Chain Reaction

The trauma of finding her dead mother affected Lise badly. She fell into an almost vegetative state and had to be hospitalized. She was given the best care available, a private room and around-the-clock care. Her father chose not to visit her. They had never been close. Work had always been his top priority. It took nearly six months before she began to come out of her shell and respond to attention.

Three weeks later a man came to the hospital. She vaguely recalled his face. He had visited her mother some years back. Lise remembered how he had been with her mother. He had offered to help, but for some reason her mother had turned him away. She couldn’t understand why. Her mother refused to talk about it. Now on the day he visited her, she sat and stared at him, still cloaked in despair at the loss of her mother. When he came back days later, he brought a woman with him. They spoke with the people in charge and later that same day she was removed from the hospital. There was a large car outside and Lise was placed inside, with the man on one side and the woman the other. They drove for what seemed a long time.

Lise watched through the car window until fatigue took over and she slept.

When she awakened, she was dressed in warm pajamas and tucked in a soft bed.

In the days and weeks that followed, Lise came to know the woman, who was with her most of the days. She brought new clothes. And food. The room she was in was large and bright, filled with good things. The woman—she found out her name was Claire—looked after her. Lise was taken from the room, down the wide staircase and through a door that led outside into a wide, attractive garden.

The house was where Lise would spend the next few years. In comfort and surrounded by people who cared for her and ensured she lacked for nothing. Not once did she inquire about her father. He was responsible for her mother’s death. He was dead to her.

The house and grounds were spacious. There was a swimming pool and a wide patio. Claire and Lise spent many hours in the warm sunshine. There were a number of staff in the house who fetched and carried, doing anything Claire requested. Lise did not see the man for a few weeks. When she finally asked where he was, Claire simply told her he was away on business, but he would come to see her when he came back. Claire was her constant companion, and through her kindness and patience Lise was gradually drawn out of her solitary mood. Sometimes at night she would lie in her bed and think about her mother, trying to bring back the good times. Then her mother had been strong and beautiful. But the dark memories kept overshadowing the good times. Lise would lie and stare into the shadows, brooding. Thinking about the bad times, struggling to banish them. Gradually the memories faded, but never completely. They always hugged the deep corners of her mind. Lise learned to keep them buried because she didn’t want to disappoint Claire, who devoted her time and patience to the girl.

When the man came back to the house, Lise learned his name was Julius Hegre. He spoke to her gently. Explained to her that her mother had been his sister, and he wanted to take care of Lise now.

When Lise asked why her mother had refused his help, he told her she had not approved of his business.

Hegre had smiled his distant smile and told her when she was older he would explain.

The explanation did not come for eight years.

Lise was twenty-two years old when he had explained the mystery behind his business affairs. Watching her face as she absorbed his words, Hegre saw not shock, but a spark of interest that only grew as he revealed his true occupation.

She began, from that day, to immerse herself in his business, always asking questions, wanting to know everything he could tell her. There was a confident spirit emerging and the revelation that his business was nowhere near lawful only intrigued her more. She was like a young child again, full of curiosity, eager to run before she could walk. Hegre could never tire at the bombardment as she badgered him with more and more questions.

Lise threw herself into the physical interests her lifestyle allowed her to pursue: horseback riding, swimming, a growing interest in shooting—using every kind of firearm she could get her hands on. She excelled at martial arts—her instructors were always having to rein her in as she pushed herself harder. She revealed a ruthless streak, and many of Hegre’s hardened crew found themselves challenged when faced with her in the dojo. She was as hard on herself as she was any opponent.

Her companion had left by this time. There was nothing more she could do for the young woman who faced life with a confidence bordering on arrogance. The child had long since disappeared, and the full-grown woman had become a stranger to her tutor.

Lise’s change revealed itself in a traumatic event that occurred one day when she returned from riding across the wide estate. She left her horse at the stable, then made her way through the stand of trees to the house. She entered through the kitchen, riding boots clicking on the tiled floor. From the kitchen she made her way down the wide hall, wondering why the house was so unusually quiet.

No one was about, which she found strange. There should have been at least a couple of Hegre’s bodyguards in sight.

Lise sensed something wrong.

As she passed Julius Hegre’s study, she heard voices. One belonged to Hegre. The other she didn’t recognize.

She neared the closed doors and heard the unknown voice suddenly rise.

She hesitated for no longer than a couple of seconds before instinct took over. The situation was not right. She knew that for a fact, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. All she sensed was Julius being in danger, and she had to do something about it.

The voices rose higher.

Accusations.

Anger.

Then there came the muffled sound of a shot from behind the doors.

She hit the closed double doors with her left shoulder. They flew open.

Julius was down on one knee, right hand clasped to his right side. The bright color of blood seeped through his fingers.

One of Julius’s bodyguards was sprawled unconscious on the floor, a deep gash in the side of his head streaming blood.

Ten feet away was a man she recognized as Peter Karpov, a business rival of her uncle’s. He held a large pistol in his left hand, a Desert Eagle, already bringing it back on target.

Karpov half turned as Lise crashed into the room, made to twist the pistol in her direction. She didn’t break stride, just kept moving, and Karpov had no chance to avoid her. She slammed into him bodily, the force of her forward motion knocking him off balance. As she struck him, she clamped both hands around his left wrist, twisting against the bone until it snapped. Karpov squealed at the burst of pain, And he felt himself going down. He slammed to the floor, the impact knocking the breath from his body, leaving him momentarily stunned. The pistol was jarred from his grip. It struck the floor, bouncing end over end, and Lise took a long stride toward it. She snatched it up.

The weapon settled on Karpov as he rose to his knees, gripping his broken wrist. He saw the black ring of the muzzle pointing at him. It was the last thing he ever saw.

Lise’s finger squeezed back on the trigger.

The pistol bucked in her grasp as it fired. Before the shell case hit the floor she fired a second time.

The slugs slammed into Karpov’s head, entering just above his left eye. They cored in, shattering bone and cleaving through his brain, before erupting in a bloody shower from the back of his skull. The impact threw Karpov off his knees and dropped him to the floor. He landed hard, the looseness of sudden death having removed any physical control. He sprawled on his back, half of his head missing.

Lise stood upright, the heavy pistol sagging toward the floor. Breathing deeply, she turned, her first impulse to check on Julius. She felt only concern for him. The fact she had just killed someone had no impact on her. There was no revulsion.

No regret.

Nor was there any kind of vicarious thrill. It had simply been something that had to be done.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Then gave an embarrassed smile. “Of course you are not all right. You have just been shot.”

She moved to be closer to him. It was then she became aware of the pistol in her hand. The Israeli Desert Eagle was a .357 Magnum. It would become her personal weapon of choice from that day on. She stared at the pistol for a moment. Then she moved to place the weapon on Hegre’s desk before she turned her full attention to him.

“Let’s get you into a chair,” she said.

Lise helped him into one of the leather armchairs. She stripped off her riding jacket, took off her white shirt, folded it and wadded it over Hegre’s wound, pressing it tight. She slipped the jacket back on and buttoned it as she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Moments later Dominic Melchior, her uncle’s lawyer and friend, stepped into the room. He was closely followed by a couple more of Julius’s men. Melchior was unarmed, while the others carried handguns.

Melchior took in the scene quickly. He raised a hand to the men.

“Get on the phone. I want the doctor here ASAP to attend to Julius, a cleanup team to get rid of that mess on the floor and attention for Hendly. Do it now.”

One of the bodyguards turned and quickly left the room, closing the doors behind him. The other man took up a position close to the door.

“He shot you, but you still got the drop on him?” Melchior said to Hegre.

Hegre shook his head slowly.

“No. Not me. It was Lise.”

Melchior looked across at her. She returned his stare with unflinching steadiness.

“She tackled him. He dropped the gun and she picked it up and shot him,” Hegre said.

Melchior looked from Lise to the bloody corpse on the floor. A spreading pool of blood had fanned out from beneath Karpov’s shattered skull.