“Not lost the touch, have we, Nanci?”
“I haven’t. You have. That’s why I’m standing here and you’re lying down there. Quickly.”
“They had a bastard arsenal. Kept me ducking. And it was snowing then.”
“When?”
He shrugged. “Three… four hours ago. Figure they headed north. My job wasn’t to follow.”
“Two girls, Xavier. Get you a gold watch from the Hunters of the Sun.”
He pulled a face. There was a whining note slipping into his voice. “Work. Find a good place. Watch for a rowboat and a sailing ship. Take out as many as you can. Others like me, strung along the coast. I got lucky.”
“You got unlucky, Xavier.”
“Guess that’s right. Any point my asking you to let it lie for the sake of old times, Nanci? Please. I’m saying please. You used to like it when I begged.”
“Indeed. But that was then and this is now.”
The snow was easing, and she could see, across the parapet of the bridge, that someone was sticking their head over the rail of the ship way below her. She tutted disapprovingly. Burnette, with that scope-sighted Krieghoff, was good enough to take the top off anyone’s skull at that range.
“Please. I could be useful to Zelig.”
“Coldcocking backstabber. What would he want with that, Xavier? An old man. A careless old man.”
She leveled the gun between his pleading, watery blue eyes. He opened his mouth, trembling. “Remember me in your prayers, Nanci.”
The 9 mm bullet rocked Burnette’s head on the snow-veiled pavement. His legs kicked once, and then he was still.
A half-remembered rhyme came to her as she holstered the Heckler & Koch, stooping to pick up the rifle and add it to the Port Royale over her shoulders. “I’ll remember you in my prayers, Xavier, and you think of me when it’s kissing time, beneath the stairs.”
Nanci spit in the upturned face and started the slow, slippery climb back down the hill through the drifting snow to rejoin the others on the beach.
Chapter Nineteen
“Least there’s no shortage of stuff to burn,” said Jim Hilton, carrying in a huge pile of broken fencing. He dumped it in the corner of the derelict beach hut a mile and a half north of their landing place.
“Even that’ll be used up in the end.” Carrie was on her knees, blowing at the glowing heart of their small fire. “No more trees. No more wood.”
Heather had stripped down to her underwear and was sitting with a sleeping bag around her, shivering like an aspen in a thunderstorm. She was waiting for the flames to catch so that she could start to get warm and dry her soaking clothes.
Sly Romero was cradling his crudely carved wooden doll, which he called “Steve,” after his father. He kept it tucked into his shirt most of the time. Now he was talking to it in a sibilant, audible whisper.
“Cold and wet, Steve. And well as that, hungry. Snow falling a lot. Me remember Steve said it was devil picking chickens. Been on boat since last time me spoke to you, Steve. Felt sick….” His voice started to rise. “Scared and sick. Now we got fire… well, soon get fire. Soon.”
Jim watched as the tiny flames grew and the wood began to crackle. Through the open doorway of the hut he could see out into the afternoon murk, with snow blowing by. December 21. Four days away from Christmas.
As though she’d been reading her father’s mind, Heather caught his eye. “It’s not going to be the usual kind of Christmas, is it, Dad?”
“Hardly.”
“Least we got us some yule logs on an open fire, or whatever the song says.” Carrie straightened, her face red and smudged with smoke from her efforts to get the wood burning. The branches, some of them dried pine, were beginning to spit out sparks, making Sly jump and look up from his monologue.
“Little guns,” he said, face brightening.
“All we need now is some chestnuts,” said Jim.
“And a buttered turkey,” suggested Heather.
“Decorations.” Carrie wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Silver and tinsel and shining glass globes that make your face look all distorted.”