The Many Deaths of Ms. Croft

The echo of squealing tires had not yet died out by the time Lara reached the west window of her bedroom, having rolled off of her queen-sized waterbed and raced across the length of her spacious bedroom without even bothering to belt the china-blue silk kimono she wore, nor removing her half-moon reading glasses. Behind her, a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo flapped shut as it slid to the floor, but it did not even occur to her to curse the inconvenience as she spied the vehicle that had burst through the gates of her mansion and skidded to a stop in her drive. There would be plenty of time to find her place in the novel later; but it wasn't every day that one was called on to entertain murderous thugs employed by the former capo tutti capo of the old-world Italian mafia. Turning, she pounded back across her bedroom towards the three-drawer oaken nightstand on the other side of her bed, glasses still perched on the edge of her nose. She found time, however, to wrap her kimono more decently about herself.

Around her neck was a simple gold chain, attatched to which was a small brass key. A common man might notice nothing more than those sparse facts, especially given that the key hung between Lara's breasts. A more discerning gentleman might note that the key's teeth were many, varied, and tightly-packed; the mere three centimeters of the key's length contained nearly fifty peaks and depressions along the ridge of its length, and had a number of bumps and dips along both sides of its thickness. Someone versed in the lower criminal enterprises might despair of ever picking the lock to which this key was mated, and this lock was installed in the upper drawer of Lara's nightstand--oak, as noted before, and finely cut and polished, but utterly unable to stop the axe of a determined thief, save that the oak exterior was backed by hardened titanium plating. Only the upper drawer of this extraordinary nightstand was what it appeared to be; the lower drawer was even more difficult to open than the upper, because the lower drawer was not a drawer at all; merely a facade, designed for both aesthetic and security purposes. This lower 'drawer' concealed a sophisticated array of sensors, which measured the singular frequency of electric impulse that was responsible for instructing a human heart to beat. If any heartbeat other than Lara's approached within thirty centimeters of the nightstand, a cloud of gas would be released. This gas was very expensive, very illegal, and very lethal.

The reason for all this security was that the top drawer contaitreatreasures which the world of man was not yet matured enough to bear the re-discovery of. Some artifacts were, of course, too large to be stored here; but Lara's rather unique sense of pride convinced her to store such items here as would fit: among other oddities, a stone which allowed its possessor to control an indestructible clay golem; a golden scarab which could be utilized in ritual mummification to create undead warriors of considerable skill and constitution; a chunk of worn stone with faded and unreadable inscriptions, which could call down bolts of lightning similar in magnitude of energy release to a small nuclear bomb; and the key to Lara's gun closet.

The heartbeat sensor concealed in the lower part of the nightstand noted a slight increase in the frequency of Lara's heartbeat, but it was well within the parameters for not killing intruders horribly. Throwing the nightstand's drawer open, she fumbled inside as her front door, downstairs, was kicked open by someone's massive boot. More sounds of destruction followed, as the intruding thugs smashed everything in sight. Knocking aside several priceless artifacts, Lara finally came up with the gun closet key; spinning around, she took off at at a dead run, her bare foot kicking back to slam the drawer shut. Rounding the bed, she nearly skidded into the reinforced door of the gun closet, fumbling with the heavy iron key.

"C'mon, c'mon--Dammit!" she cursed as the key slipped from her fingers. Lara's world was neatly divided into two parts: home, and not at home. Home was safety, where she could relax and not worry about the dangers she encountered in the outside world. The pounding feet on the stairs down the hall clashed violently with her ingrained assumption that no one could harm her, here. The conflict brought shaking hands, shortness of breath, and a pounding heart. Scooping up the key, she jammed it in the lock--and then rolled out of the way as her bedroom door was knocked from its hinges. A shattering blast of shotgun pellets caromed from the closet door, rebounding it open, but Lara ignored the weaponry inside and instead sprinted for the north window. There were five armed men in her bedroom; if she entered the closet, she'd be a fish in a very small barrel. Instead, she dived out the third-story window in a spray of glass and bullets.

Sharp edges ripped at her kimono, undoing the hasty knot she'd used to close it, and blood streamed from the arm and shoulder she'd used to break the window. Shouts of surprise followed her as she plummeted through the air, tumbling out of control to slam into the unforgiving surface of her crystal-clear outdoor pool. Momentum carried her nearly to the bottom of its twelve-foot depth; her lungs kicked against her ribs as she turned about and swam for the surface, as she hadn't had time to gather a breath before plunging into the water. Breaking the surface, she hauled herself over the edge, scraping here bre breast on the stone edge; she ignored the pain, as she ignored the cuts in her arm and the chlorine tingling in her eyes. Miraculously, her reading glasses had managed to cling to her face; water beaded on them, making it difficult to see. Rather than pausing to remove them, Lara turned and sprinted rds rds her hedge maze, narrowly avoiding another shotgun blast. Two more blasts tore the ground around her before she made it to the maze's concealment, one of them grazing her leg with a single pellet. Instruct sho shouted in italian reached her ears as she lost herself in the high green walls.

Sweat coursed down her body, even in the early autumn cool of her England estate. The mown grass flooring this section of the hedge maze was cool against her legs and buttocks as she sat, gasping for air and considering her options. She was unarmed and nearly naked, facing at least fifteen heavily-armed men. And several dogs, she realized as she heard a distant, rough bark. Sounds like wolfhounds. This maze won't help me for long. Pushing to her feet, she pulled her now-tattered kimono about herself once again, but the belt had been pulled free during her escape. Setting her lips in a thin line, she set down her plan of action. The first order of business was to get back to the gun closet. With luck, she'd at least have time to pull on some underwear; the kimono wasn't going to do much for her reputation. Not that any of these blokes are going to survive to tell about it. Next, she'd need to force the thugs to come to her. The maze might actually be best for that; the men would follow the dogs, and the dogs would come straight for her. After that, it would be a matter of guerilla warfare. She'd have to hit the dogs first; it wouldn't do to allow them to track her movement after her initial ambush. The obstacle course would be perfect; it provided ample cover and concealment, and she knew every inch of it. The thugs would lowelowed by the obstacles, allowing her to pick them off at her leisure.

Climbing to her feet, she pushed her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose and set off down the hedge corridor. As she went, she listened; the hit men should soon reach the entrance to the hedge maze, so that the dogs could track her down. She shuddered as she imagined the huge beasts finding her, knocking her to the ground, ripping her to pieces with their powerful jaws... But where are they? Surely they've found the maze by now, what could be keeping them?

The van which had crashed through her gates was still there as she peeked out of the hedge maze entrance, its engine ticking coolly. No one in sight; hopefully, Winston had gotten himself clear. Sprinting across the lawn, Lara hugged herself against the ivy-covered brick of her mansion's front wall, kimono slipping open. Moving slowly and carefully, she crabwalked sideways along the wall until she reached the marble-columned front step--still, she saw no one. Even the wolf hounds had gone quiet. Bartolli's men must be stupider than she'd thought; perhaps they'd found the far entrance of the hedge maze, and were waiting for her to emerge there. No matter. It won't help me to find them when I've nothing to defend myself with. Every muscle in her body was strung tight as she pushed open the front door, but no hail of gunfire greeted her. To hell with it. Caution's never gotten me anywhere. The torn flesh in her calf protested, but did not fail as she ran quickly and quietly into her mansion and mounted the stairs, retracing the intruder's steps.

There. A whisper of sound, the movement of clothing on wood. The linen closet across the hall from Lara's bedroom was open. To late to turn and run; a man's booted foot appeared at the edge of the door, and the muzzle of an automatic rifle above that. He would cut her down before she was halfway back to the stair. Leaping into the air, she lashed out with a hard kick, slamming the linen closet door into the would-be ambusher and knocking him back with a grunt. Shouts from inside--there were more, hiding in the closet, but no matter. She was in the bedroom; the closet opened behind her with a ripping burst of autofire, but she was beyond the doorway and protected by the wall. Screaming to each other in italian, the men were tumbling into the hall--Lara was at the door of her gun closet, the key in her hand--Bartolli's men were tangled in the linen--she was inside! A shotgun blast powdered the plaster wall as Lara turned to the shotgun rack to grab--

--Nothing. The gun closet was empty.

No wonder they hadn't searched for her; they knew she'd be back, to trap herself in the emptied closet. It must have been quite a job to move so much weaponry so quickly; but they'd done it, nonetheless. Lara's heart leapt into her throat as a handful of mrowdrowded her doorway; she turned, eyes wide behind her reading glasses.

The shotgun's roar filled the small room, chewing her low in the gut and throwing her against the far wall. Clutching at her belly, a wail of pain tore itself from heroat oat as she slid to the floor, framed in blood. Slippery blood filled her hands; she gasped for air, tearing agony throbbing through her body with each breath. Something cold touched her temple, dizzily, she looked up to find the barrel of a gun centered on her forehead. A chill swept through her body, and she thought of her father. Someone said something she didn't understand, and the gun turned to point at the ceiling. Another of the hit men pushed his way forward--this one was dressed in an Armani business suit, rather than the rough clothing affected by the others. He knelt in front of Lara, putting finger beneath her chin so that she would look at him. His other hand held a large automatic pistol, plated in gleaming nickel.

"Mizz Croft," he said in a heavy Italian accent, "Mizter Bartolli, he sends his greetings to you, the killer of his father."

"Please," Lara gasped, blinking at the tears running down her cheeks to pool against the reading glasses before sliding down to her chin. "If h-he wants money, I can p-pay--"

"Mizter Bartolli, he has money. He also has you to thank for his new position as the head of the Bartolli family." The pistol stroked Lara's throat, trailing down past her collarbone. "That's why we didn't bring any knives, do you see? With a knife, you would live for maybe hours, you would not be able to scream the whole time." Lara tried to follow the pistol's barrel with her eyes as it traced lazy designs around her nipple, but it disappeared beneath the curve of her breast. Her buttocks felt tacky, as the blood pooling beneath them began to coagulate. "With just guns? You will live maybe another five minutes." Her chest heaved as the cold metal ran down her belly an inch from the puckered wound, following the inner ridge of her hip further south. "Five minutes, you will scream the whole time. In the Bartolli family, if you can still scream when you die, it is because we like you." Lara opened her mouth, but the pistol's sharp report drowned out anything she might have said. She screeched, drawing her knees up and clutching between her legs with both hands as she slid over onto her side.

"Wait!" she cried, but a hail of shotgun pellets tore through her shoulder and turned her words into a choked groan. Uncurling herself, she tried to crawl forward with one arm, with the other hand clamped on the tattered flesh of her crotch; a burst of autofire stitched a line of screams down her exposed hip and thigh, flopping her over onto her back. Two more shotgun blasts tore her belly, stuffing her into the corner of the closet floor and wall with most of her kimono balled up behind her. Unable to even think through the pain, she simply howled and pounded a fist against the wall behind her as more rips of automatic fire tore apart her shins and feet; when a shotgun blasted away her flailing hand and arm, she did not notice.

The gunshots paused, as the hit men stopped to reload. "You know," one of them said in Italian, "I thought this cunt might give us trouble. The way she took out the Boss, I thought she would be really tough." With a metallic snap, he slapped the thirty-round clip home into the well of his rifle and yanked the charging handle. Lara gazed at him through the salt-crusted reading glasses, her mouth twisted in a rictus of pain and fear as her breath grunted in panic. "But she is just another bitch," the hit man concluded, "and she dies just like anybody else." Two automatic rifles, three shotguns, and a pistol leveled on one target. Lara raised her mangled hand in supplication, trying to beg through wheezes of pain as fresh tears sprang from her eyes.

"Badly."

The small room shook with the volume of fire produced. Lara jerked and flopped, her screams and cries unheard as her body burst apart in a spray of viscera. Lead punched through her chest, throwing a cough of blood from her lips; a shank of bone and torn flesh that had once been a lower leg jumped and skittered away, severed completely by the lethal hail. Blood gouted up as rounds splattered her throat away before moving up to blow her jaw away in a spray of teeth and blood. A shredding blast of pellets kicked through her cheek, just beside her nose, carrying most of her brain out the back of her head in a grey sneeze. The pistol and rifles clicked empty, as one of the shotguns had a moment earlier. There was a moment of deafening silence before the last shotgun emptied its remaing two shells into Lara's face, splashing it into an unrecognizable mass. Shattered by the impact, her reading glasses kicked away and spun across the floor with a tinkle. The leaking shambles that had been Lara Croft lay spread in a pool of thickening blood, staining the tatters of her kimono. Several feet away, the cracked lenses of her glasses winked in the light, except where spatters of blood clouded the glass.