A shorter pause, and Eric jumped to his feet. “And I said no. As in hell no. Finn’s been through enough. We’re going to Dublin and we’re catching the first flight home. I don’t give a shit if Carlson flew all the way here to talk.”
Her gaze dropped to Aishling. Eric hadn’t told his boss who Finn was, but Alex wanted Eric to meet with Carlson? Why?
“You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.” Eric turned his back on her. Either he’d outright lie to his boss, and he didn’t want to look at her while he did it, or—
“Finn isn’t the guy we thought he was,” Eric said quietly. His shoulders squared. “He isn’t a guy at all. She’s my wife.”
Oh, oh. Shea bowed her head. She hadn’t cared what Alex thought or knew about her before, but she did now. The little she knew about him had come through Sasha. That was also when Shea knew she might have to go undercover, and turn herself into a chubby guy to avoid the incredible reaching power of The TEAM. Small world.
“It’s a long story, Boss.” Eric stilled once more, his hand cupped at the back of his neck. “True. Yes, that’s right.” Pivoting on the ball of his foot, he caught Shea’s eye and winked. “It’s no one’s business but mine.”
That sounded more positive. Sasha had often shared little insights into her boss, Alex Stewart, and his infamous temper, but she’d also declared he was one of the fairest men she’d ever worked with. Shea started breathing while Aishling purred beneath her fingertips.
“Okay. Got it. We might be able to pull that off,” Eric stated, his voice calmer. “He say if Jordan was hurt? What about the others with him? The cabbie and Rosie O’Banner?”
Shea dared to hope. She’d heard those three shots after the French Legionnaires rolled the cab. Was it possible everyone was still alive?
Eric blew out a deep sigh. “Can do. Yeah. Let me talk with Shea and—” He nodded, his eyes on the ground. “Yes. That’s her name. Shea Powers Reynolds. You’re right, Boss. I should’ve told you. We’ll talk later. Count on it.”
The silence stretched. Apparently, Alex had a lot more to say.
“Finnegan’s here?” Eric’s brows lifted in surprise, definitely one of Shea’s favorite expressions. His tanned forehead wrinkled in parallel wrinkles to his dark brows. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. And she fell for him every single time. The man was pure eye candy.
“That will make the job go down a lot easier. Sure. Good to know.” He’d come back to her side. The moment he rested a hand on her shoulder, Shea forgot Alex. She rubbed her cheek against Eric’s arm, sending him her vote of confidence.
“Okay. Got it. I’ll touch base with him and get back to you. Do me a favor. Don’t tell Mother who Finn is. Ah-huh. Thanks. Copy that.” Ending the call, Eric stuffed his cellphone into his pants pocket. He pulled her to her feet while Aishling wound herself around his boot like a feline floozy, purring loud enough to wake the dead.
A smile stretched over that ruggedly handsome face. “Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The day that had started so badly was looking up. Eric pushed the bike over moss-laden undergrowth and around one long stone wall, also covered with moss. He hadn’t started the Harley yet. Didn’t want to risk attracting any adversaries in the immediate vicinity.
For now, Shea carried Aishling. The darned cat didn’t seem to mind being hauled around like a baby. That was another thing. My wife needs a pair of sturdy shoes. Pride filled his chest at the thought. My wife.
Alex had shared interesting intel. Of all the damned things, Eric’s ex-boss from the Seattle office, Murphy Finnegan, owned property in Ireland. Who the hell knew that? Only Alex, it seemed. Jordan, Rosie and the cabbie had actually been rescued by those French Legionnaire guys—according to Carlson.
Rescued nothing. Eric wasn’t falling for that line of BS, and neither did Alex. Carlson wanted the laptop, but he’d insisted his men were only in Dungarvin to protect Finn when they’d accidentally bumped into the cab. After all, the roads in Ireland were quite narrow.
Yeah, right. “Explain shooting at me then, you lying bastard,” Eric muttered to himself.
“Excuse me?” Shea asked. “Did you say something?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. She couldn’t have looked better if she’d just stepped out of one of those modeling magazines. Okay, so maybe modeling for a camping magazine, but still. “We’re going to the Rock of Cashel. Will you be okay riding that far?”
“I guess. How far is it?”
“Not sure.” Alex had told Eric that Murphy would be waiting due north of Cashel, where he lived. He’d actually retired from the Alexandria, Virginia, TEAM office only to hit Alex up for a management job a year later at the Seattle office. Seemed retirement gave him a little too much free time.
Eric stopped pushing the bike and jutted his left rear pocket in Shea’s direction. “Reach into my pants pocket and get my phone. It’s got a map app. Should tell us how many miles and the best route.”
Wrong move. The second she set the cat down and slid her slender fingers into his pocket, his blood supply fled south. It took an extra oomph to get the Harley’s wheels moving, but like most women, Shea seemed not to notice. She tapped the phone’s screen as she walked, Aishling padding silently at her heels. “What’s your password?”
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Eric didn’t mind that he wore his heart on his sleeve, but she didn’t need to know what a sap he was. He spelled out his closely guarded password. “C-H-E-Y-N-S-H-E-A.”
“Cheyenne and me? We’re your password?” The hint of a gracious smile graced her lips as she tapped a few more keys until she found, “Cashel. In the County of Tipperary. It’s due north. Sixty-two kilometers away. One hour by automobile. Take R672 to get there. I think that’s a road instead of a motorway. Ooooo, the Rock of Cashel is there. We should stop and see that castle.”
He heard what she was saying. Barely. At least his eyeballs were focused on the way her delicate brows arched when she talked. The O shape of her mouth when she pursed her lips. Shea was a study in soft browns and creams accented with turquoise. But those lips. Petal soft. The palest mauve. Cherry blossom sweet.
“You’re off the path, Eric.” She’d stopped walking.
Well, so I am. By about ten feet. Grunting, he righted the bike and forced his wandering brain back to business. At last, they were back on asphalt and ready to ride.
Once more, he tucked Aishling inside his jacket. Shea donned her helmet and leather jacket, and this time, he didn’t have to pull her forward on the Harley seat. She’d wrapped her arms around him and his cat, while the inside of her legs clamped against his thighs. There wasn’t another guy alive who had it so good.
He kicked the kickstand free and those sixty-two kilometers, give or take a couple, flew by. Soon they rolled into the busy Irish village. Its claim to fame was the magnificent Celtic cathedral on the edge of town, the Rock of Cashel, complete with stone towers and walls. Impressive, but so was the sneaky feeling he was being watched.
Eric took a second look at the town. Shops galore. People walking everywhere. Nothing seemed out of place, yet the sensation persisted. Ducking the Harley into a narrow alley, he turned a sharp U-turn to face the street and pulled his cellphone out of his jeans pocket—all by himself this time.
“I see you made it,” the older guy said upon answering.
Eric glanced over his shoulders, uneasy even in this quiet alley. “You see me, huh. Where are you?”
“Gray panel truck, just passing the alley you turned into. I’ve been following you the last couple of miles. Get back on the street. Turn right. Take the third exit at the next roundabout and head due north. Stop at the first red brick home on the left and follow the drive to the far west of the property. The garage will be open. Park your bike inside. I’ll be waiting. Who’s the chick? Alex didn’t say anything about you bringing a friend.”
“Copy that.” Eric ended the call without
answering Murphy’s question. He might’ve caused that sneaky feeling, but Eric assumed nothing.
Traffic thinned once he cleared the roundabout and turned north. The road was blessed with trees on both sides of its narrow winding self as well as the ever-present stone fences. All that leafy green made for good cover, but it also provided a wealth of sniper hides.
He remembered too well being ambushed in Afghanistan’s Nahri Saraj District, FOB Camp Bastion. A guy never overcame something like that.
Clenching Shea’s joined hands, he pulled her closer. They were still inside that narrow window, when relief seemed so close a guy could taste it, but when things could still go damned wrong. A bullet could come out of nowhere. Or a rocket propelled grenade. An IED might take a lone rider out—or his passenger. Not today, damn it.
Adrenaline gunned the throttle. Only when he’d turned left alongside the red brick home did Eric allow a full breath. Once their feet were on the ground inside Murphy’s open garage, he killed the Harley’s engine. Shea removed her helmet while Aishling climbed up the inside lining of his jacket and meowed noisily.
Murphy activated the automated door, sealing them inside a windowless, concrete garage. Fluorescent shop lights overhead cast a bright glare on an organized, two-car garage. “Out of sight is always better.”
Still seated on his bike with his legs spread, Eric made quick intros. “Shea, Murphy. Murphy, Shea.” That was all he needed to know for now.
Sliding off the Harley, she extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Finnegan.”
Always the gentleman, Murphy clapped both his hands over hers, his blue eyes bright. “So you’re the woman this guy’s been heartsick over for months?”
Eric could’ve smacked the guy for that comment, but Shea handled it with grace. “I’m his wife. I hope so.”
Murphy shot him a wink. “You’ve got some explaining to do, but let’s get inside first.”
It was funny how everything had changed since the morning. Where then Eric had been agitated because his chunky client couldn’t climb a fence, now, now he was riled he couldn’t protect Shea like he wanted to. If Abdul-Mutaal had wanted, the ride up from Dungarvin would have been the perfect time to take her out.
Booting the kickstand, Eric dismounted the bike. He pulled his gear out of one of the saddlebags while Shea slipped her laptop from the other. Their eyes caught, but Murphy took over. With his arm around Shea, he set a quick pace from the garage to his back door.
Aishling meowed all the way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“But I can do it.” Shea stood her ground, shaking but determined. Getting the upper hand with Carlson was just a matter of hacking into the castle’s server.
A shower would’ve been nice. Clean clothes. Shoes and socks, too. There wasn’t time.
She and Eric had only made it to the breakfast bar in Murphy’s orderly kitchen, done in an old-fashioned Irish farmhouse style. High cabinets showcased granite sinks and counters. Dark wooden stools with round red cushions rimmed the breakfast bar. The white enamel stove and icebox caught Shea’s eye. Those sweet babies were right out of the 1950s, and this was her dream kitchen come true. It almost made her want to whip up a bacon and cheese omelet, Eric’s favorite, while the men talked.
There was a time she’d loved cooking, but there wasn’t time for that, either. Once safely inside Murphy’s sturdy cottage, all the news stateside had spilled out. On the surface, Carlson had certainly hit all the well-intentioned high notes. He was the one who’d initiated first contact to Alex. He’d adamantly insisted his men had accidentally run into the cab in the course of protecting Finn Powers from other unnamed parties.
Accidental, ha.
Jordan, Rosie, and the cabbie were supposedly under Carlson’s care while he was staying at Ashford Castle. Who does that? Just suddenly show up in Ireland at the same time that the woman—ahem, woman in a fat suit—showed up with one of the world’s best kept secrets? Protecting Finn Powers, my foot.
If anything he said was true, Shea hoped it was that Jordan and her friends had been treated for their injuries. But, given how Gordie’s encounter with the billionaire ended, that was the question of the day, wasn’t it?
The problem now was getting Jordan and the others out of Ashford without another accident. Shea wanted to help.
“No,” Eric said, his voice taut with his conviction. “You did enough when you snagged that SD card away from Abdul-Mutaal. You’re sidelined. Take a chair.”
She climbed onto the nearest bar stool and hooked her bare heels to the bottom rung, sidelined maybe, but not done arguing her case. “Murphy, may I at least use your computer?” she asked, her hands clasped on the granite counter as if she were an obedient wife.
“I said no, Shea. I don’t want you in more danger. You’ve got three different factions after you now, and they’re all violent. Enough is enough.” God, she loved Eric. Her sexy husband meant well, but as he lifted an imperious brow, as the wrinkles on his forehead echoed the ire he meant to convey, she nearly smiled. Eric should know better. No obedient little housewife would be in this much trouble.
“She’s what?” Surprise widened Murphy’s blue eyes. The sixty-plus Army veteran ran a hand over his thinning gray hair. “This I’ve got to hear.”
Eric lifted his index finger, punctuating his side of the argument as if he’d already won. “Abdul-Mutaal, the ISIS terrorist, not sure who he’s working for or with.” Another finger hit the line-up. “Three Frenchmen who we’re fairly sure work for Carlson.” He spiked an evil glare at Shea when his third finger stood up. “An Arab on a motorcycle who knows how to shoot, and who might be working with Mutaal. We don’t know yet.” Finally, baby finger made four. “And oh, yeah, hacking is illegal. If you get caught—”
“Did Alex catch me? Did Mother?” she asked, trying hard not to sound as smug as she felt. What she wanted most was to lick those fingers, just not in Murphy’s kitchen. “If I remember right, Alex was a few million richer the last time we talked.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed as if he was surprised she would challenge him. His lips pursed. His brows clashed, like maybe he was trying to intimidate her, but that’d be the day. She’d never been afraid of Eric, so stop with the male posturing. “I don’t care. I’m not putting you in danger anymore.”
Why didn’t he understand that she shared that same fear when he put himself in harm’s way? She had skills they didn’t. Why not use them? “I’ll be extra careful, Eric. Besides, I know more about Unix, Python, and PHP than either of you. I can manipulate most systems and talk with more processors than Mother. I can get inside Ashford and find him.”
“Yup. You two are married.” Murphy’s eyes twinkled at the banter. “Mind telling me what the heck PHP is? That another designer drug I don’t know about?”
That merited another dirty look from Eric, and Shea honeyed her words with a gentle smile. He’d eventually come around to her way of thinking, but she needed it to be on his terms. At least, she needed him to think that. “It’s an HTML scripting language, a hypertext pre-processor. Web developers use it to design dynamic websites or to decode fatal errors. Think of it this way. When you hit the keys on your computer, it gives you exactly what you ask it to. If you type a Z, you’ll get a Z. But with PHP, I can macro every keystroke to make it do what I need it to do, not just a single alpha or a numeric. One tap can contain an entire program. I’m not just typing when I, umm, dabble.” Eric’s brows hit an all time high at that selective word. “I’m using scalar declarations, null coalescing operators, and infiltrating—”
Mischief tweaked the corners of Murphy’s mouth. “For crying out loud. Did Mother and Ember teach you all this mumbo jumbo?”
Shea ducked her head into her shoulders, guilty as charged. “Mother says I have a gift. I’d like to use it to rescue Jordan and Rosie.” Regret took over then. “I couldn’t do anything to save Phoenix or Gordie. I just want to help.”
Eric’s gaze narrowed i
n on her like a sniper, one eyelid nearly shut and her heart in the crosshairs. Shea dropped her lashes, not willing to challenge him. If he honestly thought he could do this without her, maybe she would make an omelet or something while she waited. Like a good little wife.
Murphy dropped his elbows to the counter between Shea and Eric. “Unless you’ve got a better plan,” he said to Eric, “I think we ought to see what your significant other can do. She sounds pretty smart to me.”
“Smart isn’t Shea’s problem.” Eric exhaled a slow huff of disapproval, that full-on sniper glare on high beam. “These guys are vicious killers. They’ll murder her if they catch her, Murph. I know you want to help your friends, Shea, I just can’t—”
She reached across the counter for his hand. Like old times, his strong, manly fingers intertwined with hers like the lifesavers they always were. “I can do it right here if you and Murphy buy me what I need. You can watch. It won’t be hard and it won’t take long.”
Eric’s lips pursed as if he might be considering it, but Murphy winked at Shea. “Come see what I’ve got before we go shopping.”
With a nod and a smile, he ushered them into a spacious office off his living room, another spectacular vision in Irish living. Heavy wooden furniture done in soft purples and mint green paisley patterns circled a stone hearth that invited the weary traveler in Shea to linger. It’d be nice to curl up there with Eric and watch football under that lush cream-and-merlot-colored afghan draped over the arm of the couch. What a paradise.
“Your wife has good taste,” Shea murmured as she dropped to the office chair in front of a large wooden desk.
“She does,” Murphy agreed. “Now show us what you can do, little lady.”
Like a silly nineteen-fifties housewife, Shea peered around Murphy, needing Eric’s approval before she touched the keyboard. Not once in their married life had he hinted she needed permission to do anything, but she wanted it now.
He lifted a forefinger to his right brow, his tell that he was considering his options. Then, “Go ahead, Shea. Show us what you can do.”
Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15) Page 15
