Moonrise

by Anne Stuart

  It was past time to spare her. “A murderer. A pimp. A man who played with people’s lives, people’s deaths, for his own amusement. He didn’t give a damn about politics, patriotism, or even money. He just liked to move people around like pieces on a chessboard. You included.”

  He waited for her protest. None came. “Couldn’t you have asked them to assign someone else? You said there were others who did what you do.”

  “I asked for the job.”

  She rose up, staring at him. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Because it was what he would have wanted. You heard the tape, Annie. He knew someone would come for him, and he knew it would be me. Win always had an impeccable sense of dramatic justice.”

  “Is that why he wanted you to be the one?”

  “Among other reasons.”

  “And what were those?”

  She was like a terrier shaking a dead rat. But he was tired of lying. “He wanted me to kill him because he loved me as well. Because he knew it would pain me the most. And it was the last thing I could do for him.”

  He waited for her denial, but none came. Instead she put her head back down against his shoulder, letting her body flow against his, and the sweetness of it gnawed at his gut. And made him hard again.

  “What are we going to do, James?” She sounded almost forlorn, his fierce, brave Annie.

  It was a long time before he could speak. “I’m taking you back to the States,” he said, his voice only slightly hoarse.

  She didn’t move, but he knew she’d heard him. Her body grew still and cold. “Are you?”

  “I’m turning you over to Martin. He’ll take care of you as well as anyone can. He has my training but none of my liabilities.”

  “What liabilities are those?” She sounded no more than distantly curious, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew her too well by now. He recognized each hidden nuance.

  “He doesn’t have a hundred people trying to kill him. He’s a practical man—he’s done his job and paid the price. For what it’s worth, your father would have approved.”

  “And that’s supposed to convince me?”

  “I’m not arguing, Annie. You can hand over the information to Martin, and he’ll see that it gets to the right place. That whoever was left over from Win’s little sideline will be neutralized.”

  “And then you’ll be safe,” she said in a quiet voice. “No one will want to kill you.”

  “Given my history I expect someone will always want to kill me,” he said lightly. She wasn’t amused.

  “What will you do? After you abandon me to Martin, that is?”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. Enough of him was rising already. “I’ll go back to some secluded island. Maybe I’ll even come back here. I’ve avoided Ireland like the plague since I left, but maybe enough time has passed. It feels like home.”

  “If no one tries to kill you.”

  “It wouldn’t feel like home if they didn’t, Annie.”

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you, James?”

  “Not particularly,” he murmured. “But sometimes you don’t have any choice.”

  “But you’ll be safe?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he said in a reasonable tone of voice.

  “The last week hasn’t given me much hope in a peaceful future for you.”

  He sat up gingerly, pulling her with him. Dawn had broken, flooding the room with light. He could see her clearly, the haunted, shadowed eyes, the tear-streaked cheeks. She looked like a woman who had reached the end of her endurance, and he knew he had himself to thank for it.

  “You’ll make a happy life with Martin,” he said gently.

  “And if I don’t want a safe, happy life?” she said stubbornly.

  “You can’t come with me, Annie.”

  “Was I asking?” She managed to sound affronted.

  “Yes.”

  She pulled away from him then, all wounded dignity and touching bravery. “You’re right, of course. I’ll be much better off in suburban Washington with a Volvo station wagon and PTA meetings. I don’t like travel, or banana republics, or burned-out assassins who think they have to push everyone away and carry on like some goddamned hero and—”

  He stopped her mouth with his. It wasn’t wise, but he was past wisdom. He could look down the long, narrow corridor of his life and see only darkness at the end. Here there was light, here there was Annie, and safe or not, he couldn’t resist her.

  “Annie,” he said, dragging her down on the bed with him. “I’m a dead man. I lost my future, and my soul, long ago. You need to get away from me as fast as you can.”

  “You haven’t lost your soul,” she said fiercely. “You just think you have. If you had, you wouldn’t care about me. You wouldn’t care about anyone. I’d have been dead the moment I showed up on your doorstep, and you’d be long gone. As long as you even think about your soul, you still have one.”

  “I grew up Catholic. We tend to be sentimental about such things,” he said. He smoothed her hair back from her face. “Promise me you’ll take the information to Martin. That you’ll leave me, and you won’t look back.”

  “I can’t …”

  “Promise me.” He didn’t hurt her. He didn’t need to. He overpowered her emotionally, far more than with mere strength. He could compel her to do what he wanted, and she knew it.

  She closed her eyes, and he couldn’t see the defeat. Or the defiance. “I’ll do what I have to do,” she said.

  It was no answer. But it was all he got.

  The General was not in a good mood. Those who dared approach him did so at the risk of their jobs, their commissions, not to mention their very lives, and for the past three days everyone had been doing their best to give him a wide berth indeed.

  Except for the one person who wasn’t afraid of him.

  “You ever heard the saying, kill the messenger, boy?” he barked at the slender young man who sat on comfortably in his office, for all the world as if he belonged there.

  “You aren’t going to kill me, General,” he said in a mocking voice. “We’ve had a little setback, but there’s no need to overreact. So McKinley and the woman managed to neutralize the men you sent after him. You should have listened to me. It takes more than mere mortals to deal with Dr. Death. It takes more than an army.”

  “Goddammit, he’s a man, not some supernatural force. A bullet’ll finish him as well as the next man.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of a bomb.”

  “When? How?”

  “He’ll be back. I expect by now he’ll have found what he’s looking for, and he’ll come back. He’ll bring Sutherland’s daughter with him.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t killed her as well?”

  “The old James might have. But not this renegade. He’s gotten sentimental. He’s been trying to protect her—he’s not going to stop now. He’ll bring her back to the States, and he’ll bring back the information. And that’s when we’ll get him. The Sutherland woman too, if we can manage it. But the main thing is to take McKinley out for good, and nothing short of a bomb will do it.”

  “And what guarantee do you have that he’ll show up? And that we’ll have a clear chance at him?”

  “Ah, General Donald, I have no doubt whatsoever. He’ll be bringing Annie straight to me,” Martin said. “And I’ll be ready for them.”

  The general stared at him, unwilling to be impressed. The young man was the worst kind of snake, soulless, smiling, absolutely without moral compunction.

  He liked that in a man.

  “This is your last chance, son,” he said heavily. “If you don’t get the job done, I’ll take over.”

  He didn’t dare smirk at him. But Martin Paulsen’s well-cut mouth curved in a smile just tinged with mockery. “No more screw-ups, sir. McKinley is a dead man.”

  “And how do you figure that, when he’s been so impervious for so long?”

  “Because he’s no longer invulnerable
. He has a weak spot. Annie Sutherland. She’ll be the death of him. Whether she realizes it or not.”

  The General nodded approvingly. “We might have a quite a future together, son.”

  “I’m counting on it, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “This is where we part company.”

  Annie turned to stare at James, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re through customs, back in the good old U.S. of A. You’re home, Annie. Martin’s waiting for you just beyond the barrier. Give him the information, and he’ll know what to do with it. Go to him, and he’ll keep you safe.”

  “How did he know to be here?”

  “I called him.”

  “And how do you know he’ll be alone?”

  “He’s good, Annie. Almost as good as I am. He knows what he’s doing.”

  The faint Texas drawl was back, its easy, natural sounds chilling her. His face, his stance had changed as well. Even wearing the same black jeans and dark T-shirt, he no longer looked Irish, or even dangerous. He moved with a casual grace, and there was no sign of the feral creature she had battled and made love with a lifetime ago.

  “Just like that?” she said, keeping panic out of her voice. Panic, and grief. He was leaving, and she knew full well she’d never see him again.

  “Just like that. Make a go of it with Martin, Annie. He could give you a good life. The kind of life you deserve.”

  “You trust him that much?”

  “As much as I trust anyone.”

  “And do you trust anyone, James?” she asked softly.

  For a moment his bleak eyes softened. “I trust you, Annie,” he said, and his mouth brushed hers, clinging for too brief a moment. “Good-bye, love.”

  She didn’t have time to reach for him, to protest. He was gone, vanished into the crowds of arrivals.

  She couldn’t move. People threaded around her motionless figure, glaring at her, but she couldn’t react. He was swallowed up by the shifting mass of humanity, taking on the protective coloration that he wore so well, and she could only trust he’d be safe. Fate, God, couldn’t be so cruel as to let him be hurt after all that.

  “Don’t let anything happen to him,” she said fiercely, more a threat to the benign Quaker God of her childhood than a prayer. “I know he’s done terrible things. Things that can’t be pardoned, can’t be forgiven. He has no excuses, he’s a bad, bad man. Just don’t let anything happen to him.”

  There was no answer. Not from her Quaker God, not from James’s stern Catholic one. Nothing but a bleak, uncompromising silence.

  “Annie. Are you all right?” She turned in numb surprise to see Martin holding onto her, his beautiful blue eyes dark with concern.

  “How did you get through customs?” she asked absently. “James said you’d be waiting on the other side.”

  “I work for the government, remember. I can get where I need to go.” He looked past her, squinting at the crowds. “Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” she said wearily. “He wouldn’t tell me. He said you’d take care of things.”

  “Take care of what, Annie?” He sounded oddly intent.

  “The information. He gave me a list of the people working with my father. The people who betrayed him. You’ll see that they’re stopped, won’t you, Martin? That they won’t go after James?”

  “Of course,” he said soothingly, taking her arm and leading her through the shifting mass of people. “But I need to know where James has gone. He’s not safe, Annie. I want to help him.”

  I trust him as much as I trust anyone, James had said. He’ll take care of you. Annie looked at him, trying to feel that trust.

  She couldn’t. “Last I knew he was still in Ireland. He left me at Shannon Airport. Put me on a plane to Washington and then left. He might still be there, though I doubt it. I imagine he’s disappeared. No one will ever find him again.”

  “Annie,” he said gently. “Why aren’t you telling me the truth? He called me when you landed. Where is he?”

  She didn’t even flinch. “Is this some kind of test? To see whether I’m trustworthy? I’m here, aren’t I? I have the information you need. Leave James alone. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. He abandoned me to your tender mercies, Martin. He told me to trust you.”

  “You can trust me, Annie. I promise you. I’ve always loved you, and I love you still. I swear you can trust me.”

  She had no choice. He led her through the crowds, into the bright autumn sunlight of a Washington afternoon, and she went docilely enough, feeling oddly numb. Waiting.

  He had a car and a driver just outside the terminal, another sign of the power she’d never realized Martin possessed. He held the door for her, and she was about to climb in when an explosion rocketed the place, knocking her backward.

  Pandemonium set in. Martin cursed foully, hauled her to her feet, and shoved her into the backseat of the limousine. A moment later he’d whipped out a cellular phone, moved out of earshot, and was talking into it with great intensity.

  Annie sat huddled in the backseat, watching his face. She didn’t need to see the plume of smoke and fire rising in the distant parking lot. She didn’t need to hear the babble of voices, the sirens, the noise and excitement. She didn’t even need to see the sudden stillness on Martin’s face to know what had happened.

  Her heart stopped when James’s had. It was just that simple.

  Martin climbed in beside her, slammed the door, and took her hand tightly in his. “I’m taking you home,” he said in a strained voice.

  “Where’s home?” Odd, she thought. Her heart had stopped beating, but she could still speak. Very odd.

  “Your house. Your father’s house. I think you need to be somewhere familiar. Comfortable.”

  She didn’t argue with him. It didn’t matter where she was. She was dead.

  “Annie,” he said, gripping her hand painfully as the driver pulled onto the highway. “I talked with security. There was an explosion in one of the long-term parking areas.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It was a bomb in one of the cars.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Annie, it was James’s car. He’d left it there months ago, but the department had been watching it, waiting for him to show up. Someone must have gotten to it ahead of time.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It was a bomb, Annie. Some kind of device that was set off when he turned on the ignition. It took out a half dozen cars. And James with it.”

  She turned to him, a faint smile on her face. There was an odd, painful thumping in her chest, one she didn’t recognize, but it didn’t seem to matter. “I know.”

  “How?” he demanded sharply.

  “I just know.” She carefully disengaged her hand from his tight grip and leaned back against the rich leather seats the taxpayers had provided. “Take me home, Martin, and I’ll give you the letter from my father.”

  “Screw the information,” he said impatiently. “It’s you that I’m worried about.”

  She didn’t bother to glance at him. His words were passionate, intense. James had passed her over like an unwanted parcel; her father had planned this for her.

  “I’m fine, Martin. Perfectly fine.” And she closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of smoke and chemicals that drenched the air outside.

  The bloody, damnable thing about bombs, thought James, was the shrapnel. Pieces of metal that had once been his car went spinning through the air like lethal warbirds. He’d been prepared, that sixth sense that had saved his life so many times still working, and he’d dived behind a bank of cars a mere second after he activated the remote ignition.

  He was still alive, though he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He couldn’t remember if he’d seen anyone else nearby, any innocent tourist caught by the blast of the bomb that had been planted in his car. He lay on the tarmac,
breathing in the fumes, stunned, unable to move. His leg was bleeding, and he could see a sliver of metal sticking through his jeans, soaking the pant leg with blood.

  He sat up, shoving his hair away from his face, and his hand came away bloody as well. He could hear the sirens in the distance—Dulles had top-of-the-line security. But then, they also might have had warning that something was going to happen in the satellite parking area.

  He yanked the piece of metal out of his calf, struggled to his feet, and hurled it into the conflagration. And then he moved, limping, scrambling through the parked cars, oblivious to the pain in his right leg, the blood pouring down and soaking into his shoe.

  Fifteen minutes later, he finally allowed himself to stop. The blood had drenched his jeans, and if he didn’t do something about it he’d begin to leave tracks. That was one thing he couldn’t afford to do.

  He dropped down behind a Voyager, yanked off his leather jacket, and the T-shirt beneath. The T-shirt stopped the blood, and unwillingly he remembered Annie sitting in the kitchen in Derrymore, her face pale with shock as she wrapped her T-shirt around her slashed arm.

  He pulled the leather jacket back over his chest, zipping it closed. At least he was armed. He had a gun, stashed back at the airport long ago with his car keys and the remote ignition that had saved his life. And he had his hands, which were the most reliable weapon of all.

  The bomb could have been planted at any time, he knew that. But it hadn’t been. Someone had known he was coming back, coming with Annie. Someone had provided a welcome-home party for him, and if he was any other man he’d be dead.

  He ducked into a deserted rest room to wash the blood off his hands, his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He’d scraped the side of his cheek on the macadam when he went down, and the loss of blood from his leg wound had turned his tanned skin pale. There was a limit to how much of the damage he could undo with so little to work with, and there was no one he could turn to. Not until he found out who had planted that bomb.

  It was already late afternoon, and the sky was darkening over the capital district. He waited until dusk, when the dim light would obscure the ominous darkness on his right pant leg, would obscure the pallor. And obscure the murder in his eyes. He waited until darkness fell, and then he emerged from the rest room, using all his strength to keep his stride deceptively even as he hailed a passing taxi.