There was shooting outside automatic weapons, rifles, handguns. Men screamed.

There was shooting from inside as well. The guards beyond the door had stopped their pounding. As the siren's shriek persisted, gunshots deafened him. Bullets splintered the door.

"They'll shoot the lock off!" Houston shouted. "Through the window! It's our only chance!" He frowned. "But something's happening outside!"

He heard more shots beyond the door. But these were different, quicker, louder stuttered cracks from automatic weapons in the hallway. "What is it?"

Houston said.

He couldn't think. He had to save Simone, to bring her to the window, get her out of here. She'd lost control. She moaned; her legs gave out; she sank.

He ran to her. The table blocked his way. He dodged around it.

Something jolted him, slicing his chest. He felt its sudden burning impact.

Stunned, he couldn't breathe.

The gunshot echoed through the room. He felt the sticky warmth of blood flow down his chest and soak his pants. The bullet had grazed him as he dodged around the table toward Simone.

She pointed, lips wide. His father cringed. Houston spun.

The balcony! High above the far end of the room, a grinning figure aimed a revolver. Houston saw his gold medallion. Charles!

"So you brought friends!" Charles said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"The men in camouflage! The shock troops!"

Houston understood. The specters, all in white. He heard explosions, more staccato volleys, then two distant soul-disturbing screams.

Charles aimed.

Houston shot, the silencer spitting, the recoil jerking his arm. His bullet whocked against the railing of the balcony.

Charles laughed. "A silencer isn't accurate this far away!" he said.

Precisely as Charles pulled the trigger, Houston dove. The bullet pierced the high-backed chair he hid behind. The splitting whack reverberated through the room.

Simone crouched on her hands and knees. Whimpering, she scrambled out of sight beneath the table.

Houston fumbled to unscrew the silencer. The metal burned his hand. He winced, and then the silencer was off. Chest heaving, he glanced at his father, who stood in the open. "Get down! Get under the table!" Houston said.

His father didn't seem to hear. He stumbled toward the balcony. "Put down the gun, Charles," he said.

Houston didn't hear an answer. Hiding behind the chair, he slid the clip from the automatic's handle. Empty. Trembling, he pulled back the slide on top of the gun. A bullet in the chamber. His last chance.

He peered beyond the chair.

And instantly ducked back. Charles shot, hitting the chair. The shock wave rang in Houston's ears. A splinter fell on him.

He'll shoot through the chair till he hits me. One last bullet. I can't waste it, Houston thought. He sprinted from the chair.

Charles gaped, surprised.

As Houston shot, Charles disappeared.

Lungs swollen, Houston pressed his back against the wall and stared up at the balcony projecting over him.

From outside, in the storm, he heard more screams. And from inside, in the castle's maze. Beneath him, on the other levels, automatic weapons rattled.

Houston flinched, afraid that bullets would burst up through the floor.

The siren stopped. Except for distant screams and gunfire, everything was silent.

No, not everything. The storm kept howling. Houston's ears rang. He couldn't control his strident breathing. Charles if still alive could hardly fail to hear it.

Houston heard the sc.r.a.pe of shoes. He whirled and saw his father stumbling toward this far end of the room. The old man clutched his chest in pain. His face had turned gray. He seemed more stooped, more weak and pale. His effort to take one step, then another, was alarming.

It's his heart! He's having chest pains!

His father's startled look was further evidence. A heart attack! The old man stiffened, standing straighter than seemed possible. Houston watched in horror, staring at the agony in his eyes.

Then Houston understood. The shock on his father's face came from something he had seen to Houston's left along the wall.

As Houston swung, he aimed his useless automatic, crouching to defend himself.

His brother wasn't on the balcony; he was down here facing Houston. How? The wall had no door, just tapestries and paintings. Worse, his brother wasn't wounded; Houston's shot had missed him.

"Go on," Charles said. "Pull the trigger."

Houston's heart froze. He peered helplessly at the gun.

"You're out of bullets," Charles said. "Otherwise you would have shot again."

Houston planned to throw the gun and lunge at Charles. He didn't see another way. But Charles aimed his gun, finger tensing on the trigger. Houston seemed to stand in neck-deep mud. His body wouldn't move.

"No! This must stop!"

The voice belonged to his father, who staggered forward, hands out, interceding, shielding Houston. "There's no sense! They've caught us! What's the point in killing him?"

"You d.a.m.ned old fart." Charles shot him.

Houston heard the liquid pa.s.sage of the bullet through his father. Blood spattered.

His father didn't even groan. His spastic lifeless body shuddered back toward Houston, who reflexively pushed forward, and the corpse appeared to walk, to stalk mechanically toward Charles.

In disbelief, Charles screamed. The body lurched against him, throwing him off balance. As the corpse fell, Houston charged. He braced one foot before the other, crouched, and squeezed an angry fist.

His tight-drawn knuckles struck his brother viciously across the cheek, and Houston felt with teeth-clenched satisfaction how a bone cracked in his brother's face. Now Houston's fist became a stinging fury, knuckles crushed and burning, swelling. Houston moaned. He kicked the gun from Charles' hand. He punched again. And then again.

His brother's face contorted, wrenching to one side in mispro-portion. Charles was stupefied. He stumbled back, making no attempt to ward off Houston's blows.

Pursuing his advantage, Houston swung in closer.

He discovered his mistake. His brother had merely been waiting. With a savage straight-armed thrust, Charles struck at Houston's ribcage.

Houston gagged in pain. He felt as if a plank had hurtled into him. His speeding heart skipped several beats. His knees went weak.

Through swirling vision, he watched as Charles glanced toward his handgun on the floor. Instead of reaching for it, Charles a.s.sumed a martial arts pose, legs splayed, body crouched, his fingers wriggling like a nest of agitated serpents.

"This is better," Charles said through his swollen lips. "You've ruined everything. Before I'm caught, I'll make you wish you'd gone back home." He pointed toward where Houston ma.s.saged his ribs. "Don't worry, they're not broken. That's too soon, too easy. I don't want a splintered bone to lance your lungs." Blood foamed from his lips. He swallowed. "You'll be awake for every painful second. Toward the end, you'll beg for me to kill you or at least to knock you out. I won't, though. When I let you die, you'll still be conscious, terribly aware of what I'm doing to you."

Houston's fear swept through him, cancelling his pain. He threw his gun, but Charles stepped sideways, and the gun soared past him, gouging the hardwood floor. Charles darted forward. Houston jumped on the table, vaulted past a chair, and dropped with knees bent on the other side. The jolt shot through his injured ribs and took his breath away.

Charles followed, leaping on the table, crouching like an animal.

From one distorted side of Houston's vision, he saw Simone crawl from beneath the table, running to avoid them toward the far side of the room.

Charles dove. He landed, poised to strike; Houston felt the crackling fireplace behind him. Heat licked at his clothing.

Houston whirled in search of something with which to defend himself. Along the wall, medieval weapons were displayed. He yanked a sword from its hooks, unprepared for the weight. The sword drooped in his hand. He had to clutch it with his other hand as well, and listing from his burden, Houston swung.

The sword sliced through the air. Charles jumped back, but even so, the sword's tip slashed his shirt, severing the chain on his medallion.

Charles b.u.mped against a chair. He scowled at his medallion, which had fallen to the floor.

Houston swung the sword again.

Charles dodged in anger. "That's the way you want it?" Charles lunged toward the other weapons on display. "It's hardly sporting. I'm an expert."

He pulled down a ball and chain. The ball had spikes. He swung the ball so fast that Houston saw only a blur. The weapon hissed.

In panic, Houston fought the urge to run. He swung again.

The sword collided with the chain. The stunning impact jolted Houston off his balance, but the chain, instead of wrenching free, spun savagely around the sword, entangling it, jerking Houston forward.

Houston lost his grip. Charles yanked the chain. The sword spun through the air.

Charles grabbed it, dropping the chain. He needed only one hand to control the sword. He flashed it back and forth as he struck a fencer's pose, faced sideways, feet apart, left hand on his hip. He darted forward.

Houston tried to get away, but Charles aimed to the right and then the left, and Houston stumbled closer to the fire. Once again he felt the heat.

He blinked and saw a figure rising ghostlike from the far side of the room, stalking toward his brother's back. Simone!

Get the gun, Houston thought, then realized there wasn't time. He blanched as he saw her pull a dagger from the wall.

Charles didn't notice her. Even as he slashed the sword toward Houston, he did not suspect her presence until he saw that Houston wasn't looking at him.

Rather, Houston's eyes were directed past him toward the weapons on the wall.

Charles understood then, broke his movement, and began to turn. Not soon enough, however, for Simone had raised the dagger in both hands. She gritted her teeth as she brought the blade down, gasping from the impact.

Houston heard the muscle-rending stab. And worse, the sc.r.a.pe of metal over bone.

Charles rose on his tiptoes, shuddering. He clawed at his back but couldn't reach the knife. He dropped the sword. His face went white. His mouth hung open in excruciating pain.

He bellowed, retrieving the sword. He shouted, "b.i.t.c.h!" and in a rage he swung toward her.

The fire! Houston's clothes began to smoke. He snapped in panic from the flames, and on the mantel of the fireplace, he saw a lance hooked to the wall, its point lodged strangely in a cup.

Reflexively he grabbed the lance, yanking it from the cup and, spinning, shouted, "Charles!"

His brother sensed more danger and turned awkwardly, his sword raised.

Houston threw the lance, impaling Charles above the groin. The point projected out the other side.

Simone screamed, stumbling to avoid the falling body.

Charles dropped back on the knife. It pierced him to its hilt. His heels drummed. He was still.

Houston stumbled toward Simone and clutched her. Blood soaked his jacket and his pants. Fatigue took charge. He understood how much his wound had weakened him.

He sagged against her.

"It's all right. It's over," she said, holding up his weight.

She was wrong.

Chapter 53.

With a sudden roar, the door exploded. Planks and shrapnel flew. The shock wave knocked Simone and Houston backward.

Figures burst inside the room. In white. With automatic rifles. Their faces were hidden by ski masks as they aimed their rifles at the room.

As Houston stooped to grab the sword Charles had dropped, he knew he didn't have the strength to use it.

"Houston?" one man said. He reached his white gloves up to pull off his ski mask. Sweating, tense, Bellay's thin features contorted with relief. "I was afraid we were too late."

"You are too late," Houston told him bitterly, squinting toward his father's corpse.

"What? My G.o.d, you're bleeding!"