He was a stubborn Irishman, and he wasn’t going to listen to anyone. The way Peter saw it, his only choice was to confront the bear in his den. A den Peter arranged and paid for, but that wouldn’t stop MacGowan when he had a score to settle. And three years was a fuck of a long time.
It didn’t help that Peter felt guilty. He should have known, but it had seemed so clear that MacGowan was dead, and he’d been juggling so many other things, that he hadn’t followed through the way he should have and MacGowan had been left to rot in the jungles of South America. If their roles were reversed he’d be planning on killing him too.
The battle had raged for hours, with Genny accusing him of abandoning their children, abandoning her, being an adrenaline junkie, that he resented her for his promise, resented her for holding him back, hated his life.
All of which was ridiculous. He’d seen enough, done enough, that he had no interest in going out in the field again. In fact, she hadn’t asked him to make that promise in the first place, he had volunteered.
But she wouldn’t listen. Genevieve Spencer Madsen was a tough woman, a lawyer, an angry lioness when it came to defending her home and her life, and he’d suddenly become the enemy. He could go court death, she told him. He just couldn’t do it from her bed.
She’d locked the door, and if it weren’t for the children and Mahmoud he would have splintered it, grabbed Genevieve and taken her long and hard, so that she’d have no doubt as to his commitment to her.
But that was difficult with an audience, so instead he’d bedded down on the couch, avoiding Mahmoud’s disapproving questions, and left at first light. No matter what decision he made it would be wrong. He would either betray Genny’s trust or put the coup de grace on MacGowan’s revenge. He owed them both, but right now his debt to MacGowan was greater, and he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t face him.
He could tell himself he was doing it for her, that a rogue operative seeking vengeance could put his family in danger, but he knew that was bullshit. MacGowan might be a stone-cold killer when he needed to be, but he wouldn’t put innocents at risk. Ever. It had been a problem in the past, he remembered. Thomason had always hated him for his refusal to obey certain orders. So no, if MacGowan was going to take him out it would be in London.
But he was damned if he’d sit there waiting. Particularly not when the CIA had unexpectedly come into play.
His Porsche raced through the countryside like the beautiful machine it was, and he once more marveled at the clutchless manual transmission. He’d been afraid he’d be stuck with some stodgy automatic for the rest of his life. With the Cayenne he could work off some of his frustration.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face when he told her he was going to face MacGowan. It was something he’d hoped he’d never have to see again, and it was his fault.
At least Mahmoud would keep her mind off things. He took sides, and at seventeen was as devoted to Genny as he was to his mentor, Reno. Peter he could take or leave, the little shit. But at least Genny could pour out her anger and frustration and Mahmoud would distract her.
The crossing was ridiculously easy – they wouldn’t check for weapons or smuggling heading into France, though coming back was another matter. Apparently everyone wanted to get out of France and come to England, which he could understand. He personally found France a pain in the butt, and the last operation he’d been involved in there had ended in disaster. He would have been happy never to set foot in France again.
He could only hope this mission would have a better ending. He had to warn MacGowan about the CIA, fill him in on what was happening with Isobel and Killian. And convince him not to kill him.
It was going to be an entertaining time.
He had no idea how long he was out this time, but when MacGowan came to the pain in his head was like a jackhammer. They’d trussed him up like a chicken, his hands tight behind his back, but they hadn’t bothered with a gag. He tried to move his legs, but they’d tied his ankles as well, and he began to curse, quietly and colorfully. The pistol in his boot was gone, as was the knife in his sleeve. The only thing left was the switchblade he carried in a special pocket near his zipper, the one place most men wouldn’t be checking.
He was furious with himself. He’d acted like a rank amateur, first spinning around when Beth screamed, then reacting when they’d hurt her. What the hell was his problem? These were simple enough things he’d learned a decade and a half ago. You don’t react, no matter who’s getting hurt and why. It showed your weakness.
Now the boys downstairs would be fairly certain he wouldn’t sit by and let them hurt Beth. He could prove them wrong, of course, but because of his slip she could end up dead.
It was early afternoon if he could tell by the shadows, and he inched his way around so he could see Dylan and Beth. Dylan was looking dazed, Beth’s eyes were closed, and there was a bruise on her cheek. He was going to enjoy making someone pay for that.
“Beth?” He kept his voice low, and her eyes flew open, staring at him above the swath of silver tape. They hadn’t done a very good job of it – one corner was loose. Maybe they’d made other mistakes.
He couldn’t get out of this alone. He was going to need help, and Beth was cool enough to manage.
“Come here.”
Her expression might have been comical if he could have seen more of it. Instead she tilted her head as if to say “What the fuck?”
“The chair’s flimsy,” he said patiently. “See if you can rock it so that it falls over. It might splinter.”
No, she didn’t like that idea much. She looked over at Dylan, but they’d done a better job of tying him, and if MacGowan was going to get comfortable with someone he preferred it to be Beth. Sister Beth.
Odd, he hadn’t thought of her that way since he’d fucked her. Maybe he needed to reorder his thinking. He was better off with a crabby nun than a vulnerable woman.
“I don’t know what the hell else you think we can do?” he said irritably. “I need you down here, and I’m a little indisposed.” They’d looped the rope between his ankles and his arms, keeping him in an incredibly awkward position. He couldn’t sit up to try to work on Beth’s ropes with his teeth, he couldn’t manage to get his body up the two steps to the dais where they’d dumped his charges.
Beth’s ankles were tied to the chair legs, her feet touching the floor. He expected she’d need to rock in order to get the chair to move, but instead she simply pushed off with her toes and both chair and female moved, tumbling down the two steps to land half on top of him with the blessed sound of splintering wood.
“Ooof.” She hadn’t hurt him, but he figured complaining might keep her calm. She was scrambling to get off him, pushing away with her bound hands, pieces of chair attached to her back and ankles, but it gave her more flexibility than she would have had in the chair. “Hold still,” he growled, waiting to see if the men downstairs had heard her fall. No pounding on the stairs, but he didn’t allow himself the luxury of relief.
He moved his head toward her face and she tried to duck away, her head banging on his chin and making his headache worse. “Hold still, damn you,” he said again in the voice he used to terrorize small children. “I’m just getting your gag off.”
Her deep blue eyes looked at him questioningly, and he could feel her instinctive flinch when he moved closer, but this time she held still, like someone trying not to alarm a tarantula crawling on her arm.
His teeth caught the small edge of the duct tape. He froze for a moment. He could smell her skin, smell her fear, and if his arms were free he would have put them around her, comforting her. Like the crazy man he suddenly seemed to have become, he reminded himself. That blow on the head must have been worse than he thought.
He bit again, the tape held and he started to pull it off her mouth.
“Son of a bitch,” she whispered when he finally yanked it off completely.
“You talking to me?” he inq
uired politely.
Beth was a tough woman, but she wasn’t in the mood for banter. “Who are these people, and what do they want with us?”
“They work for the CIA.”
Relief washed over her face. “Then that’s no problem. Dylan and I are Americans. They wouldn’t want to hurt us.”
“Don’t count on it. They’re subcontractors, and they’ll kill anyone they want. As far as I can tell it’s me they’re interested in, and the two of you are expendable.”
“Great. Another thing to thank you for,” she snapped. “So how do we get out of this?”
“I have a knife. If you can get to it you can cut my ropes and then I’ll take care of you and Dylan. I’ll need to canvass the place before I know how we’re getting out, but trust me, we’ll do it.”
She didn’t move. “Oddly enough, I do. Where’s the knife?”
He shouldn’t have grinned. “Front of my jeans.”
Her icy stare would have flash frozen an ocean. “Yeah, right.”
“Sorry, babe, but that’s where I keep my spare. If anyone checks they just think I have a hard-on.”
“Which you probably do.”
“Not yet. You have to get closer.”
“You asshole,” she said in a fierce whisper. “You did this on purpose.”
“I don’t think so. It’s always been a smart place to hide something. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy having you get to it. But be careful. It’s a switchblade.”
“You mean if I grab it the wrong way I get to castrate you?”
He winced, then laughed. “No, probably just circumcise me.”
She looked startled, and he realized she didn’t know he wasn’t circumcised. That’s what came of innocence debauched and fucking in the dark. “Didn’t notice, did you?” he said softly, so the curious Dylan couldn’t overhear. “You can check it out later.”
She tried to jerk away, and the only way he could stop her was to slam his legs over her, keeping her still. “Come on, Sister Beth,” he chided. “We know you aren’t really a nun. Just chill and do what I tell you and we’ll get our asses out of this mess.”
She wriggled back toward him. “Do you know how much I despise you?” she said in a calm voice. She moved her bound hands toward the front of his pants, and he managed to keep the smile from his face.
“I know,” he said. Right now her fury with him was keeping her alive. Tenderness would have made her crumble, anger made her strong. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Make my day.”
Of course he was hard, had been since they’d started talking about it. Her hands brushed against him, for a moment mistaking his cock for the knife.
“No, baby,” he whispered. “Nice as that feels, the knife is over to the side. I dressed left today.”
He could feel her fury radiating from her body. The jeans were loose, as all his clothing was, and she moved her hands inside the waistband, finally finding the small pouch he carried the switchblade in, yanking it free with brutal haste.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider adjusting …?”
“Shut up, MacGowan,” she snarled. “You’re on thin ice already. How do I open this thing?”
“First, you move it away from my genitals,” he said gently. “Then you press the button on the side, and keep your hands away from the blade. That’s a Microtech Hawk and a very lethal piece of machinery.”
She grunted, not a promising sound, but the blade sprang free in her bound hands. “Do I get to cut your throat with it?”
“Maybe later. For now you need to cut the ropes around my wrists, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you get behind me? I’m having a hard time moving trussed up like this, and in my current condition …”
“Shut up, MacGowan.” She wriggled around him, a sight he found a little too stimulating, and then he heard her curse.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she snapped, and he felt her bound hands brush his. “Hold still or you’ll lose a finger.”
“Can’t have that. I’ve had a lot of good times with my fingers.” Something felt warm and wet, and he wondered if she’d managed to slice one of his body parts off and he was too numb to feel it. A moment later the rope gave way and he pulled his arms free with relief, shaking them. Blood on his hand – she must have nicked him, and he swiveled around for the knife.
She was sitting there, the knife on the floor, holding her wrist against her chest in a seemingly casual gesture. Totally ignoring the blood that was spreading onto her plain white t-shirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Beth said, trying to scuttle away from him. MacGowan was cursing, yanking off his shirt and t-shirt so that he sat there, his ankles still bound, bare-chested and furious.
“Move your hand down so I can look at it.”
“I don’t think so.” She kept her hands cradled against her chest. “It’ll stop bleeding in a moment. And if you’re trying to distract me by your magnificent physique you can put your shirt back on. You’re not my type.”
They both knew that was lie, but he didn’t call her on it. “I’m going to use my t-shirt for a bandage.”
“Now that’s just stupid. Mine is already stained.” Dumb, dumb, dumb, she thought the moment the words were out of her mouth.
“You’re right. Now put out your goddamned hands and show me how badly you stabbed yourself. I warned you!”
“Yes, you did. I can’t help it if my fingers were numb.” She held out her wrists, looking at the slash across her palm. It looked as if the blood was slowing, though she couldn’t be sure.
He cut the rope deftly, and her arms fell apart. Her muscles were burning, so painful she barely managed to stifle her cry. “It’ll pass in a moment,” he said, and to her astonishment he put his hands on her shoulders, kneading them, moving down her arms with gentle, circular motions, moving the blood back through her starved muscles. “The cut doesn’t look too bad, but we’ll need to bandage it to keep from leaving a trail.” He glanced over at Dylan, who was watching all this with his eyes bugging out. “We’ll use your t-shirt,” he said, and before she realized what he was doing he’d taken the knife and sliced it open, leaving her sitting there in her pale pink bra. And thank God for that, she thought.
She tried to pull the remnants of the shirt off her body, but he stopped her, forcing her to wait while he slowly peeled it down her arms. It looked as if the bleeding had almost stopped, but he carefully avoided the gash, pulling the ripped shirt from her body.
She watched him, bemused, as he tore the white knit, and within a few short minutes she had a very serviceable white bandage over her hand. He tossed her his own shirt. “Put this on.”
She didn’t want to. It no longer held his body heat, thank God, but she knew it would smell like his skin. Touching her, surrounding her, embracing her. She had no choice. He helped her pull it over her head, his hand brushing her breast, but he said nothing and neither did she.
Dylan astonished her when MacGowan ripped off the duct tape. She’d been so certain his first word would be “dude” that she would have put good money on it. She was wrong.
“What the hell?” he said hoarsely.
“Be quiet.” MacGowan made quick work of the ropes that bound him, then leaned over to look out the window. “There are people down there. Tourists, it looks like, and the guy who met us is trying to argue with them. We could climb out the window if they weren’t standing there …” He pushed the window open a crack, and then moved back, and she sensed a subtle change in the way he held himself. “We’re good. They’re going to go into the restaurant. We’ll climb down the porch roof and get the hell out of here before they even know we’re gone.”
Beth leaned over to peer out, brushing against him. Down in the alleyway the man was arguing with two surprisingly tall Asian tourists, businessmen in matching dark suits, carrying cameras, speaking in Japanese and gesturing excitedly. One of them had odd, crimson hair, but apart from that they look
ed almost boringly normal.
“You don’t know those men, do you?” she asked doubtfully.
“I recognize Taka, though I don’t know who the other one is. They could help me take Leon and his pals, but I don’t want to risk any of you getting hurt again.” He hauled Dylan up from the chair. “Come on, cowboy. You first.”
He was right – the red-haired man had moved into the restaurant, refusing to understand Leon’s protests, and the other man followed, pushing Leon in front of him.
“Now,” MacGowan said, and shoved Dylan out onto the narrow porch roof. “You next, Beth.”
He’d stopped calling her Sister Beth. She wasn’t sure why. After their night together he knew better than anyone how close to celibate she was, and if anything she’d been afraid he’d mock her even more. He’d said nothing in front of Dylan, thank God, and with luck he wouldn’t. It was always possible the man had some sense of decency and discretion. Possible, but not likely.
The tiles felt loose beneath her feet when she followed Dylan, but she moved carefully, even as her flip-flops slid around her feet. When she got home she was going to spend thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars on shoes, and never look at a damned flip-flop again.
Dylan was waiting for her at the far end by the leaning wall and Beth followed him, with MacGowan close on her trail. The drop was about twelve feet to the pavement, and she’d probably break an ankle if he made her jump. There were discarded cardboard boxes nearby, and it was always possible she could hit them if she leapt far enough. She looked at MacGowan but he’d already moved past her, and before she realized what he was doing he’d jumped down, as light as a cat, landing on his feet like a gymnast performing a perfect dismount.
“How the hell did you do that?” she whispered.
“Practice.” He held out his arms. “Jump.”
She didn’t move. Throwing herself into his arms was the last thing on her agenda, probably because it was exactly what she wanted to do so badly. “If you can make it I can.”