“You can’t prove anything.” He drew out the words in one long, gloating taunt. “Nobody is going to believe you.”
He hadn’t denied it. In fact, he’d all but admitted his complicity. Disbelief held her immobile. Struck her dumb.
How could I have missed this?
The wrath swelled again. Demanded vengeance.
She sucked in a deep breath and locked down the fury and disbelief, concentrating on her children.
“I’m not looking to prove it,” she said flatly. “I’m looking to undo it, and you’re going to help me with that.”
He smirked, a laugh slanting his swelling lips. “Seriously? ’Cause I have to say, Ames”—he rubbed his swelling lip against his shoulder—“I’m not feeling inclined to do anything for you.”
“Doesn’t matter whether you’re inclined or not, asshole.” Mac shot Clay a look of pure contempt before turning to Rawls. “Grab the med kit.” He glanced at Amy. “Wolf gave us some shit that acts like sodium thiopental, only on steroids. We can make him give us the answers we need.”
Another unknown drug? Unease squirmed through her. “Is it safe?”
Mac shrugged. “Safer than beating the information out of him.” He paused. “Lady’s choice.”
“Let’s get real.” Clay’s voice was smug. “Ames isn’t going to let you shoot me up with that shit.”
“Really?” It was Mac’s turn to sneer. “You injected her kids with shit far more dangerous. She won’t even hesitate.”
Mac was right. There was no hesitation. “Do it.”
The smugness on Clay’s face disintegrated. “You bitch!”
She turned from the frustrated hatred in her brother’s eyes to watch Rawls draw clear liquid from a vial into a syringe. “How long until the drug takes effect?”
“Five minutes, according to Wolf.” His eyes never budged from the needle.
She squared her shoulders. Five minutes, and she’d have answers. And not just the ones she needed for the boys, but the ones she needed for closure. Why had he done this to her? To the boys? Brendan had been right. Clay did seem to hate them, but why? What had she ever done to him?
“Get him in one of the chairs,” Rawls said as he set the vial back in his med kit and flicked the syringe.
Cosky’s hand tightened around Clay’s elbow, but before he had a chance to drag their captive toward one of the pool chairs, Clay jerked, a startled humph breaking from him.
A spot of red appeared on his chest and quickly spread across his white T-shirt. He crumpled.
She was still staring at the spreading stain when two hundred pounds of pure muscle tackled her, shoving her behind the barbecue station.
“Shots fired!” Mac yelled.
Stunned, Amy lay curled on her side beneath Mac’s heavy body, listening to the urgent thump of his heart.
“Sound off,” Mac said from above her.
“Five by five,” Zane and Cosky said, their all-clear indication flowing through Mac’s headset.
“Five by five.” Rawls’s voice.
Amy felt Mac’s muscles loosen. He looked down, directly into her eyes, his gaze calm. “You okay?”
She managed a nod. Her body relaxed as his heat seeped into her. Fear, confusion, rage—it all melted beneath his warmth.
“He’s using a suppresser,” Mac said, his voice a rumble above her head. His chest lifted as he breathed. “It’s gonna be a bitch locating his position.”
He meant the shooter. The red stain enveloping her brother’s shirt bloomed in her mind.
“Clay?” She forced the question out her tight throat.
“He took a round to the chest. Another to the head.” Cosky’s voice came through Mac’s headset. “I’m sorry, Amy. He was gone before I got him to cover.”
Gone?
A numb feeling spread through her body, buzzed in her head.
Clay was dead?
“Anyone else hit?” Rawls asked calmly. His question was followed by a string of negatives.
Mac pressed his palms against the flagstone and levered himself off her. Amy fought the insane impulse to drag him back down, to burrow into his hot body and lose herself in his arms. Even amid the chaos and danger, there had been something comforting about his weight pressing her into the ground.
Mac cleared his throat. “We need to move, boys. We can’t afford to be caught here. Sure as hell we’ll catch the blame for Purcell’s murder.”
Murder . . . her brother had been murdered.
A wave of unreality swamped her. Clay was dead. She forced herself to think. Everyone had been visible on the patio. The assassin could have taken any of them. But he’d chosen Clay. Shot him twice.
“The shooter was after Clay.” She spoke the realization aloud.
Had her brother been meeting someone? Was that why he’d been armed, dressed, and outside at two in the morning? If so, whoever he’d been meeting had killed him. It was the only thing that made sense.
“If he was after Purcell, he could be gone.” Mac’s tone was calculating. “There’s been no action since the original shots. Regardless, we need to move. The boys will cover us. Once we get in the house, we’ll cover them.”
With a short nod of agreement, she rose to the pads of her feet, her hand grabbing his. He froze. Slowly, his goggle-shrouded head turned in her direction. His fingers tightened around hers, and a spark jumped between them.
The tingle in her fingers spread all the way up her arm and down her spine.
“Cover us,” Mac growled into his mic, and gunfire broke out.
The earlier shots had been suppressed, but the current ones were loud enough to wake Clay’s neighbors. They needed to vacate the area ASAP.
Mac pulled Amy in front of him. They raced for the door as gunfire ripped into the night from behind them. With each step Amy listened for a grunt, groan, or startled huff from Mac.
His breath was hot and moist against the back of her neck as they closed in on the sliding-glass door. In fact, he was so close his big body heated her from ankle to shoulder.
Something about that niggled at her.
Then they were through the door. Instantly Mac pushed her to the left, behind the safety of a solid wall, and stepped in front of her. That’s when it hit. He’d used his body as a shield to protect her on the race to the door. He was doing the same thing now, defending her from possible danger.
Good Lord, the misogynistic jackass persona he presented to the world was nothing but camouflage. Who would have thought it? Commander Mackenzie was a white knight at heart.
Chapter Five
MAC TWISTED IN the bucket seat on their ride to the airport, watching Amy. She sat with her body curved toward the door, forehead pressed against the passenger window. She hadn’t said a word since leaving Purcell’s place.
He shifted uneasily, the fabric backrest of his seat making a shushing sound. Which was so fucking applicable, since platitudes hovered on the tip of his tongue. Nothing he said would help. He knew that. So yeah . . . shush . . . shush . . . Excellent advice, even if it came from a seat cushion.
Except . . . there was something isolated and lonely about her rigid figure staring out the passenger window. Something lost.
Defeated, even.
To watch her brother die . . . that had to be hard enough. But to lose him essentially twice in the span of minutes—hell, that had to be much worse. To find out he’d betrayed her, betrayed her kids, only to watch him die before she could get any answers. Before she could find out how to save her children.
Jesus.
The urge to lean over and wrap her in his arms was a constant burning itch. To provide the comfort and support she so clearly needed. Prove to her that she wasn’t alone. That the battle to save her children sat on all their shoulders, not just hers. She had people in her corner, people who cared about her. Who cared about her kids.
The only thing that saved him from acting on the impulse and looking the fool was the empty space between their s
eats and the three pairs of watchful eyes studying him from their various corners.
“I need to call Mom and Dad,” Amy suddenly said, her voice low but steady.
Mac winced. “You’ll have to wait until news of his murder goes public. You can’t afford to announce he’s dead before his body is discovered.”
When she lapsed back into silence, Mac grimaced. Hell, the last thing she needed right now was the king of common sense. The voice of reason. Cold practicality against her pain. Regardless of what Purcell had done, he’d still been her brother, and human emotions took longer than half an hour to switch off. She had to be hurting, for a multitude of reasons. None of which he could ease for her.
Damn it.
“I’m sorry about your brother.” The words stumbled from him with no thought, no preparation. He coughed to clear his throat and tried for a supportive, reassuring tone. “I know this wasn’t the end you were hoping for—” Hell, he sounded like a fucked-up Hallmark card. He soldiered on, growing brusquer and more uncomfortable with each word that tripped out of his lame-ass mouth. “But don’t you worry about your boys. We still have options. We’ll find the antidote. You aren’t alone. Okay.”
Christ. Could he have mangled that any worse?
A round of muttered agreement came from the front and back seats.
To his surprise, Amy straightened, drew back her shoulders, and turned to face him. He wanted to lay claim to her renewed confidence, but the woman had proven she was molded from sturdy stuff. Unbreakable stuff. She’d probably needed only a few minutes to regroup before dusting off her hands and squaring up again.
“With Clay gone”—her voice caught—“our best chance of finding out what they injected in the boys is with James Link.”
Relieved that the conversation had turned to strategy, Mac nodded. “Agreed. Link’s our best bet.”
Pachico’s revelations aside, the isotope was exactly the kind of scientific breakthrough Dynamic Solutions was known for. Hell, even if Link wasn’t involved with the NRO, as Pachico had claimed, he should still know who had created the tracking compound.
But the relief quickly turned to frustration. Agreeing that Link was their most viable target didn’t do them a lick of good. They didn’t know where the damn man was. Hell, even if they located him, they didn’t have the manpower or resources to mount an effective interception.
He scowled. Damn it to hell. He could sense another round of favor-asking in his future.
“As the acting CEO of a multibillion-dollar company, Link will be tricky to get to.” Zane turned to look at them from the passenger seat up front, his calm gaze shifting between Amy and Mac.
“Grabbing him will be damn near impossible,” Cosky agreed as he merged onto I-5. “A guy like that? He’s bound to have a state-of-the-art fortress. Bodyguards. We’ll be lucky if we get within a hundred feet of him.”
True. Mac frowned. “None of which makes him invulnerable. We’ll have to get creative. Grab him while he’s on the move.”
“If Link is involved in the New Ruling Order, as Shadow Mountain intel suggests, they have a vested interest in grabbing him too,” Amy said slowly, staring at the back of Zane’s seat. “We can probably count on them for help.”
Mac nodded, biting back another scowl. Fuck, he hated like hell groveling before Wolf, even if Shadow Mountain was after the NRO themselves. Lately it seemed like all he did was beg for favors.
“We won’t be able to move on Link immediately. Wolf doesn’t have a team available,” Mac said, resignation setting in.
They’d have to wait until Shadow Mountain could assist. They needed more men, more support, and more intel. They needed Shadow Mountain’s resources. It would be worth it, though. Link was their best bet, both to save Amy’s kids and to track down the men responsible for the past six months of death and betrayal.
He just had to convince Wolf of that.
“A few days will give us time to do some investigatin’, track down Link’s movements, check his protection detail,” Rawls said from the back seat.
Amy nodded, turning to the window. She went back to her silent staring, her profile hazy in the shadowy interior of the car. She looked more fragile than Mac had ever seen her.
His gaze tracked the vulnerable curve of her neck and spine. It was the darkness, he realized. It blurred her strength, masked the expression on her face and the acuity of her eyes. He’d never realized how the calm control of her face and the sharp intelligence in her gaze had combined to give her that impression of capability.
Which was the real Amy? This indistinct, fragile woman—or the one who radiated confidence and ability?
Maybe neither. Maybe both. Or maybe there was an Amy in between.
The urge to reach for her hit again. To fold her in his arms and anchor her against his chest. To just hold her, protect her, support her until she was ready to face the world again. Although how much of the urge was altruistic and how much was based on the primeval impulse to feel her against him again was open to question.
She’d felt so good back there on the patio. Perfect. Firm and feminine. Her curves pressing against him in all the right places. Even with the bullets flying and death surrounding them, he’d been intimately aware of the woman pinned beneath him.
He’d been wondering for weeks how they’d fit together. Would she be firm and strong, or soft and pliable? Would her body give beneath his, or wrestle for dominance?
Well, he had the answers to those questions now, along with a new memory to taunt him. He’d been far too focused on the perfection of her body pressed to his. He’d wanted to lie there on top of her, soak her in. Fuck, if he was going to die, this was the way to do it. Except his death meant hers too. And there was no fucking way he would let that happen.
Still, it had taken every ounce of determination he possessed to roll off her. How insane was that? They’d been under fire, for Christ’s sake. In the midst of a battle.
The very last place to give in to carnal obsession.
Which just went to prove that the woman was pure poison to him.
Dangerous to the nth degree.
“What say you, darling? Should we put in an offer? Yea? Or nay?” Eric Manheim asked his wife as he stretched back in the patio lounge chair and linked his fingers behind his head. “I must admit, the view is unparalleled.”
On the other side of the wrought-iron railing, Cannes Bay stretched before them, the azure canopy dotted with dozens of brilliant-white yachts. The boats sparkled in the summer sun like fallen stars bobbing amid a liquid bed of blue. A beautiful sight from above the water. Below the surface was another matter.
The fuel, oil, and garbage those boats had dumped into the water through the years was part of the reason the ocean was dying. The Global Ocean Commission had proposed an eight-point program to rescue the ocean before it became irreparably damaged. Not that anyone had paid attention. Not that anyone had taken steps to correct the ongoing damage. Not that anyone had shown the slightest hint of concern for the bleak future the report presented.
But then the human race’s gluttony and shortsightedness didn’t just threaten the oceans—Earth itself was at the mercy of humanity’s greedy appetite. If this planet was to continue to shelter his children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, something needed to be done now, before it was too late to reverse the current course toward annihilation.
Thank God the New Ruling Order had the resources and the courage to make the necessary corrections to ensure Earth’s survival.
“How much are they asking?” his wife, Esme, asked from her poolside seat. She trailed her fingers through the water of the Olympic-size pool and kicked her feet, creating mild turbulence in the calmness.
“Fifty-four. It just hit the market today.” Eric turned an appreciative eye toward the villa. The house really was a work of art. Built of sleek steel and glass, it sat high on a bluff east of Cannes, with unobstructed views from all but a few of its windows.
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sp; Esme peered between the railings and sighed. “It’s certainly beautiful.” She sighed again, her fingers playing with the water. “It’s close enough to Cannes to take advantage of the nightlife but far enough to avoid the crowds and stargazers.”
Eric nodded in agreement. “I’ll have Thomas put in an offer.”
“It seems awfully extravagant, don’t you think?” Esme smiled at him, her hair flashing platinum beneath the sunlight. “The Esme is perfectly fine for the amount of time we spend in Cannes.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled back. “But a house would be safer for children. It will give them more room to run and play, to work off that endless energy children seem to possess.”
“We’ll have to childproof this place, as well.” Esme’s gaze shifted to the gap between the railings. Pulling her feet from the water, she stood. “But there is plenty of time for that. And I quite like this place.”
Eric nodded in agreement. It would be nice to have a home base in the area. A place to entertain and relax.
“So we agree then?” Eric asked quietly, and he wasn’t just referring to the house. They’d been discussing the possibility of parenthood for months now.
She stared out over the bay for a moment, a pensive look on her face, then turned and walked toward him. “I believe we do.”
As she settled into the recliner beside him, Eric reached out and twined his fingers with hers. He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a gentle kiss across her knuckles. “You will make the most amazing mother.”
Her laugh was barely a whisper on the warm breeze. “You realize everything will change now, yes? Everything.”
“For the better, I am told.” He brushed her knuckles with his lips again. “I’ll have Stevens look into clinics.”
They’d been trying to conceive naturally for years, in no hurry, willing to let nature take its course. But nature wasn’t cooperating. It was time to find out why and rectify the problem.
“No need.” Esme met his gaze, her blue eyes as calm and mysterious as the water spread before them. “I’ve been researching. Bernabeu in Spain has an eighty-two percent live birth ratio. I’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment.”
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