Chapter 33 · Nine Deadbolts

Helen's blood was still slick on my hands when the foyer windows went black.

Steel shutters slammed down inside the frames. Clang. Clang. Clang. The rain drumming against the glass all night cut off like somebody severed the wire.

"Seawall sensor tripped," Owen said behind me. "Shutters are mine."

He pushed past, coat gone, a black twelve-gauge gripped in one fist. Rain dripped from his dark hair. His left cuff was soaked dark with seawater or blood.

Helen choked on a laugh from the floor.

She'd slid down the damask wallpaper, leaving a smear the width of a palm. Ribs, definitely. Right side, low. That wet click on her exhale meant she was actively swallowing blood.

"Two ribs," I said. "Maybe three. She needs a chest tube and a scanner."

"She needs a cellar." Owen didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look down at her. "Marcus. Clear her out."

Marcus stepped out of the east gallery with two men behind him. Helen dragged herself an inch up the wall, knuckles white. She didn't look at Owen. She stared straight at me.

"They don't give a damn about the shipping manifest," she wheezed, spitting red onto the parquet.