The Man Behind the Mask - Christine Rimmer

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did it with lamp cords. Just ripped them from the wall and the bases of the lamps and crouched over the men he’d beaten, yanking their lax hands together at their backs and whipping the cords around their pressed-together wrists.

      It was all very smooth, accomplished in maybe sixty seconds, tops. Once he’d tied them both, he tore off their masks, one and then the other, grabbing each by the hair to get a good look at his face, then letting go with a shove, so their heads thudded hard against the rug.

      Did he recognize them? I didn’t ask.

      As he stood from unmasking the second guy, it came to me very clearly that now he would be dealing with me. I didn’t think I wanted that.

      “Stop,” I croaked. “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

      He took a step toward me.

      “I mean it. I am going to shoot.”

      Another step.

      About then, I realized…

      I couldn’t do it. I could not pull that trigger. Not for the life of me—and it seemed at the time that the life of me was precisely the issue. He took another step.

      The guards!

      The words exploded in my brain. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of the guards before? Maybe they were too far off—beyond at least two sets of doors, who knew how many hallways between—to have heard the fight. But by golly they were close enough to hear me scream.

      I did scream. “Guards! Help!” And then I just shut my eyes, threw back my head and let the pure sound rip.

      It was amazing, the earsplitting perfection of that scream. Jamie Lee in Halloween could not hold a candle, you hear what I’m saying? I screamed again, piercing as the first time.

      I heard doors flung back somewhere in the suite, booted feet pounding my way.

      I stopped screaming and opened my eyes.

      The man in the leather mask had vanished—escaped, no doubt, through the empty mirror frame into the secret passageway. There were only the split-open lamp and a couple of overturned chairs, the bound, unconscious men on the floor, and me—in my SpongeBob pajamas with a big black gun in my hand.

      Chapter 5

      The two guards kicked open the bedroom door at almost the precise second that Brit and Eric burst through the mirror frame.

      All four had weapons drawn, though Brit wore her Wile E. Coyotes and Eric had on soft drawstring flannel pants, his chest bare. They all froze at the sight of the two men on the floor. They took in the overturned furniture, the broken lamps and shattered knickknacks—and me. On the bed. With the gun.

      All four gaped. Seriously. They went slack-jawed at the sight.

      Which struck me as hilarious, just hysterically funny. A wild trill of laughter escaped me.

      “Dulce?” Brit said my name as if she wasn’t really sure it was me sitting there.

      And I was instantly appalled at myself. What was I laughing at? This was not funny. Not funny at all. I shut my mouth on a dry sob.

      There was an extended moment of bleak silence.

      Then Brit tried again. “Dulce.” She spoke softly, with great care. “Dulcie, honey…”

      My fingers stopped working. The gun slid from my hands. Suddenly I was freezing cold. I drew my legs up, wrapped my arms around my knees and hunched into myself, shivering convulsively.

      “Dulce…” I felt the bed shift and looked up with a startled cry. “Hey.” Brit was on the bed beside me. “It’s just me.” She set her gun and her lantern on the nightstand and gave me a questioning smile. When I didn’t object to her nearness, she took the gun I’d dropped, flipped a little notch on the handle, and set it on the nightstand, too. Then she held out her arms. “Come on, come here…”

      With a small, strangled cry, I grabbed for her. Her arms went around me. I buried my head against her neck, breathing in deeply, instantly reassured by the warm, healthy scent of her skin, by the perfumy smell of the styling gel I’d used on her hair.

      “It’s okay,” she whispered, “you’re all right, you’re not hurt…”

      Slowly I grew calmer. Brit patted my back and made more soothing noises. Meanwhile, Eric ordered the guys in uniforms to guard the men on the floor. He walked around the room, checking things out, dropping to a crouch now and then to peer under the furniture.

      When he dropped low near a certain bureau, I pointed a shaking hand. “Gun,” I said. “There’s a gun under there.…” He reached way in back and found it. Holding it by the trigger guard, he carried it over and set it on the dais at the foot of the bed.

      Near the entrance to the passageway, he bent and picked up something else. He sniffed at it—and jerked back at whatever he smelled. Then he mounted the dais and stood beside Brit and me. He held out what he’d found: a folded square of white cloth.

      Brit frowned at it. “Chloroform?”

      He nodded. They shared a bleak look.

      “What?” I demanded. “Someone tell me. What does it mean?”

      Brit said, “It looks like an attempted kidnapping.”

      “A kidnapping…” I turned the ugly word over in my mind—and knew it couldn’t have been me they were after. It was Brit’s room. Given that she’d brought me here through the secret passageways, how many people could have known I was here—let alone that Brit wasn’t? I met her eyes. “Those men came for you.”

      She pressed her lips together and nodded. “That’s how it looks.”

      “But then…what about the other guy?” I glanced from Brit to Eric and back to Brit. When I got no reaction from either of them, I realized I’d yet to mention the man in the black mask. “There was another guy. He wore a black leather mask. He was the one who fought those two and tied them up. Didn’t you see him? In the passageway?”

      Brit started to speak, but Eric caught her eye and shook his head. She pressed her lips together and kept silent.

      “Okay,” I said. “What’s going on?”

      Nobody answered me. One of the men on the floor let out a low groan. Eric turned to the guards. “Remove these two from Her Highness’s rooms. Wait in the main hallway, by the doors to the suite. Hauk Wyborn has been notified. Guard the prisoners well until Hauk relieves you or gives you further instructions.”

      Elli’s husband, Hauk, was some kind of high-level soldier. I wasn’t really clear on it. They called him the king’s warrior—and wait a minute. Who’d had time to notify Hauk? Come to think of it, how had Brit and Eric known I needed help?

      The guards saluted, fists to chests. “As Your Highness commands.” They rolled the intruders onto their backs, grabbed them beneath the arms and hauled them out.

      When they were gone, Eric turned to me again. “Dulcie, we need you to tell us exactly what happened here.”

      I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Why wasn’t I getting through? “Did you guys see the man in black, or not?”

      Eric said, “Just tell us what you know.”

      Brit stroked my hair, smoothing it over my shoulder. “Please, Dulce. Just…tell it like it happened. Everything you can remember.”

      “But it seems to me that you two should have seen the—”

      “Shh. Listen.” She took my face between her hands and made me look at her. “Start from the beginning. Were you asleep when they entered?”

      I jerked my chin from her grip. “What is up with you two?”

      They shared another

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