"Very generous," Rob said at last, "but I think not. The authorities have this building surrounded."
"Not yet." DeLuca heard a rusty sound come from his own throat, and felt the corners of his mouth stretch around the chuckle. "No one tripped the alarm."
"No one had to." Rob turned his attention to the teller still clutching the gym bag. "Come away from there now, dear girl."
"Sure." The brunette's expression relaxed as she released her grip on the gym bag, smiled, and walked around the corner toward Rob as if greeting a favorite customer. "You know, you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
"Like amethysts," the old woman on the floor said, and sighed with pleasure as she sat up. Dye transferred from her gnarled hand to her cheek as she pressed it there in the old-fashioned gesture of a dazzled girl. "Paul Newman had eyes like that."
"Nah, Newman's were washed-out blue," Joe said as he propped the unconscious manager on his lap and cradled her bandaged head with his good arm. "His are more like Liz Taylor's." Embarrassment turned the guard's cheeks dark red and his voice gruff. "Ya know. If Liz were a guy."
Rob went over to the front entrance doors and pushed aside the heavy desk as if it were made of cardboard.
"Please don't do that," DeLuca called out, afraid now. "You don't want to let the cops in."
"On the contrary." Rob released the dead bolt. "I phoned them from the vault."
He'd called the cops on him? DeLuca couldn't believe it. "Why would you do that?"
Rob didn't look at him as he studied the parking lot. "Because you've injured the innocent, you fool."
The insult made DeLuca's chest tighten, and tears of self-pity burned his eyes and clogged his nose. Rob didn't like him. Rob, who had risked his life to save all these poor people, thought he was foolish. And he was. He'd let Rob stop him, hadn't he? With nothing more than a bow and arrow.
DeLuca wasn't walking out of here with anything. The Italian would never pay him for showing up empty-handed at the rendezvous. No three million dollars. No easy life in Miami. No revenge.
Tears soaked the wool covering DeLuca's nose and mouth, making it harder to breathe but a little easier to think. He'd screwed up, but he could turn things around. He just had to get his head straight, figure out what went wrong. He didn't have to stand here and wait to be arrested… so why was he doing that?
What had this snotty English asshole done to him?
DeLuca scanned the faces of the hostages. Two minutes ago he'd put the fear of God into these people; they'd been under his complete control. He'd terrified them into submission. Now they were happy and grinning and chatting as if nothing had happened.
As if DeLuca weren't even there.
The sweet, smothering smell of orange and chocolate had been thinning along with the haze of confusion clouding DeLuca's mind, and he looked down at the floor. The gun the arrow had knocked out of his hand lay only four feet away.
Jesus, he'd forgotten about dropping the gun.
White lights flashing outside the window illuminated the handsome symmetry of Rob's face. "The medics are here now." He went over to help the old lady up.
With some effort, DeLuca shuffled over and picked up his weapon. "Look over here, you rat bastard." When Rob turned toward him, he fired three rounds into the center of the ivory sweater. The silencer muffled the shots, the impact of which knocked Rob flat on his back.
"Now who's the fool?" DeLuca turned and sneered at the brunette teller. "Not so pretty anymore, is he?" She didn't answer. "You deaf?"
"No, I heard you." Her sleepy gaze shifted past his face. "Sir, are you all right?"
"My sweater wants mending." Rob stood there, his head bent. Long, pale fingers, crosshatched with innumerable thin white scars, plucked a distorted slug from the torn wool of his sweater and tossed it away.
DeLuca looked at the man he'd just killed and mechanically raised the nine to fire again, but chocolate wafted in his face, and a broad, muscular hand snatched it away and tossed it to Rob.
"This is why we never gave them the right to bear arms," Will said to Rob, his brawler's face twisting into a scowl of disgust.
DeLuca lunged, but the shorter man seized him by the throat with a hand so hard it felt like a stone vise.
"No need to send him to Morpheus just yet," Rob said as he flipped on the safety and pocketed the nine. "Did you find the other male?"
"Not yet." Will made a casual gesture with his free hand. "He's concealed himself somewhere."
DeLuca groped at the back of his belt until he felt his throwaway piece. He thought about jamming it into the Brit's belly, but the other man moved too fast, and this was the only gun he had left. "Leggo," he wheezed.
"My pleasure." Will shoved DeLuca away.
"How the hell did…" DeLuca trailed off as he clearly saw the three holes in Rob's sweater. No blood stained the knit, and through the holes only pale, unmarked flesh showed. His eyes shifted to the other distorted slugs scattered on the lobby floor before he met Rob's gaze. "What the hell are you?"
"Rather more than a rat or a bastard." Rob stepped between DeLuca and the hostages. His eyes began to change, the centers shrinking to thin slivers of black while the purple turned darker and became bright, shiny rings of copper. "Where is your accomplice hiding?"
A small vent dropped from the ceiling and landed on one of the teller's windows with a loud clatter. Something like an unmarked soda can immediately followed and hissed gray-white smoke into the air.
Norman backed away.
"It would seem that SWAT has arrived, my lord," Will said, kicking the grenade into a far corner.
"Apparently they've no interest in negotiating." Rob knelt beside the unconscious bank manager to cover her mouth and nose with a white handkerchief. "Take care of them for me, Will. I'll secure the vault."
Will began to sing what sounded like a lullaby, his voice soft and low, and went from person to person, resting his hand briefly on an arm, shoulder, or neck. As soon as he touched someone, they smiled and closed their eyes.
When he finished his song a minute later, everyone in the lobby had fallen asleep.
The tear gas burned DeLuca's eyes as he kept backing up out of the reception area. He didn't know what kind of weird hypnosis the blond guy was using, but neither he nor Rob was paying any attention to him. On the job he'd seen some bizarre things happen, but the way this was going down defied all logic or explanation.
The hell with the Italian and the goods; I've got to get out—now.
DeLuca aimed at Will, pumping three shots into his forehead before swiveling and emptying the rest of the magazine into the back of Rob's skull. He then hurried to the men's room, ducking inside and locking the door behind him.
The businessman he'd jumped earlier still sat where he'd left him, handcuffed to the sink piping. His groggy eyes opened to watch DeLuca strip out of his mask and jumpsuit and straighten the checked blue jacket and white trousers he wore underneath.
"Hey. I've been mugged," the businessman said as soon as DeLuca yanked the duct tape from his mouth. The Rohypnol he'd been forced to swallow made his words slurry. "Mugged in my own bank." He looked down at the jumpsuit Deluca had dressed him in earlier. "And these aren't my clothes."
"There's been…" DeLuca paused to dig the soggy cotton balls out of his mouth, and stuck them in his pocket. "There's been a robbery." He uncuffed the businessman and pulled a clean ski mask over the man's head. "You've got to get out of here."
"That right?" Dilated eyes rolled comically around the holes in the mask. "Why did you put this on me? It cold outside?"
"They shot tear gas inside the bank," DeLuca told him. "It'll protect your face."
He popped open the businessman's briefcase, the contents of which he had dumped into the trash earlier, and transferred the money from the gym bag to it. It wasn't enough, but it would get him out of Atlanta.
DeLuca stuffed his own jumpsuit and mask into the gym bag. "Don't let anyone take this away from you," he told the man as he uncuffed him and helped him stand up. "It's evidence."
The business man gave him a goofy grin. "I've got evidence. I'll be a hero."
"Yeah." DeLuca finished by pressing his empty backup piece into the man's hand. "You'll need this, too. Watch out for the bank robbers. They're dressed exactly like cops."
The businessman lifted the gun and used one eye to peer into the barrel. "Smells like firecrackers. Should I shoot at them?"
DeLuca picked up the briefcase and straightened his jacket. "No, just point it at them. That'll scare them, and they'll back off."
"Okay." The businessman nodded and lifted his arm, pointing an unsteady finger past DeLuca. "What about that guy?"
DeLuca turned and saw Rob standing against the door.
"No. Can't be. You… you're dead."
"Killing me takes more than a few bullets." Rob walked over to the businessman and pulled the ski mask from his head. "Sending this poor fellow out, drugged and dressed as he is, however, would work very well. Are you a murderer as well as a thief?"
The restroom became an unseen grove of perfumed oranges.
"No," DeLuca heard himself murmur.
"It's time to put an end to this, then." Rob unzipped and began removing the jumpsuit from the swaying businessman.
It's time to put an end to this, then.
With Rob's words echoing in his head, as they had been mercilessly for the last twenty minutes, Norman opened his eyes and stepped into the bathtub. As he sat down, he bent his elbows and knees to fit his arms and legs inside. The fiberglass tub felt cold against his back and ass. He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature to lukewarm, but left the drain stopper open.
