But it was Carl Grace’s voice that came back to her.
“Medic is on his way in. Keep Drummond comfortable. No reports of any bomb going off in the atmosphere as of yet. Whatever you two did, well done, agents.”
“You get someone in here to help my partner, and we’ll call it even.”
“They’re on their way. You have to get Dr. Patel into custody.”
“I’m out of bullets and left my gear in the ceiling. And my partner is down. Let someone else get her.” As she spoke, she was easing Nicholas out of the heavy gear he was wearing. When she got it off him, he could breathe more easily. Nicholas sucked in air. “Don’t worry about me. Mike, go. She might have a separate override. Go get Patel. Be careful, she’s quite mad, utterly over the edge.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “I will. You’re going to be okay. Do you hear me?” She took his gun, shoved it into her pants.
“How do I get out of here?”
He pointed. “To the right of where you came in. She went through a door there, down the hallway. I’m low on bullets, too, but there’s a tranquilizer gun in the pocket of my vest. In case.”
Mike pulled out the tranq gun and shoved it in her pocket. With a last pat on his shoulder, she went to the steel door, punched the button. The doors slid open, and she stepped out into the hall.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
T-MINUS 00:00:01:03
Nevaeh waited.
Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes, saw the clock no longer counting down, it was now running forward. The bomb had to have exploded, but where were the Numen? There were no lights in the sky to announce their arrival, only the keening of the wind, eerie and mournful, and the first drops of rain coming through the open roof with the passing of the eye. The blood moon was obscured by dark, angry clouds for a moment, then they raced past. The moon shined brightly down. And still, nothing.
She didn’t know what to think. Was there some sort of problem? Hadn’t the EMP blown all the satellites dead? Surely that had happened, but what was wrong? Where were they?
She slid out of her chair, staggered as she set the heavy Heaven Stone down on the floor. She ran to the roof’s control, shut it so her telescope wouldn’t be ruined.
But the rest of her was screaming inside.
This wasn’t happening. She had programmed the computers herself. Once the flight computer took over the countdown there was no stopping it. Was there? And she’d shot that agent dead. But it hadn’t gone off, she was sure of it now.
She ran toward the control center. She would set off the bomb herself.
The doors to the command center slid open. Yes, there was the FBI agent on the floor where she’d left him, but the steel door that led out of the command center was open, and a woman—not Kiera—was running out of it.
Nicholas saw Patel and yelled, “Mike!”
He wasn’t dead? How could that be? Patel watched the woman jerk around. She was wearing a black watch cap, ripped pants and shirt.
“Bitch! You’re dead, like your friend here will be dead very soon now.”
And Nevaeh charged her, raising her gun as she ran.
How odd, Mike was thinking as Patel came toward her. The woman was wearing, of all things, what looked like a white Roman toga. Her eyes were quite mad, Nicholas was right about that.
Mike pulled out the tranq gun and pulled the trigger.
Nevaeh felt a single sharp pain, but only for a moment, nothing more than a bee sting really, and then she began to feel—happy. Happier than she’d felt in so many years, since she’d first met the Numen. She smiled. They’d come. They’d brought incredible light. It flooded over her, encased her. She whispered, “You came for me. At last.”
She hadn’t failed. She knew blessed victory, she’d done it. The world would be hers now. Ah, what she would do, the Numen at her side. And they sang to her, Yes, Nevaeh, what we will do together. Together.
A white light shined bright on her face. Nevaeh looked up into the blurred face of a woman kneeling over her. She seemed to be floating above her. “You’re not Kiera.”
“No, I’m not. She’s dead.”
Nevaeh smiled. “Oh no, that can’t be right. No one could kill Kiera.” Then she was drawn inward again, and the light sharpened, hurt her eyes.
The woman was shaking her now, peeling back her eyelids, feeling her pulse. She was talking, Nevaeh could hear words, but they made no sense. The room filled with figures and she felt joy overcome the pain. They were here. The Numen had come for her.
They gathered her up in their arms, and she was being carried. She felt safe, loved. She felt blessed warmth, tenderness. Was that a heartbeat she heard against her face? Did the Numen have hearts just there? She whispered, “Thank you. I am ready.”
They didn’t answer.
She closed her eyes, settled into the strong arms that held her, and let the waves of warmth carry her away.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Mike didn’t watch Mills’s team carry Nevaeh out of the control room. She was leaning over Nicholas, checking the wound. “Okay, you hang in here with me, you hear? Oh, yes, Patel—you’re right, she is certifiable.”
His teeth were gritted.
“I know, it hurts like bloody hell. Help’s on the way—”
Suddenly, his cell phone sang out, “Rule, Britannia!” And she nearly jumped a foot. She fumbled, found his cell, answered.
“Nicholas? It’s your mother. I’ve solved it, it was Mr. Able’s wife who killed him. She was the lover—”
What to do, what to say? “Mrs. Drummond, I’m sorry, but Nicholas isn’t available right now. Congratulations on solving the crime. He always says you’re a whiz. I’m sorry, but I have to go. He’ll get back to you.” And she punched off, fast.
Surprisingly, Nicholas looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “I heard. She did it. Not surprised. Thank you, Mike.”
Mike looked up to see Poppy Bennet stride, not walk, into the control center, a phalanx of men on her heels. She was dressed in camo assault gear that looked like it had been made for the runway in Milan.
Mike laughed. “Nice duds, Poppy. I need to visit your designer.”
“I’ll give you her name. None of the regular gear fits me right, so I have it made. Word is you stopped the bomb from going off, you shot the sucker to death. Good job.”
“You were the ones who blew the door? I’ll tell you, I was sure it was the nuke going off. Medics? Tell me you brought medics.”
“Oh yes, we can’t have anything happen to Agent Drummond.”
Mike watched a medic, or a doctor, Mike didn’t know which, work on Nicholas. Another, thankfully, gave him morphine. A third fitted an oxygen mask over his face. Poppy said, “Grant was in touch with your New York headquarters. He told us everything that was happening. Fentriss wanted to have a backup for you, so we diverted back and sent up a relief team. When the eye hit, we flew in with a couple of medics and another team. Though it seems like all you needed was the medics. Are you hurt? You’re limping.”
“Ah, I broke my ankle a few weeks back, only a hairline fracture, and I think I’ve recracked it. It’s Nicholas who was hurt.” She swallowed down tears. She felt Poppy squeeze her arm and say, “Nicholas will be okay. These guys are great. Let’s get you looked at, too.”
Nicholas, morphine now swimming happily in his veins, smiled up at her. “Hey, Poppy? Thanks. Glad you’re here.”
“Me, too. Now, Agent Drummond, you keep quiet for the moment until John here says it’s okay for you to talk.” She said to Mike, “I saw Dr. Patel being carried out. She was, of all things, singing, well, more like humming, happy as a lark. What did you do to her?”
“I got her with the tranq gun. She came flying at me, screaming like a banshee, and I shot her.”
“Good enough. She’s out of this world, will be for a while. Those tranqs can last up to four hours.”
“She was already out of this world,” Nichol
as said, then shut his mouth at the stab of pain.
Mike took his hand, held it hard.
The medic said, “Don’t worry, he’s going to live. I’m going to reinflate his lung now. Hang on tight, boss,” he said to Nicholas, “I can’t guarantee the morphine will mask all the pain.” In went the chest tube. It didn’t seem to bother Nicholas, he smiled up at her.
“Good, all done. Great stuff, morphine. Hang on, tough guy, we’re going to get you out of here. I predict a healthy future for you.” He said to Mike and Poppy, “Okay, he’s as stable as I can make him. We’re going to have to wait out the rest of this storm before we head back to Colombo. Keep him calm, it will be over in a couple of hours.”
“Copy that,” Poppy said. “You want to take a look at her ankle?”
The medic pushed and prodded, which made Mike want to kick him in the face, declared the ankle was only sprained, and wrapped it up. He offered her a pain pill, but seeing the dreamy look on Nicholas’s face, she figured one of them needed to be solid in the here and now, and reluctantly declined.
Nicholas’s eyes were closed. She pulled his head into her lap, smoothing his hair, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “We did it, partner.”
“I’ll never forget you shooting the motherboard to death. Got me hot.”
She kissed him again. “Everything gets you hot,” and he smiled, and she went on whispering silly things in his ear until he fell asleep.
EPILOGUE I
Paris Home of Jean-Pierre Broussard
Quai aux Fleurs
Île de la Cité
Jean-Pierre Broussard ran up the stairs and down the long hallway toward his daughter’s room. He paused a moment at the door, breathing light shallow breaths until the pain in his shoulder subsided. Then he gave a light knock and walked in.
Her nurse was seated beside her bed, reading a book.
Emilie lay quiet on her back. She wasn’t asleep, her beautiful eyes were open. She heard him and slowly, with difficulty, turned her head to face him. Her eyes filled with pleasure. “Papa.”
He was at her side in a moment. He sat down, leaned over, and kissed her. He looked into her beloved young face, lightly ran his fingers through her beautiful hair.
The nurse started to say something, but Broussard waved her off. “Please leave us. I wish to be alone with my daughter.”
“I am so glad you are here, Papa. No one tells me anything, but I knew, I knew in my heart something was wrong, something bad happened to you—”
“Shush, ma petite, it’s nothing. I’m here and I have a grand present for you. Emilie, you will be completely well in but an instant of time.”
He gently cupped her white hands around the Holy Grail.
EPILOGUE II
Nicholas’s House
New York
The big black FBI SUV pulled to the curb, and Nicholas sighed with satisfaction. “Home at last. I’m counting on you, Mike, to protect me from Nigel’s wrath.”
Mike slapped his leg. “Not a chance I’d leave you to him, not in your current pathetic invalid state.”
“Who are you calling a pathetic invalid? You look as bad as I do.”
That was the truth.
They both stepped gingerly from the SUV and thanked their driver, Agent Franks, a dour older agent who looked like he’d rather take them to the Lenox Hill Hospital emergency room. Franks started to hand over their bags, but Nigel burst out the front door and beat him to it.
He grabbed the bags, then dropped them to the sidewalk. He took Nicholas’s hand to hold him still, and examined him closely. He finally said, “Well, you’re alive and walking, that’s something.”
“Nigel, I’m more than alive. Stop fussing. I really am fine now.”
“Well, neither of you look fine. Let’s get you inside, I’ve made tea, or perhaps something with a bit more bite would be more appropriate for the situation.”
Mike gave him a hug. “Really, I look worse than I am, and Nicholas looks better than he should. What would be more appropriate?”
Nicholas said, “I hope you’re talking about Talisker, beginning with a double.”
Nigel looked them up and down—Mike back in the boot to help her ankle heal faster, bruises on her jaw and a black eye, and Nicholas with his arm in a sling, beard stubble, looking battered. He shook his head at the two of them. “Come inside and let’s get you set up. The library, I think, the light’s good right now. Then, once you’re settled, I suppose you’ll tell me what you’ve been up to these past few days? I’ve spoken to Gray and Adam, of course, but I want to hear it from your mouths.”
“I can tell you faster than Nicholas. We stopped a bomb exploding in Sri Lanka, we received über thanks from the president, we were debriefed and discharged from the hospital in Colombo, Blue Mountain flew us back to Lyon where we handed over the Holy Grail—yes, that’s what I said—to Jean-Pierre Broussard. Broussard left the hospital and flew immediately to Paris and to give the Grail to his dying daughter. He called earlier, deliriously happy, said she was well again. So yes, the Holy Grail is very real. Broussard thanked us until I finally had to tell him to go replace his magnificent treasure-hunting yacht, if he could talk the insurance company into footing the bill.
“Then we met with Grant, who was going to go home to Kitsune and tell her the whole story, well, maybe, parts might stand even her hair on end, and finally Nicholas and I boarded a plane home, courtesy of the CIA. I bet Mr. Zachery is going to love that. The end.”
Nicholas’s laugh was pathetic, but he tried. The doctors had told him the bullet wound would ache every once in a while. He wondered how long he’d be tied to a desk.
He said, “Talk about succinct. Just a bit more. In between calls with the White House, the CIA, the FBI, and a host of other people, all who wanted to either congratulate us or dress us down, we did manage to catch some sleep. All in all, we’re alive and plan to stay that way.”
Nigel said as he shepherded them inside and into the elevator, “Of all things, a CIA agent was here yesterday. He dropped off some papers he said you’d need to sign when you got home. His name was Mills, and he looked like he’d been through a war like you two. He limped. He looked around the house, said he might have known you were rich since you were such a prick. He said though that since you’d saved the world a lot of grief and suffering, he wouldn’t hold your prickness against you.”
Nicholas laughed. “So I’m a prick? He’s an idiot. You said Vinny looked pathetic? He was limping? Serves him right, even though I’m glad he’s up and about. What’s this paperwork?”
After Nigel settled them in Nicholas’s library, Nicholas on one of the leather sofas, Mike beside him, he handed them the papers Mills had brought to the house.
He was back quickly, carrying a tray with a steaming pot of tea on it, a full bottle of Talisker, and two shot glasses that didn’t go very well with the Royal Doulton china cups.
Nicholas opened the package from Mills as Mike poured them each a double shot of Scotch whisky. The tea wasn’t touched, but Mike did say, “Pretty cups, the Gorgeous Rebecca would like them.”
They toasted each other, slugged down the whisky nonstop. Mike gasped for breath, felt fire all the way to her belly. Nicholas, curse him, was grinning at her. “Another one, please.”
She poured them both another shot while Nicholas read the papers. He burst out, “Bloody hell, you’re not going to believe this, Mike. The bloody CIA, namely Carlton Grace, wants to pay me for my program that, I must say, very elegantly erases a computer’s hard drive in a nanosecond. Remember the one I erased in Lyon before we jetted off to Sri Lanka? And that idiot Vinny was foaming at the mouth? That’s what he’s talking about. I guess Vinny went whining to Grace. Ah, here’s a note from Grace at the bottom. ‘Dear Agent Drummond, you sell the CIA this program and we will consider our two agencies even.’ ”
Mike drank down the rest of her whisky, wheezed a bit, then yelled, “Even? Did that CIA yahoo really have the gal
l to say we’d be even? As soon as my ankle’s well again, I’m going down to Langley and give him a piece of my mind. Well, no, I need all my brain, but I could go down and punch him out.”
Nicholas tried not to laugh, it hurt too much. He managed to get out, “Alas, you did get to fly in a jet and get refueled in midair, all thanks to Mr. Grace, CIA.”
She poured them another shot. “Yeah, so pulling five G’s was a really big deal, but still, we kept that idiot Al-Asaad—Vinny—alive, doesn’t that count for something?”
Nigel stuck his head in the library. “I have a roast in the oven, I’m going to check it now. Dinner is at seven o’clock. You two get some rest, and then I’ll feed you and you can fill in all the very fine details I’m sure you neglected to tell me.” He eyed them, said, “Or, the two of you can continue drinking that amazing Talisker and I’ll simply put both of you to bed when you pass out.”
Nicholas tossed down the rest of his whisky, handed Mike his glass, watched her pour two more. She said, “I don’t want to stop drinking and I want to keep yelling at the CIA.”
They heard Nigel laugh outside the library.
Nicholas said, “I bet he’s off to call his father at home. Then Horne and my parents will discuss everything, down to the five G’s we pulled and your emptying your magazine into the motherboard to a nuke. Wait, they don’t know that yet.”
Mike held up her glass, gave him a silly grin. “I’ll drink to that.”
By the time Mike called her parents, she was very content with her world, and so mellow she could have danced the tango on her sprained ankle and not felt a thing. She gave them a finely edited rendition of what had happened, in a soft, blurry voice. Her father didn’t believe her for a minute, probably knew she was drunk, and the Gorgeous Rebecca wanted to hear more about Jean-Pierre Broussard.
When she punched off, she sat back, took a sip of the incredible Talisker. “It’s like we’re an old married couple, having drinks at the end of the day. I’m all sort of relaxed, how about you?”
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