Now You See Him... Page 20

  "I wish you'd let me ride in the ambulance," Francey said, squirming slightly. The two airport officials on either side of her were very large, cramping her on the small back seat of the Fiat.

  "Sorry, miss, but you'd just be in the way," the kinder looking man on the right said. "Your cousin's suffered a massive heart attack, and the paramedics are doing their best to stabilize him. They don't need the likes of you getting in their way."

  She thought she could hear the charming trace of Ireland in his voice, and she had to stifle her instinctive, distrustful reaction. She was so desperate to get away from the life her cousin had chosen, from lying, deceitful men. The airplane had been so close, freedom just a few steps away. If she'd been able to leave she truly believed she could have turned her back on Michael Dowd—or whoever the hell he was—forever.

  But Daniel's collapse had changed all that. Through the exigencies of fate she was being drawn back into the spider's web of deceit. And there was no longer any way she could retreat.

  The car took a sharp right, and Francey looked up, the first inklings of dread washing through her as she watched the ambulance continue barreling straight ahead. "Why aren't we following them?"

  "We're taking a shortcut," the kindly man said. "They'll be going to the emergency entrance, and you'll need to go to the business office, fill out papers and the like. You know hospitals—bureaucracies like all the rest. Don't worry, we'll get there in good time."

  She didn't believe him. He had such a broad, trustworthy face, such warmth in his blue eyes and ruddy smile, such concern in his voice. She wanted to believe him so badly, and she knew she'd made a major mistake in getting into the car with him. Not that he'd given her any alternative. The two men had come up on either side of her as the paramedics were loading Daniel into the ambulance, and she'd been too frightened and upset to put up more than a cursory argument.

  "We're in trouble, boy-o," the previously silent driver announced in a voice thick with Ireland. "Someone's following us."

  "Lose him," the man said briefly, patting Francey's limp hand.

  "What's going on?" she asked, knowing full well she wasn't going to like the answers.

  But no answers were forthcoming. "You want to finish her now? You know what happened to Niall—we wouldn't want to displease the powers-that-be."

  "Killing her now would be the height of stupidity," the kind man said. "If whoever's following us has backup, we'll have nothing to bargain with. And if we get back with her already dead, the boss will cut our throats. Just shut up and drive." He turned and gave Francey an affable smile. "Sorry about this, miss."

  "You're the Cadre."

  "And you're not very careful. This time you don't have the Cougar to keep you safe. You're on your own, and no one's going to rescue you this time."

  "I wouldn't count on that, Dex," the driver said, his voice tight with panic. "Who the hell do you think is following us?"

  Francey tried to swivel around, but Dex clamped a hand on her arm, holding her in place while the silent man on her other side stared out the back.

  She heard the crack of glass. The man slumped down beside her. A moment later she heard the whine of a bullet, and the driver swerved off the road, cursing, stopping at an angle on the side of the roadway.

  Her seatmate had fallen in her lap. She pushed him away from her, and her hands were wet and sticky with blood. She wanted to scream, but she had no breath in her. Dex had grabbed her arm and pulled her from the stalled car. A moment later she was clasped against his body, a human shield, and she could feel a cool steel gun barrel against her temple.

  The car that had followed them pulled ahead, stopping in front of the car, blocking their exit. The driver was already running, disappearing into the distance, but the man holding her was made of sterner stuff. He wasn't going to run away.

  "Hey, Cougar," he shouted toward the dark car with the smoked windows. "You want to strike a bargain?"

  Francey watched, numb, as the door opened. She knew who would step out, and yet she couldn't quite believe it. Once more he looked completely different. Charlie had vanished. So had Michael Dowd, and the dream lover from the boat. This man was closer to the drunken Arab who'd brought her out of purgatory, though this time it looked as if he were there to deliver his own taste of hell.

  He didn't even glance at her. All his attention was focused on the man holding her. The hand digging into her arm was sweaty, and the gun trembled against her temple. He might very well kill her by accident if Michael wasn't careful.

  "What kind of bargain?" Michael asked in a voice that bordered on indifference.

  "You want the lady?"

  "I want the lady." It was spoken softly, but Francey felt a chill slide down her backbone.

  "Then you'll have to bargain. I want your car. I want you to put the gun down. And I want you to step back while I drive away. I'll leave her safe and sound in the next town."

  Michael smiled. "Don't waste my time, Dex. Let her go."

  "In the next town. Or I swear I'll blow her brains out right now."

  "And then I'll kill you."

  "I don't mind dying for the cause," he said nervously. "I just don't like losing."

  "Too bad," Michael said gently. "You're going to do both."

  Dex was shivering behind her, and cold sweat was soaking through his clothes, through hers. Francey didn't move, couldn't move as she watched with numb fascination. Dex held the gun, the hostage. And he was terrified of the man confronting them. So terrified that he was bound to make a lethal mistake. Yet she felt only a passing interest in whether her life was going to be forfeit in that mistake.

  "I'll give you the girl," Dex said hoarsely. "Here and now. You let me take the car, get the hell out of here…"

  "No."

  "I'll disappear. No one will have to know…"

  "The Cadre will find you," Michael said. "You know they will. And you know how they deal with traitors."

  "I'm not a traitor!" Dex said desperately. "I just know when the odds are against me. Cougar, let me go."

  "Let the woman go."

  She could feel his indecision. The gun at her temple wavered for a moment, but a moment was long enough.

  Dex fell backward, his sweaty hands slipping from her, and a second later she heard a whine and pop, the delayed report from Michael's gun. She stared down at the man at her feet, the pool of blood.

  "You killed him," she said in a harsh whisper. "He was going to let me go. He was starting to release me…"

  "He was about to shove you at me and then shoot us both." Michael was cool and matter-of-fact. "Get in the car and let's get the hell out of here."

  "He might not be dead…" She started to lean down, to touch Dex's fallen body, when Michael crossed the space that separated them and hauled her upright.

  "He's dead. Trust me. Now get in the car."

  "I'm not going anywhere with a murderer." The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. His face was cool, handsome, absolutely expressionless. For a moment she wondered whether he would hurt her. And then she knew he wouldn't. No matter what he'd done, what crimes he'd committed, why he did what he did, one thing had been constant. He'd been trying to help her.

  "Get in the car," he said again from between clenched teeth. "Or I swear to God I'll knock you over the head and drag you there."

  So much for not hurting her. She moved stiffly, her body radiating outrage and indignation. "I'll get in the car," she said, "because I have no other way of getting to Daniel. But I don't want to have to talk with you, look at you, or have anything to do with you."

  "You'll get in the car because I'm not giving you any other option. I imagine the driver's long gone, but that doesn't mean he won't be back. There's nothing I'd like better than to find some nice quiet jail cell and put you back there until this blows over, but I don't think I have that option. So get in the damned car and stop arguing."

  Francey got in the car.

  He clim
bed in beside her, and he seemed huge, overpowering, in the cramped space as he put his gun on the seat between them. It smelled of smoke and what she imagined was cordite, and it was lethal, black and ugly.

  He glanced over at her, huddled by the door. "Put on your seat belt."

  It was suddenly too much. "I've been kidnapped, shot at, nearly raped, imprisoned, bombed, had my car sabotaged, and you tell me to put on my seat belt? Why don't you give me a lecture about safe sex while you're at it?"

  Only by a slight stiffening in his shoulders could she see that her barb had hit home. Ignoring her, he reached over and yanked the seat belt across her lap. "Do me a favor," he said softly. "Keep your mouth shut or I'll gag you."

  She almost told him to try it. But some last-minute wisdom stopped her. He was a man who was more than capable of doing just that. He'd just killed two men—why would he balk at a little bondage? Ignoring him, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, willing the inner trembling to subside. Daniel would make things better. She just needed to hold on till Michael brought her to the hospital, then disappeared into whatever fantasy he was living out. Surely she could keep herself together that long.

  The car started with a jerk. He was driving fast, probably much too fast for the narrow island roads, but she refused to open her eyes and look. She was already intimidated by his presence, the size of him, the heat of him, the sheer animal intensity of him. In the shadows the night before he'd been disturbing. In the daylight he was overwhelming. Her only defense was to try to withdraw into some safe place of her own making. She'd been able to do that in prison, but that particular gift was failing her sorely. She knew why. She could hide from anything in this life. Anything but Michael.

  She had blood on her dress. He hoped she hadn't noticed, but he couldn't count on that. Francey could be far too observant when she wanted to be, and right now she had nothing to gain by hiding from the truth. She'd hidden from reality when they'd been in the Caribbean, but the last weeks had brought life crashing down on her. Even if she wanted to, he doubted she could keep the truth from intruding.

  She'd shut him out when she'd shut her eyes. Which suited him just fine for the present. He didn't want to talk to her, either. What could he do, offer excuses, apologies, explanations? None of them was good enough.

  He had that sick, angry feeling inside that he always got when he had to kill. It didn't matter that he'd had no choice. It didn't matter that he could have killed the driver but had let him escape. It didn't even matter that he knew the history of the two men he'd killed, the crimes they'd committed, the innocent lives they'd ended. He'd learned long ago that nothing could assuage the burning inside, the hollow, empty feeling.

  Once upon a time he'd hoped that Francey could. That tiny kernel of purity in her had been like a beacon. As long as he could keep her safe, then there would be a haven for him.

  He knew now that that had been a foolish, romantic longing. There was no haven for him anywhere, and particularly not with her. She'd seen him kill. She knew his lies. And she knew he'd come to her bed when she was too drugged and shocked to have any conscious say in the matter.

  It had been a taste of heaven, and one of the worst mistakes of his life. He'd hoped actually making love to her would wipe out the obsession. Nothing could be as good as the fantasy that he'd built up over the weeks.

  But it had been. Better than the fantasy, better than any reality he'd ever known. He'd been able to turn his back and leave, knowing it was saving her, knowing he was being noble, self-sacrificing, and his one selfless act might somehow atone for his countless sins.

  But she'd been brought back into his life time and time and time again. The more he fought it, the more he hurt her. As long as the Cadre existed to spin its murderous webs, then he and Francey were going to be caught in them. He had to stash her someplace safe while he finished with them. And then he could finish with Francey.

  "Where are we?" She'd opened her eyes finally, staring around her with growing rage. "We should be at the hospital by now."

  "We're not going to the hospital." They were taking a narrow road that ran along the sparsely populated western side of the island. The sea was beyond, gray and angry. It matched his soul.

  He waited for her to start screaming at him, fully prepared for her to launch her body at him. She stayed very still in that distant corner of the front seat. "What about Daniel?" she said finally.

  "Daniel will either recover or not. Your presence won't make a difference. In case you haven't noticed, the Cadre wants you dead. If you're at the hospital, they'll come after you there. They won't stop until they get you."

  "For God's sake, why? Patrick is dead, and probably Caitlin, too. I didn't kill Patrick, you did. And I didn't mean to kill Caitlin. I was stupid enough to give them a lot of money. What more do they want from me? Why should one idiotic American female matter so damned much?"

  "She shouldn't. But the leader of the Cadre has an obsession, and the members follow orders without question." He turned inland onto a narrow, winding drive. Francey didn't appear to notice.

  "Why should the leader of the Cadre be so determined to kill me? Was he Caitlin's lover? Does he want revenge for her death?"

  There was no reason not to tell her. He'd already told her too much. The more lies she was fed, the more she went ferreting for the truth. Maybe he could placate her, shock her into acquiescence, with enough of the truth. "Caitlin Dugan didn't die that night in New York."

  He hated the expression that sprang into her eyes. "She didn't? She's still alive? Why didn't you tell me that last night? What happened to her?"

  "I don't know the details," he said sourly. "I was otherwise occupied, taking out your murderous lover."

  "We weren't lovers," she said automatically, and he didn't know whether he believed her or not. Or why it mattered. "But if she's alive," she went on, oblivious to his reaction, "then I could see her. Reason with her. There must be some humanity still left in her. No matter how monstrous she is, she's still my family. I can't believe that she couldn't call off the leader of the Cadre…"

  "Caitlin Dugan is the leader of the Cadre," Michael said flatly.

  The color and animation drained from her face. "She's trying to kill me?"

  "She always was. And she won't stop until you're dead. Or she is." He pulled up outside a decaying villa, but she didn't even notice, still intent on him.

  "So you're going to kill her?"

  He didn't bother to deny it. "Yes."

  "I can't let you do that."

  "You're not going to have any say in the matter. My mission is to deactivate the most ruthless group of fanatics ever to be born on English soil. To intercept a shipment of arms and money, and to wipe out the last remaining members. The Cadre won't let themselves be taken prisoner. If we don't kill Caitlin, she'll kill herself rather than let herself be taken."

  "Then let her," Francey said with sudden fierce passion. "Wipe out her organization, destroy their evil, but don't kill her. Not for her sake. But for yours. Promise me, Michael."

  God, he wanted to. He would have given years off his life to offer her that assurance. "My name isn't Michael," he said coldly. "And I have no promises for you."

  The light went out of her eyes. She gave up on him then, he knew it without question. Before, a part of her heart had belonged to him. Now it was wiped out, one more casualty of the Cadre's far-reaching destructiveness. One more casualty of his own empty way of life.

  "Get in the house," he said, turning off the engine and pulling the key. He wouldn't have put it past her to try to make a run for it.

  She didn't. Instead she looked down at her hands lying limp in her lap, at the blood on her silk skirt. She touched the stains that were rapidly turning brown in the hot, dry air, and she shivered. "Damn you, Michael," she whispered, staring at her hands.

  "You can curse me to your dying day," he drawled, forcing a casual tone. "But at least that'll be decades away, and not tomorrow. Out
of the car, Francey, or I'll carry you."

  She looked up sharply then, and he could see the intensity of her emotions burning just beneath the surface. Hatred for him, without any question. He accepted it.

  Without a word she opened the car door, sliding out and standing in front of the tumbledown villa. "What is this place?"

  "A place to hide. No one outside the organization even knows of its existence. You'll be safe here."

  "The organization? Now why doesn't that fill me with confidence?"

  "The only one you have to fear in the organization is Ross Cardiff, and he's still in Spain. Assuming he managed to swim to shore." The moment the words were out he regretted them.

  "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

  "I threw him off the True Blue. Last time I saw him, he was floundering around in Mariz harbor."

  The light had come back into her eyes. "You did that for me?"

  "Hell, no. I did it because he'd screwed up the mission by his rash actions."

  "Didn't I do the same? By coming after you, asking questions? Why didn't you throw me to the sharks?"

  "You'd already been there," he said flatly. "Don't get sentimental, Francey. I'd been looking for an excuse to get the drop on Cardiff for a long time. You simply provided it."

  "I see."

  "You'll find food in the kitchen area. There's no power, but the kerosene lamps are cleaned and ready. No telephone, either, and you'll be at least twenty miles from the nearest neighbor, so I wouldn't try to make it on foot if I were you. Someone will come to collect you as soon as it's safe."

  "You're not leaving me here."

  "You have no choice in the matter."

  "The hell I don't," she said, as all her hard-won control suddenly short-circuited. And she leaped at him, her fury and rage and pain centered directly on him.