Saint saw her too, and cracked, “Maybe she’s bringing us lunch.”
Narice studied the old woman’s agitated face. “Something’s wrong, Saint.”
They dropped their shovels and hurried to intercept her.
She was winded but said clearly, “Those folks you brought that rocket shooter for are here. Eight, nine of them coming up the bank like slavers.”
Saint quickly scanned the land behind her. “Did they see you?”
“Probably. I shot two of them. When they scattered I took off.”
Saint was impressed. “All right, Miss Camille, you and Narice take cover over in those trees.”
Saint waited until the women were safely hunkered down behind the wide trunk of a tree to his right, then took up his own position behind the chimney. The clearing gave him a panoramic view of the surroundings. While keeping a sharp eye out for cockroaches he fed the launcher some shells, then settled down to wait.
It wasn’t a long one. Three men; thin, brown-skinned and wearing bad suits and pointed toe shoes crept into the clearing. Aunt Camille said eight or nine. Minus the two she shot, that left three maybe four unaccounted for. Saint didn’t wait, he hit the trigger to see how many more he could flush out. The first volley of shells blew up the clearing like a bomb going off in a war zone. He heard screams and cries but closed his ears and fired again; this time to the left of his initial strike. Once again, he heard cries, then came the sound of returning automatic gunfire. The bullets were strafing the area around him so fiercely Saint had to lie flat to keep his head from being sheared off. Ammo exploded around him like hellish rain keeping him pinned down and unable to fire back. He felt like an extra in the movie Scarface.
The nineteenth-century chimney was no match for the twenty-first-century firepower now blasting it to pieces. Another automatic weapon joined the fray and began adding its bullets to Saint’s dilemma. He got nicked a few times, which made him mad, and by habit he ignored the familiar burn. Instead he concentrated on crawling as fast as he could to a safer spot. It was time to get out of Dodge.
The bullets peppered the ground on both sides of him, but he made it to one of the trees on the outskirts of the clearing and hoisted the launcher on his shoulder. His returning volley caused mayhem and chaos. He blasted, then blasted again. On the heels of his last blast, a voice aided by a megaphone filled the clearing. “This is the Georgia Highway Patrol, I want everybody, and I do mean everybody to drop their weapons and show themselves.”
Saint thought he heard a chopper off in the distance but with all the other noise he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it or not. He was sure he’d been nicked by a few bullets, though, and looked down at the blood on his arm and cursed. He scanned nearby for his coat and saw it lying on the ground near the chimney; so much for immediate first-aid.
Narice heard the voice on the megaphone too, but worried that it might just be another Ridley trick she stayed put. During the shooting, she did her best to keep out of harm’s way, but Aunt Camille had fired back like Rambo. Narice hoped she’d have half her aunt’s courage when she reached her eighties. In the meantime, though, she could see Saint in his spot amongst the trees and that he was holding his arm. She was trying to come up with a way to get over to him and see how badly he’d been hit when she felt something hard placed against the back of her head. She went still instantly. Aunt Camille whirled. Too late. It was Ridley.
“If you move old woman I’ll kill her.”
In the silence that followed, he said, “Stand please, Ms. Jordan.”
Narice stood on shaking legs and took a deep breath to calm herself.
Like Aunt Camille, Saint saw what was playing out too late. By the time he realized what was happening, Narice was standing and Ridley had his gun on her. The megaphone hadn’t been a trick; the area was now teeming with uniformed officers and government types in suits and ties. They were lining up the cockroaches for questioning. When they saw Ridley holding Narice hostage they all drew their guns.
Saint called out, “Let her go, Ridley.”
“I’ll let her go in exchange for the Eye.”
“It’s still underground,” Saint told him. “There’s no way you’re going to make it out of here alive anyway, so let her go.”
Saint could see the officers watching him and Ridley. The desperation in Ridley’s eyes was easy to see and Saint knew that a cornered criminal was a dangerous one. One of the Georgia state troopers had maneuvered himself to Saint’s side, and asked quietly, “Who is he?”
“Arthur Ridley. Prime Minister of a little country called Nagal.”
“Prime Minister?”
“Yeah.”
“And you?”
“Name’s St. Martin. Special Envoy to the President.”
“The President? Of the United States?”
“Yeah.”
Saint turned his attention back to Ridley who was now forcing Narice to walk in front of him like a shield. Ridley announced in a loud voice, “Ms. Jordan and I are going to leave now.”
Saint had no intention of letting him leave with his sidekick. There were at least fifteen officers and agents circling the clearing and all had their guns drawn on Ridley. “Let her go, Ridley. No way you can get out of here alive.”
“Back off, St. Martin, or I’ll kill her just like I killed Simon.”
Saint shook his head. He wondered if it was a life of privilege or arrogant stupidity that made Ridley announce his role in a murder within earshot of so many lawmen and women.
The trooper next to Saint called out authoritatively, “Sir, drop your weapon and let the lady go.”
Ridley’s reply was to shoot at the officer, but before anyone could react, the man next to Saint asked in surprise, “What the hell is that?!”
Saint looked where the man was pointing and saw Jesse and James hurtling across the open grass. He yelled to the policemen, “Hold your fire!”
The dogs launched themselves at Ridley. Jesse hit him high while James hit him low. The impact of the Rottweilers’ powerful bodies knocked both Narice and Ridley to the ground. Narice managed to roll clear but Ridley was screaming as the snarling dogs tore into him. Before anyone could move, the sound of helicopter rotors filled everyone’s ears and they all looked to the sky. A black chopper with purple piping came in for a landing, sending up dust and whipping the trees. Saint gave the dogs a verbal command. The canines immediately backed off and took seats near the badly bleeding Ridley who now lay moaning on the ground. Saint ran to Narice. She hugged him and Narice stared up at the helicopter. Expecting it to start firing, she prepared to run for safety, but the sight of the woman at the copter’s controls made her relax. It was Portia. A relieved Narice smiled. It was over.
Saint’s eyes glowed at the sight of the cavalry, and he gave the dogs an affectionate pat on their heads. Confident that the police would take care of Ridley, he went to meet the chopper. First, though, he pulled Narice close and gave her a big fat kiss. She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck in joy. He kissed her hair and held her as tight as his injured arm would allow.
Portia dressed in a sharp black leather jacket, matching pants, and dark glasses stepped out of the copter. The dogs looked questioningly up at Saint, and he told him, “Go meet her.”
They took off like kids running to welcome mama.
Portia knelt down to greet them then turned her attention back to chopper. While Narice and Saint looked on, Portia stuck her hand up as if helping someone out. The someone turned out to be The Majesty. With her purple and black robes flying in the wind of the rotors, she crossed the clearing to where Saint and Narice stood.
The state trooper who’d attached himself to Saint asked, “Who’s she?”
Saint still holding Narice against his side, said, “A queen.”
The trooper’s eyes widened. Saint went to get his coat.
When he returned he handed the box to her. “Your Majesty, the Eye.”
She untied the rope, then
opened the box slowly and reverently. When she held up the big blue diamond, it caught the light and the attention of everyone looking on.
The Majesty had tears in her eyes. “Thank you, St. Martin. Thank you.”
One of the FBI agents walked up and said, “I’ll take that.”
The Majesty looked at him as if he were an insect. He turned beet red. Ignoring him, she then said, “Ms. Jordan, my country and I are forever in your debt. If you ever need anything, just call. Oh, and you both will be pleased to know that Farouk and Fulani are already on their way back home to stand trial for treason and conspiracy to kill their queen. Portia told me about your run-in with them.”
She placed the diamond back in the box.
The agent tried again. “Madam, as a representative of the U.S. government I must insist—”
“And I insist you talk with Mr. St. Martin about whatever you need to know. Portia, I am ready to go whenever you are.”
The Majesty inclined her head royally, then swept up her robes and strode regally back to the waiting chopper.
Portia said, “She’s something else.”
Saint said, “That she is.”
The police were carrying the mauled Ridley away on a stretcher.
Portia said, “We should have let the dogs finish him.”
“I know but I’ve a feeling he won’t escape jail this time. All this mayhem has to add up to some kind of charges.”
“He also confessed to killing my father,” Narice said. “That alone should put him away for a long time.”
Saint put an arm around Narice and they walked Portia back to the chopper. The dogs trailed behind them silently. “Thanks for your help. Portia. I knew you and the dogs were coming, but I didn’t know you were that close.”
“I set them down at that house on the other side of the clearing. I figured you’d want them on the ground as opposed to in the air with me.”
“You figured right.”
Narice said, “Thanks, Portia.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, and according to The Majesty you have a tiny plastique bug in one of your earrings.”
Narice’s fingers went to her gold hoops. “Is that how they kept finding us?”
“Yep. Fulani and Farouk gave up that info during their interrogation by The Majesty’s security people.”
Saint said, “But I scanned everything Narice had.”
“A new kind of plastic. If you can find it bring it home. We’ll take a look at it and see why it didn’t set off your detector.”
“Okay.”
The FBI agent had had enough. “You all are under arrest for destruction of federal property, illegal possession of military weaponry, jewel trafficking, and anything else I can think of.”
By now his buddies had joined him and they didn’t look real happy about him being dissed.
A tired Saint asked, “You got a phone?”
“Of course.”
“Hand it here. I’ll give you all the facts you need to know.”
He gave the phone to Saint who dialed, then waited for the call to go through. Then he said into the phone, “This is St. Martin. Is he there?”
Narice watched curiously and so did the police and federal agents. Saint spoke to the person on the line saying, “Got a bunch of Hoovers here who want to talk to you.”
He handed the phone to the agent and the man immediately barked, “Who is this?”
Where earlier he’d been beet red, he was now pale as the moon in January. “Yes, Mr. President,” he croaked. “Yes, sir. We will certainly give Mr. St. Martin whatever assistance he requires.”
The stunned-looking agent gave the phone back to Saint. Grinning, Saint said into the phone, “Thank you, sir. I think everyone’s on board now.” Then his face lost its grin. “Right now?”
Saint looked to Narice. “But sir. I have plans, I—Yes, sir. I will be in L.A. by midnight.”
Narice sighed. She knew what that meant.
A grim Saint clicked off, handed the phone to the agent, then he and Narice walked with Portia to the chopper.
While they walked, Narice asked, “Another pressing engagement?”
He nodded. “I have to be in L.A. by midnight. He’s doing a fundraiser there but wants to congratulate me personally. He and The Majesty went to undergrad together. When she needed help, he sent me.”
Narice tried real hard not to let her disappointment show.
“You can grab a ride with Portia. I’ll have one of the cops get me back to Lily. I’ll mail you your stuff.”
“Thanks.”
He pulled her into his arms and while holding her tight against his heart, whispered, “I didn’t want us to end like this.”
Fighting tears, she lied, “It’s okay.”
He looked down into her face, “I’ll come to Baltimore to see you as soon as I can.”
She nodded.
He hugged her close again, “We’ll talk when I see you.”
“Stay safe.”
“You too”
Portia cleared her throat. “The Majesty’s getting impatient. Narice, if you’re ready?”
She wasn’t, but she had no choice. She looked around for her aunt. Camille was standing out of the way of the rotors, watching silently. Beside her was Mr. Bewick. Now Narice knew who’d alerted law enforcement. When her eyes met her aunt’s, Camille inclined her head almost imperceptibly, then walked back towards her house.
Narice wanted to talk to her but Portia was waiting. Narice touched Saint’s bearded cheek one last time in farewell, then got on board. The dogs moved over so she could find a place to sit, and then the chopper was lifting off. With her face pressed to the window, and her heart aching, Narice watched Saint until he turned into a dot on the ground.
Nineteen
Portia took Narice to the Atlanta airport. From there, Narice caught a plane home to Baltimore. After a costly cab ride from BWI, she walked into her well-furnished condo around eleven P.M. and fell exhausted onto her blue sofa. She thanked the Lord for getting her home in one piece. Saint’s face flashed across her mind’s eye and she let herself linger on his memory for a long melancholy moment, then set him aside. The first thing she wanted was a long hot soak in a bubble-filled tub, followed by a cool glass of her finest merlot. Taking off her hikers, she stripped as she walked and by the time she made it up the stairs to the second floor she was naked. Turning on the spigots and jets in the tub, she’d just padded over to the linen closet to get a towel when the phone rang. It seemed like an eternity since she’d heard a phone ring and it took her a moment to recognize it and to answer, “Hello.”
“Hey, angel.”
The sound of his soft voice made her melt down the wall until she reached the carpeted floor of her bedroom. “Hey, yourself. Did you get your arm taken care of?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you on the way to L.A.?”
“No, still in Georgia waiting for the plane that’s picking me up. You get home okay?”
Narice couldn’t believe how much she missed him. “Yes.”
“Miss you.”
Her heart swelled in response to his soft declaration. “I miss you, too.”
“Just wanted to tell you that.”
“Thanks.”
Silence.
Then he said, “Plane’s here. I have to go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you soon.”
“Okay.”
“Bye, angel.”
“Bye, Cyclops.”
He chuckled, and was gone.
Her belongings came a few days later. Included was the quilt, which he’d had framed. The note inside said simply: For you. S. Tears in her eyes, she hung the beautiful black-framed piece on her bedroom wall.
On Monday, she returned to school and welcomed the staff and students back from the holiday break. No one knew anything about her activities during her time off other than she’d gone to Detroit to handle her father’s funeral, and she kept it that way. No one n
eeded to know that she’d fallen in love, too.
Narice spent the rest of that first week wondering about him. More than a few times she found herself staring at the phone on the desk in her office willing it to ring, but it didn’t. She told herself to stop tripping and get on with her life.
But she couldn’t. Watching the news a week later, she saw a story on Nagal. There was The Majesty in her flowing purple and black robes holding the Eye. Narice smiled. The election was underway and according to the CNN reporter, The Majesty’s block of candidates were being projected as the winners.
Narice spent the rest of the evening working on school paperwork, then went to bed. As always, after she said her prayers, Saint came to mind. She wondered where he was, what he might be doing, and if he planned to be in Nagal for the post election celebrations. She still hadn’t heard from him and for a woman who’d always been in control of her world, she didn’t know what to do with a broken heart.
That night around two A.M., Saint was in a chair in the corner of Narice’s bedroom watching her sleep. The alarm on her door had been easy to bypass, and he made a note to himself to get her a better one. He’d been thinking about her so much, he had to see her, thus this late-night visit. Not calling her was tearing him up because what they had had been special. However, he was having trouble figuring out what to do. On the one hand, there was his job. Saint liked flitting around the world saving the day, but on the other hand, not having Narice in his life was killing him. He’d been so sure that once he became accustomed to her being gone the pain of missing her would ease; it hadn’t. In fact, it was worse than ever. As time passed and his days without her turned into one week and then two, he began to dream about her, waking up hard and ready to play Make the Principal Hot. He couldn’t cook, eat, or do anything without thinking about her.
He stood then. It was time to go. He forced himself to stay where he was and not approach the bed, because if he moved any closer he wouldn’t be able to resist the intense urge to wake up her and kiss her until the were both old and gray. Instead he reached into his coat and withdrew the rose he’d brought with him. Placing it and the picture he’d brought along too down on the chair, a tight-lipped Saint left the room and exited the house the way he’d come.
The Edge of Dawn Page 26
