," the driver says. "Making our way to the drop point."
Getting to the drop takes about twelve minutes, during which no one says a word; we're presumably on a highway, as we drive straight the entire time.
Soon, we turn onto a crunching gravel road, making our way up a long, gently curving drive.
When we come to a stop, the driver says, "Boss man isn't going to be happy we lost the target."
"We got the girl and the backpacks. Hopefully, it's enough," the man on my right says as he tightly grips my arm and pulls me out of the vehicle.
I'm escorted indoors--well, shoved is a better way to describe it. These men are in bad moods. The good news is that the other gunmen are already here, meaning the bombs are all in one place. The bad news is, they just bound my wrists.
"What is this?" a man's voice bellows.
He has an authoritative tone, so I'm guessing he's in charge. The room they've brought me into is light-filled and spacious based on the echo.
I'm dragged forward, and the hood is ripped off with such force, it thrusts my head backward. When it bounces back into place, I see that I am standing in an ornate room in what appears to be a large mansion, staring at none other than Marquis Dupree.
Holy crap.
It's easy to pretend to be distressed in this situation, and I'm sure my fake crying in combination with the hood have messed up my perfectly applied makeup. A swollen cheek and numerous cuts and bruises highlight the tumultuous drive here.
"The mission didn't go exactly as planned, sir," one of the gunmen says, "but we reacted quickly, retrieved the backpacks, and took out Worthington's team. Unfortunately, the target escaped. We brought his girlfriend instead."
"I'm not his girlfriend," I stress. "I keep trying to tell them that."
"Silence her," Dupree says while I run kill scenarios and success rates through my head.
Fortunately, ordering me to be silenced doesn't mean shooting me. The man wraps his arm around me while slapping his hand across my face and shoving his gun into my back.
All eight gunmen are present in the room along with Marquis Dupree and me. Each gunman has an automatic rifle slung casually over his shoulder and a pistol holstered on his hip. If the men weren't armed, escape would be possible, but right now, this is a no-win situation.
"She's probably just a prostitute," the man with his gun in my back says.
"She must be a well-paid one. She had a Black card and ten thousand euros in her bag. Even her name sounds ritzy. Huntley Von Allister."
I recognize the man's voice from the drive here. Obviously, he must have picked up my purse, which I dropped on the way down the stairs in an attempt to leave some kind of breadcrumb trail.
"What did you say?" Marquis Dupree asks incredulously as he stands up and shoots the man who joked about my name in the head along with the one standing next to him, laughing.
The good news is, this ups my odds of survival.
"Do I know you?" I ask Dupree.
He closely studies me more. "What is your brother's name?"
"His name is Aristotle Allister Bradford--Von Allister technically."
Marquis Dupree squeezes his eyes shut and balls up his fist, looking completely pissed off. "What were you thinking? Idiots!" he yells, shooting another man, still shaking his head as he drops dead to the floor.
One thing is certain; Dupree is a crack shot.
"Why did you take her?" he asks one of his remaining men.
"Because she was with Worthington. When he escaped, we thought we could use her as leverage."
Dupree moves out from behind his desk and stalks toward me, placing his still-smoking gun against my temple. He gets in my face, spitting as he speaks, "Why were you with Worthington? And I suggest you think very carefully about your answer."
"I was at the pub for Wesley Windsor's birthday party. I had too much champagne ... because, because"--I start to cry--"Lorenzo is going to marry Lizzie!" The man gives me a confused look, so I keep rambling, "And I went to the bathroom, and when I came back out, I think I got confused and went to the wrong party room. And then I started crying when I realized I was in the wrong room, but the man whose party it was, was nice to me. He told me I was pretty and gave me some vodka. But, when the men with guns came in, he pushed me down and ran behind the bar."
"You are fools," Dupree says, shooting two more of his men before shoving the gun back against me.
The man has killed more than half of his team and hasn't even broken a sweat. The amazing thing is, the other men, who should be running from the room or firing back, haven't moved a muscle. This indicates that their boss is not only ruthless, but also has a long reach if crossed.
Dupree chuckles and shrugs a shoulder at me. "Good help is hard to find."
"I didn't know you could just shoot them when they were dumb. I'm new to the whole having-lots-of-money thing."
My comments make Dupree let out a genuine laugh as he points toward the corner of the room where I spy the eight backpacks lined up across the floor.
"Do you know what those are?" he asks.
Even though he's casually speaking to me, he still has the gun firmly planted against my head, and I know, if I say the wrong thing, I'll be dead. He's already proven his willingness to pull the trigger.
Part of me wants to play dumb, but I decide to go with the truth, hoping what I say will anger him and make him kill more of his men.
"I heard them talking when they were unloading the truck. They were telling each other to be careful with the nukes. Even though I was scared to death, it made me laugh because we had just been in a shoot-out with someone on a motorcycle and then chased by the police."
I get the reaction I was hoping for. Dupree pulls the gun from my head and saunters over to the driver of the vehicle I was riding in.
"Why was I not told of this? You could have led the authorities here!"
"We got away clean, sir," he says, clicking his boots together and standing straight, as if he were in the military.
Dupree responds by shooting him as well. Obviously, these men are disposable to him.
Dupree is using a Glock 19 Gen4 Pistol. You would think the nineteen referred to the number of rounds it holds, but in reality, it refers to the
order in which the gun was patented. This magazine holds fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. Since he's fired just six times, he still has ten rounds left.
"Did you steal those bombs?" I ask, bringing Dupree's attention back to me.
"I had a contract to purchase them, but Worthington got a higher offer and was going to renege."
"You should probably be more careful with who you deal with," I quip.
"And you should probably be more careful with whose parties you crash," he replies.
"I don't suppose you stole the bombs to keep them out of the hands of terrorists and are going to turn them over to the authorities."
Dupree laughs, causing me to sigh.
"You're going to kill me, right? Just like you did with your men?"
"Allow me to introduce myself," he says, waving his gun at me. "I am Marquis Dupree, and I knew your father. He knew how to keep a secret. Do you?"
"Marquis Dupree. I know your name. You donate millions to children's charities. Your foundation recently gifted funds to the Von Allister Fund Against Human Trafficking. Even if I told someone about the bombs, let's face it; no one would believe me. Are you a bad man?"
"History will be the judge of that," he says.
"Are you going to blow up London?"
