by Gayle Wilson
Hawk had known that’s how the agency would react and had accepted it. But coming after him personally, as Jordan had warned him they were after New York, was something he hadn’t counted on and didn’t understand.
“They haven’t released the pictures from the hotel cameras,” Hawk said. Those pictures had been one thing he’d been looking for when he’d bought the newspapers. And he hadn’t found them.
“It’s coming,” Jordan said softly, probably knowing this was the worst news Hawk could receive. “Somehow Amir al-Ahmad found out that the hotel has pictures of whoever set off the fire alarms. He wants them made public. He’s demanding we go all out to find that man.”
“So why haven’t they?” Hawk asked.
“The company’s making sure no one can possibly trace the man in those pictures back to the agency. If anyone does, there are bound to be accusations of a CIA plot. Given the volatility of the region, there’s no telling what reaction that might set off.”
“They really think I hit the sheikh?”
“Maybe,” Jordan said. “They know it was you in Baghdad.”
Still, in spite of whatever pressure Amir al-Ahmad was exerting, there seemed to be no reason the CIA would go public with a hunt for one of its own agents—and a lot of reasons not to. Especially given the things Hawk knew.
“Any other rumors about New York?” he asked. “About who might really have been involved?”
“You’re the only rumor circulating here on that one, my friend,” Cross told him. His voice was slightly amused. “The sheikh’s son is claiming the assassination was an attempted coup. The fundamentalists hit the sheikh. The son’s out of the country. Perfect opportunity for them to take over. He may be right. We don’t have any reports of anything happening in his country, but al-Ahmad had for years been resisting attempts by the extremists to loosen his control. And there have been two previous attempts on his life.”
The stakes in that struggle were very high, Hawk knew. The income from the oil produced ran into the billions of dollars annually, most of that becoming the personal property of the al-Ahmad family. Although the standard of living in their country was fairly high, there was no doubt the royal family benefitted far more than the people from that valuable natural resource. The extremists wanted to change that situation.
In the last year or so, al-Ahmad had lived as almost a prisoner to his wealth. And the strategy had apparently worked. Until he had agreed to come to the States to attend his son’s wedding. A serious error in judgment.
“I need some background,” Hawk said, remembering what Tyler had told him. “What do you know about Amir al-Ahmad?”
“That he lives well,” Jordan said. “His tastes run to expensive toys and beautiful women. The model for a bachelor playboy. Most people were surprised he was planning to settle down. Everybody figured there must have been pressure from the old man, but the bride didn’t seem to be someone the sheikh would have picked out. Wrong religion. Wrong nationality.”
“His father was coming to the wedding,” Hawk said.
“To everyone’s surprise. However, he and the son were close. Amir was being groomed to take over, but not for a while. The sheikh was a vigorous man in his late fifties. He could have lived another thirty years or so.”
With Amir waiting in the wings, Hawk thought. “The son have any ties to the extremists?” Hawk asked.
“Not except as a target,” Jordan said. Then, because he was smart, the point of that question hit him. “You think he had something to do with his father’s death?”
“I don’t know,” Hawk said.
“Maybe the company does,” Jordan suggested.
“Maybe,” Hawk said, thinking about the possibilities. “Could you put together a file for me? Everything that’s public on both Ahmads. And everything the company’s got that’s not.”
Again there was the smallest hesitation. Hawk felt that prickling of unease until he heard Cross’s suggestion.
“I can ask Jake Holt. I don’t have to tell him who it’s for.” Jake was another of Cabot’s team, and the kind of search Hawk had just requested was his specialty. By the time Holt got through, there wouldn’t be a shred of information in any file on the al-Ahmads he hadn’t dug out.
“Okay,” Hawk agreed.
“Anything else?” Jordan asked.
Hawk hesitated, knowing in his gut there was too much about this whole thing that didn’t add up.
“There was a witness,” he said.
The pause was longer this time, but the implications were obvious. “A witness to the assassination?” Jordan said.
“Someone who saw three men in one of the rooms Amir al-Ahmad had rented. She saw one of them fire a rifle off that balcony. A witness who isn’t mentioned in any of the papers, although someone was searching the hotel for her within minutes.”
“Can she identify the men she saw?”
“It’s possible,” Hawk said, wishing that he’d taken more care with his pronouns.
“It may not matter,” Jordan warned. “Not as far as the company’s concerned.”
Hawk understood the warning. They intended to rein Hawk in, one way or another.
“It might matter to them if I go public,” Hawk suggested.
There was silence at the other end. Hawk could imagine what Jordan Cross was thinking.
“You don’t mean that,” Jordan said finally.
“I don’t owe anybody any loyalty,” Hawk said, remembering the years Cabot had worked to put this team in place, and how quickly after his death they had decided to dismantle it. “Not anymore. They’re setting me up to take the heat for something they know I didn’t do.”
“Maybe they don’t know,” Cross said.
“Then there’s too much they don’t know,” Hawk said bitterly. “About me. About what we did.”
“Get out,” Jordan suggested. “Just get out of the country and stay out. Disappear. You can do that.”
“And have them send somebody like you after me?” Hawk asked, his voice mocking, but unamused.
“It won’t be me. I can promise you that.”
The corners of Hawk’s lips lifted a little at the quiet assurance. “But it will be somebody,” he said. “I know how that works. And in the meantime...” For some reason Hawk hesitated, reluctant to mention that he had the witness with him, although he had trusted this man with his life on more than one occasion. “I’ll check back with you in a day or two,” he said.
“Ask for a meeting.”
“They’d never go for it,” Hawk said, thinking for the first time about the possibility.
“They might. If you can really produce a witness who saw someone else pull the trigger...” Jordan paused, letting the suggestion sink in.
It was risky, but it might work. They wouldn’t want Hawk talking. He was one of the people who really knew too much. Too much about things the government didn’t want the public to find out about. Things the press would love to get hold of. As a matter of fact, Hawk realized, the media might be a valuable ally, if it came down to that kind of battle.
“I’ll think about it,” Hawk promised, knowing now that it had been suggested, he really would. Going public about the secrets he’d willingly kept all these years went against every principle he had lived by. And besides, a meeting with the agency would solve both his problems. It would provide a forum where Tyler could clear him of al-Ahmad’s assassination, and then... Then the agency could provide some real protection for her from the assassins. Whoever they were.
Hawk knew it would be tricky to arrange a face-to-face without putting himself in a position where he no longer had any control. He wasn’t sure of the agency’s agenda where he was concerned. Still, it was an idea worth considering. Especially when he realized that right now he didn’t have another one.
“By the way,” Hawk said, “I need an ID on some bodies.”
“Bodies?” Jordan repeated. “Plural?”
“I left three of them in a va
cant house in a little town called Covington. That’s in Mississippi. Maybe somebody’s discovered them by now. If not, give the locals an anonymous tip that they should be looking. Then see if you can find out who they worked for.”
“Connected to the assassination?”
“I think so,” Hawk said. He would be willing to bet that the three worked for Amir al-Ahmad, considering that two of his bodyguards had apparently been in on the hit against the sheikh, and it had been made from one of Amir’s rooms. That was according to Tyler. But none of that had been in any of the papers, either.
“You think so?”
“That’s why I need an ID,” Hawk said.
“You kill ’em?”
“Only because they were trying real hard to kill me,” Hawk said innocently, and listened to another brief silence.
“How do I reach you when I have something?” Cross asked.
“I’ll call you.”
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
“I owe you,” Hawk said softly, knowing how true that was.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Jordan said. “I told you. You can call in a lot of favors. Count this as one of them.”
Hawk thought about expressing his gratitude, not just for what Cross was doing, but for the fact that he still believed in him. In spite of what the agency was suggesting.
Instead of giving in to that impulse, Hawk put the phone gently back in its cradle and sat a moment, thinking about the conversation. At least he had put something into motion. And for tonight, this seemed to be all he could do. His brain dull with fatigue, he couldn’t think of anything else.
His gaze moved over the surface of Griff’s desk. It was as neat and ordered as the man himself. Hawk’s eyes circled the room: to an overstuffed sofa, invitingly placed in front of the fireplace; floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes; carefully chosen paintings. All of it tasteful. Reflecting the Cabot wealth. But there was almost nothing personal, Hawk realized. Nothing really of Griff.
There was one silver-framed photo on the desk. It was a color snapshot of a child. A little girl, a blue-eyed blonde, who looked about six years old. Her age was pretty easy to determine because the broad grin revealed two missing front teeth.
Not Griff’s child, Hawk knew. Cabot had never married, despite the fact that he had been in love with Claire Heywood for years. A man in Griff’s position made a lot of enemies. Some of them ruthless enough to use a loved one. For blackmail. Or as a target for retaliation.
That was one reason most of the members of the team didn’t have dependents. Or, like Cabot, took care to see that any emotional ties they formed remained hidden, the people they cared about safe. Maybe that explained why there was nothing of Claire in this room. Or maybe, Hawk realized, that was simply because Griff didn’t want any reminders of what had happened between them.
The ending of their relationship had been Claire’s decision, Hawk knew. It would never have been Cabot’s. Not unless he thought that who he was might endanger her in some way. But Griff had been very careful to see that didn’t happen.
Hawk picked up the picture of the child, studying the face a moment before he realized what he was looking at. He had believed that there were no pictures here of the woman Griff Cabot had loved. He’d been wrong. But few people would ever associate this snaggle-toothed little girl with Claire Heywood today, Hawk thought, as he put the photo back on the desk. That this picture was still here, despite the severing of their relationship, was a gesture as enigmatic as Cabot himself had been. Cool, pragmatic, infinitely careful, and yet...
Romantic, Hawk’s brain supplied. It was not a word he would ever before have applied to his friend. He had thought they were cut from the same cloth. Cynical. Realistic about the world they lived in. It was surprising to realize Hawk hadn’t understood all the facets of the man he had worked with so closely. The only man he had ever considered a friend.
BEFORE HE WENT UPSTAIRS, Hawk made a final check of the house. As he did, he acknowledged that he couldn’t remember ever being this tired, this burned out. It was not just lack of sleep, he knew, although the effects of the few hours he’d grabbed on the fight from Virginia had long ago worn off. Hawk had been shortchanged on sleep a lot of times, and he knew what that felt like. This was deeper. As much mental as physical.
Part of it was letdown from the end of his months-long quest to find Cabot’s murderer. That desire had been a white-hot flame that flared so brightly it had kept him going, almost without having to think. Now he was, and none of the things he was thinking about were pleasant.
Like the realization that the agency he worked for was ready to betray him. To sic the dogs on him. Despite what he had done for them through the years, they were playing with Hawk’s life, because he had disobeyed an order.
An order that hadn’t made any sense in the first place, he thought, turning off the light when he reached the top of the staircase and plunging the house into darkness. All except for the faint glow coming from down the hall. From the bedroom Tyler Stewart had chosen.
He needed to check on her before he crashed, he remembered. He had promised himself he would. She’d be asleep by now. He’d take one last look. Check for fever. Then he’d turn off the lamp beside her bed and leave her alone.
One last job to perform. Then he would relax his vigilance, shut off the analytical mind, which insisted on going over and over the events of the last two days, and sleep. One final duty.
HER HEAD WAS TURNED slightly to the side on the pillow. She was still holding the elbow of the injured left arm protectively in the palm of her other hand. And she was so beautiful.
Nobody who had been through what she had the last two days should look like this. That was exactly what he had been thinking in the car today. Her mouth should fall open as she slept, the muscles in her face lax and unattractive. There should even be the occasional soft snore. A trickle of saliva.
There damn well should be something that made her as human as the rest of us, Hawk thought. And there wasn’t. His lips tightened, remembering how she’d looked when he’d stolen those forbidden glances at the passenger seat. Just like she did now. Like some damn sleeping beauty. Fairy-tale princess. A model, he thought in disbelief. Just my luck to get my ass caught in a crack with a woman like this.
Except, surprisingly, he had found she had a brain. And guts. He would have to give her that, he admitted. She might not have managed on her own to escape this morning, but she’d given them a run for their money. She hadn’t rolled over and played dead. She hadn’t done that at the hotel, either. And for somebody whose life was as far removed from all this as hers must have been, that was something.
Despite his tiredness, Hawk hesitated a few minutes longer, standing just inside the door of the bedroom. The soft light from the lamp highlighted the high cheekbone turned toward him, emphasizing the intriguing hollow underneath. It exposed the shadows of exhaustion around her eyes, her long lashes resting against them like a fan.
The light also played over the delicate curve of her jaw. It gleamed in the blue-black hair, which was spread like a skein of tangled silk over the pillows. Even against their whiteness, her skin looked like alabaster. Almost translucent.
He thought about closing the door and leaving. Safest thing, he told himself again, but he had come here to check on her. To make sure she was all right. And it was all just a matter of discipline. Another job. One last duty before he could sleep, he reiterated. He crossed the thick carpet toward the bed, his footsteps soundless.
The sleeper didn’t stir. The fan of lashes didn’t quiver, and her breathing was deep and regular, moving the small, perfect breasts slowly up and down under the fabric of her gown.
When he reached the bed, Hawk stood for another moment looking down at her. From here, he could see again the subtle signs of maturity revealed in her face. The telltale effects of the years. She must be at least in her late thirties, he thought, judging by those lines and crease
s.
Not as young as he’d imagined in the beginning. He had thought she was a girl when he’d first seen her. She wasn’t, of course. She was a woman. The only problem was Hawk liked women. Preferred them, in fact. He always had.
Almost without thinking, he put the back of his bent fingers against her cheek. And was relieved to find the skin was cool. Incredibly smooth. Despite his touch, she didn’t awaken. The capsules he’d given her had done their job. Between their effects, her exhaustion and the injury, she was out like a light. Good for the duration.
Hawk removed his fingers and stood beside the bed, his hands hanging loosely at his side. Controlled. Then, his eyes never leaving the face of the woman, he bent forward and turned off the lamp on the table, plunging this room, too, into darkness. He took a step backward, away from the bed. Away from the temptation she represented.
But he didn’t leave. After a few seconds, his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light in the room. The first thing they picked out of the gloom was the pale perfection of her profile, framed by that black-as-midnight hair. Then the slender column of her throat. Exposed. Vulnerable. And finally, almost naturally somehow, they found again the regular rise and fall of her breasts.
Unaware of the passage of time, Hawk didn’t know how long he stood watching her sleep. Thinking about things he couldn’t afford to think about. Things he knew he had no right to think about. Imagining things that could never happen.
And feeling the growing response of his body to those images. A hard, aching surge of longing. Desire. Need.
He needed a woman. Any woman would do. Any woman’s body would ease the physical need, put an end to this painful ache, too-long denied. Any woman would do.
But he wanted this one. This woman. He had wanted her from the beginning. And now, finally, standing in the darkness watching her sleep, he acknowledged that.
The man called Hawk had, however, learned a lot of lessons through the years about controlling both need and want. He would control this. And as soon as he could, he would get her into the hands of someone who would offer her more protection from the people who were hunting her than he could.
