He didn’t come. Beth stood very still. The chill of the night was lifting, and the smothering heat of the day was moving over them with the growing sunlight. She was shivering anyway, from fear. There was no noise from the cabin, but no sign of MacGowan.
“How long do we wait?” Dylan whispered.
“As along as we have to.” Since when had she become the fearless leader? Then again, Dylan was younger than he seemed, for all his bravado, and she was, God, almost twice his age.
Had they managed to sneak up on MacGowan, slit his throat so quickly and silently that there’d been no struggle for them to overhear? Was he lying dead in a pool of his own blood, and it was a matter of moments before they were recaptured?
Or had he abandoned them, using the Guiding Light as an excuse, bringing them close enough to civilization to ensure they’d find help. But why – he wanted the money he could claim as a reward. No, the only reason he wasn’t there was because he couldn’t be.
She waited as long as she dared, and then stiffened her spine. “Let’s go,” she said finally. “MacGowan can catch up with us. He wouldn’t want us standing around like sitting ducks.”
“How can you stand like a sitting duck?” Dylan managed to reply.
“Stuff it,” she said, pleased with her gruff tone. She was channeling MacGowan, and she’d keep the two of them alive until he found them again. Because he would. They couldn’t have gotten that far only to . . .
No, she wasn’t going to think about it. Too many people she cared about had died. She couldn’t face the idea of one more. Not that she should care about MacGowan – he was alternately gruff and charming and about as sincere as an anaconda, not to mention as lethal. But he’d saved them, again and again, and he’d distracted her and made her laugh and she didn’t want him dead. Not him, too.
She pushed the heavy fronds out of her way, moving forward. The ground was too even, and she had no idea where the river was. The sun was rising to her left, which meant that was east, the direction they’d been heading as they moved down the mountain. Unfortunately that was where the cabin and the encroaching rebels were, so they’d head south, at least until the sun was high overhead and she lost all sense of direction, and . . .
He loomed up so fast it she couldn’t stifle her scream, as all she saw was a shadowy figure with the machete in his hand. She threw herself back at Dylan, flinging out her arms to protect him, and the two of them landed in a tangle on the jungle floor, Dylan using the opportunity to cop a feel as MacGowan loomed over them.
“Jesus, Sister Beth, you spook easily,” he said, pulling her up. “I had to find something to hack our way through the bushes.” He glanced down at Dylan. “You can get to your feet by yourself, boy-o.”
It was a good thing he’d diverted his attention to the kid. She would have flung herself into his arms in relief, and that would be very dangerous indeed. Not because he was wound so tight he was ready to explode, not because there was still a trace of wet blood on the machete, but because throwing herself in his arms was what she wanted to do more than anything in the world. And there was no room for that in his life or hers.
“We ready, my chickens?” he inquired in a deceptively mild voice.
“Ready,” she said, not hesitating. Exhaustion and safety were the best cures for the ridiculous feelings rushing through her. “Onward!”
His grim mouth, barely visible in the thick growth of beard, quirked in amusement. “Onward,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
Peter Madsen slammed his hand down on the ancient walnut desk, which had once graced a far nobler establishment than the covert offices of the Committee, and cursed, long and fluently. Things were getting stickier, and he was understaffed.
He’d hoped to send someone out to intercede with MacGowan and bring him back in without MacGowan feeling murderous. Rafferty was too new an operative to handle something so explosive, and he didn’t know if he could reach Taka in time. If he tried Reno, MacGowan would probably take one look at that flame-colored head and shoot first, ask questions later. The only person MacGowan would be likely to listen to was Isobel, and she was at the back end of beyond and she’d better damned well stay there. The CIA was too hungry for Thomas Killian’s blood, and they’d be alert for any sign from her.
He wasn’t particularly afraid of MacGowan – he was a hard man to kill, and he hardly considered Finn MacGowan a match in a fair fight. It depended how fair MacGowan was in the mood to be.
Isobel was already far too involved, even from her island paradise. The word from Isobel said MacGowan was out and heading toward Puerto Claro. Tomas would be there to meet him, and maybe the money would assuage some of MacGowan’s rage. But it wasn’t likely. MacGowan knew how to hold a grudge, and he’d always hated Peter, seeing him as the very essence of English power. He had no idea Peter’s bully of a policeman father had been the very epitome of working class. But it was still British class, and MacGowan held a grudge.
Not that MacGowan ever had anything to do with politics, despite his father. Doubtless the IRA had come calling, but MacGowan had turned his back on them to work for the international organization called the Committee.
Peter was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He had no choice but just to sit tight and wait until MacGowan got in touch with him. He wasn’t going to be happy at being left high and dry for all these years.
He shoved away from the desk, limping over to the row of cabinets. He had a competent young man in the outer office doing secretarial work, he had Taka O’Brien and Rafferty spearheading operations, much to Summer O’Brien’s annoyance, and Taka’s notorious cousin watching over the American branch of things. He had people he trusted, a wife he adored, two, no, make that three children if you counted Mahmoud. He shouldn’t be feeling restless.
But he was getting a very bad feeling about this, and he trusted his instincts. The CIA had been far too quiet. They were planning something, and he had no idea what, or whether it had anything to do with MacGowan.
It was probably the least of his worries. MacGowan was going to be so pissed off he’d kill him.
He poured himself a glass of single malt, the good bottle he kept for members of Parliament and very bad days, and held it up in a silent toast. “Enjoy your retirement, Isobel, you sodding bitch. And don’t you dare try to come back home.”
They reached the small town by early afternoon. Siesta time, when curious eyes would be few. It meant taking his companions in circles as they made it down the last bit of the mountain, and he suspected that Sister Beth had noticed. She didn’t say anything, though, simply trudged on with her bandaged feet, and if they’d been alone he would have offered to carry her. She would have refused.
No, scratch that. If they were alone he would have already fucked her, and she’d be more than happy to curl up in his arms again.
But they weren’t alone, and in the end it was a good thing. Civilization held working girls, and he could leave the almost-virgin alone, returning her home in pristine, unsoiled condition. The money would be more than enough compensation.
He went ahead, checking out the small cantina, asking the right questions, passing the right amount of money, before he went back and retrieved his charges. The cantina was only a bar and there was no hotel, but outside of town lay an abandoned mission. Haunted, the innkeeper told him, which sounded good to MacGowan. Ghosts kept nosy villagers away, and they could rest for a day or two before finding some kind of vehicle to get them out of there. He was going to have to steal one – these places had no transportation to spare, but he was careful not to signal his intentions, disappearing back into the jungle without a word.
He checked the knife wound on his way back. He’d done his best to keep it hidden from curious eyes, and the bleeding had stopped a while ago. He’d packed the slice on his ribs with soft cotton that looked reasonably clean, and he had no intention of letting either of his companions know about it. They didn’t need to be worrying about him – thi
ngs were tenuous enough. There was an infirmary at the abandoned mission, and he could patch himself up there when no one was looking.
He took them the long way around, bypassing the village until they came to edge of the mission. Dylan was too tired to bitch, and Beth’s eyes were glazed with exhaustion until he stopped at the edge of one of the buildings that had clearly been used as a hospital. She raised her face, and all color drained from her face.
“No,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“What’s your problem?” he drawled, annoyed “The place is abandoned, there are beds and a roof and we can probably even find some food. It hasn’t been abandoned for more than a few days . . .”
“No,” she said again, and it finally clicked.
Dylan had already pushed ahead of her, disappearing into the building in search of God knew what, and MacGowan stared at her, momentarily uncertain what to do. Of all the damned luck, to have brought her back to the place they took her. He’d heard the kid talking about the attack, bragging about what he’d done. He knew that Sister Beth, for all her elegant calm, had witnessed some of that slaughter, had known the victims. She’d put up with everything he’d thrown at her, mostly without complaint, even been stupid enough to have tried to save his life. He’d finally found the one thing that could break her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and those words never came easily when he actually meant them, as he did now. “I didn’t realize this was your mission. The man at the cantina said they gave the old priest and the women a decent burial, and the whole village attended, for what that’s worth. But there’s nothing you can do for them now, and this is our best, safest chance. You can’t walk any further, I’m about to pass out from hunger, and God knows what Dylan’s likely to do. We have to stop, at least for one night.”
“I can’t go in there.”
“Yes, you can. There are no such things as ghosts, sweetheart. And if there were, don’t you think they’d be on your side?”(
She turned on him, her sweet eyes suddenly blazing. “Don’t you understand? I failed them. I was in the schoolroom while they were being slaughtered, and if Carlos didn’t know I was worth money I would have been dead too. Once again I get to buy myself out of trouble while other people, innocent, good people pay the price.”
He looked down at her, and shrugged. “Life’s a bitch, lady. If you want to sleep outside you can, but I wouldn’t recommend it. There are nasty things that can roam around villages. So you were lucky enough to be born with a shitload of money. Cheers. When you get back give it all away if it makes you feel that guilty. After you pay me for rescuing you, of course. But in the meantime pick up your feet and get your butt inside before anyone notices we’re here.”
Her mouth was set in a mulish expression he hadn’t seen before, so he simply sighed, moved toward her and slung her over his shoulder before she had time to argue. She pounded on his back, and he cursed when she hit the knife wound he’d been so careful to hide, but he simply continued up the steps, ignoring her, slamming the door after them.
He set her down, keeping a hand on her in case she decided to bolt. He hadn’t needed that extra abuse on his ribs, and he certainly didn’t need to be running after her, but after glaring at him she settled into a sullen, acquiescent silence.
“Where’s the infirmary?”
That caught her nosey interest. “It’s the building right next to this one. This is the school, the one next to it is the hospital, and beyond that are the dormitories.”
“That where you slept?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll be able to find clean clothes. Does this place come with electricity or hot water?”
“It did,” she said after a moment. “Father Pascal was trying to fix the generator when he was cut down.”
“Maybe I’ll see what I can do with it.”
“No!”
He’d released her arm, but she simply grabbed his hand. “Why, Sister Beth, I do believe you’re worried about me. I promise you that the rebels who attacked here are long gone, and if any of them lingered they wouldn’t be likely to get the drop on me. I’m a far cry from your gentle priest.” He was hoping to coax a smile at the absurd comparison, or at least a relaxation of her death grip, but she didn’t move.
“I don’t know what we’d do if you were killed.”
He covered her hand with his, slowly detaching her death grip. “Well, darling, I’ll tell you,” he said, “if someone managed to sneak up on me and slit my throat, then I think you’d both already be dead, seeing as the two of you are much easier targets, so there’s nothing to worry about. If by some miracle I get murdered and you escape, then it’s simple. You steal a car – I’m willing to bet young Dylan knows how to hotwire an engine. You head east, to the nearest port city, which I suspect will be Puerto Claro, and get on the next plane, boat, or surfboard you can find and get the hell out of Dodge. And when you get home raise a glass of the good Irish in my memory.”
“No.”
“Damn, woman, you’re like a toddler who’s just learned a new word. Do you have any idea how much I hate the word ‘no’?”
“I can imagine.” She was clinging to the sleeve of his shredded shirt, and if he didn’t get away from her she’d notice the bleeding and start fussing, and he couldn’t stand fussing.
“Then are you going to let go of your death grip on me and let me take care of business? Or do you want me to come back to your room with you?”
She let go immediately, and he gave her a cynical smile. “That’s what I thought. Why don’t you go see what food they left behind while I look into the electricity? With any luck you can take a hot bath and soak your feet.”
She wasn’t happy with the idea, but she stopped arguing, and he congratulated himself on his cleverness as he headed out in the direction of the utility shed where doubtless the generator lodged. All he had to do was threaten her with his attentions and she’d do anything. He’d been used to things the other way around.
The utility shed was easy enough to locate – they’d hacked at it with their machetes in a futile effort to break the lock, but it was still intact. Something must have scared the rebels off before they could steal the generator. He glanced around the dusty courtyard in search of something that would help him either pick or break the lock and noticed the stained patches. Old blood – the priest and the helpers would have been murdered here, probably protecting the Goddamned generator. Though from what that little monster had said, half the murders were for fun and games. He kicked dust over the tell-tale stains; it wouldn’t do for Beth to come across them. She was already spooked enough, and he needed to keep her calm and distracted while they rested up.
He ended up breaking the lock with a rock, something that lacked finesse but worked just fine, and the generator was a piece of cake. He listened to its noisy hum with satisfaction, then primed the water pump so that water flowed into the mission. His grandfather had been a mechanic, and MacGowan always told himself the gift for practicality had skipped his father and come directly to him. There wasn’t a machine he couldn’t coax to life given enough opportunity.
His rib was bleeding again, thanks to his exertions with Sister Beth. His next stop was the infirmary to see whether the Guiding Light had left any medical supplies behind.
There wasn’t much. He took off his shirt and t-shirt, removing the blood-soaked pad gingerly. He could have used a few stitches to pull the slash together, but it was mostly shallow, with only a deeper gash at the end of the wound. He poured alcohol over it to clean it, sucking in his breath at the searing pain of it, then began blotting it with gauze as the blood began to flow. He ought to let it bleed for a bit, just to finish clearing it out, when he heard a muffled noise, and he froze.
He’d left the machete with Dylan, who’d found great pleasure in trail-blazing through the tropical jungle, hacking at the plant life. He pulled the gun from the back of his jeans and headed toward the noise, as silent as the ghosts who hau
nted this place.
The adjoining room was empty. He recognized it as a rudimentary kitchen, efficient enough to have fed the daily students and the few inhabitants of the mission. He heard the muffled noise again, and the hackles on his skin rose. It was the sound of a woman, and if anyone was messing with Sister Beth he’d rip them apart, limb by limb.
He moved around the wide counter, silent as always. She was sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, her fist in her mouth to try to quiet her sobs, and he realized he hadn’t actually seen her cry before. He knew she had, during their endless march down the mountains. She wasn’t in the kind of shape that trek demanded – few people were, but she’d kept up, and only occasionally he’d seen the marks of tears on her dirty face, and he’d wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her.
He hadn’t touched her. He should walk away now, let her cry in privacy, but he couldn’t move, torn.
She must have felt his eyes on her, for she suddenly swallowed her sob on a choked gasp and looked up at him, her huge, sorrow-filled eyes a sharper pain than the knife slash.
He moved slow enough, so as not to spook her, to give her plenty of time to move, but she stayed where she was, her huge eyes looking into his, and she fucking broke his heart, if he still possessed such a useless organ. He sank down on the floor beside her, but she didn’t flinch away. And then it was a foregone conclusion – he lifted her onto his lap, pressed her face against his bare shoulders, and held her, as her weeping returned, no longer muffled, a wail of pain and sorrow that had been boxed up too long, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her with more tenderness than he would have held a child, and let her weep.