by Anne Stuart
Even that was a chance, but one he was forced to take. He was ready to blow the driver’s head off at the slightest suspicious movement, but for once his luck held. The driver was too intent on listening to the all-news radio to pay any attention to the anonymous passenger in the backseat.
He heard the news of his death with a certain wry satisfaction. Not that they called him by name—Carew would have damage control in full swing. But the unidentified owner of the blue Taurus was presumed dead.
He was glad that damned car was gone. He’d always hated it. In an odd way it felt liberating. The car had died instead of him. The bland, middle-class, anonymous car that had suited his persona. If he made it back to Ireland, he’d buy a sports car. Something fast, that broke down all the time and wouldn’t start in the rain.
He had the driver leave him off in Arlington. If he followed his training, Win’s training, he would have killed the driver, just to be on the safe side.
But he was no longer following Win’s training. He had his own agenda.
The long walk in the evening air made his leg start bleeding again. He didn’t dare favor it—a man with a limp was far more likely to draw attention, and he couldn’t afford to do that. Particularly since General Donald’s neighborhood was well guarded.
It could have been fucking Fort Knox. Nothing could keep him out. Not the General’s state-of-the-art security system. Not his cadre of handsome young officers who catered to his every need. Not God himself.
The General’s office was dimly lit, the desk light a warm pool of illumination. James stayed in the shadows, waiting for the General. He was a patient man.
He waited until the General had poured himself a glass of scotch and drained half of it. Waited until the General unfastened his tie, leaned back in his leather chair, and opened his desk drawer. Waited until the General spoke.
“I wondered how long it would take you to show up, McKinley,” he said, pulling out a handgun.
James appeared out of the shadows, no longer bothering to disguise his limp. “I’m usually prompt,” he said, sinking into the chair opposite the old man.
“Someone shoot you, son?” he inquired affably, nodding at his blood-soaked leg.
“A piece of shrapnel.”
“Nasty thing about bombs,” the General said.
“Yeah,” James agreed.
The General reached for another cut-crystal glass and poured James a healthy dose, pushing it across the desk toward him. Waterford crystal, James noted. “So why are you here, boy? You planning on taking me out?”
“I found the picture and the letter behind it.”
“I figured you might. Read it, did you?”
“Not all of it. Enough to know you were the one left at the top. You and Win must have enjoyed yourselves. You ranting and railing about how the CIA took all your funding, and in the meantime you were part and parcel of it.”
“It had a certain pleasing irony. I’m not an ironic man, but Win was. Too bad he made mistakes.”
“You’re planning on keeping the department going, aren’t you? With whose help? Carew’s?”
“Did you see his name listed on the paper?”
“All the other people listed were dead.”
The General smiled, sipping his scotch. “So they were. Carew’s a whiny little pissant. A bureaucrat who’s more interested in red tape and following directions than doing what needs to be done.”
“And who decides what needs to be done?”
“I do,” said the General. “It’s going to be a simple enough matter to get things going again. I have the vision. And I have Win’s right-hand man to implement things. There are only the two of us, but we can take care of business. Once we get past the major stumbling blocks.”
“Stumbling blocks?” He brought the scotch to his mouth, letting the fumes tease him. He set it down again without touching it.
“Win’s operatives. We’ve had to get rid of them. It’s always better to start with a clean slate. You were very helpful in that. All we had to do was send them after you and they were taken care of.”
“Glad to be of service,” he said lightly.
“You failed us, though, boy. You were supposed to finish Annie Sutherland as well. We underestimated you that time, and you’ve really screwed us over. But all’s well that ends well.”
“A Shakespeare-quoting soldier?” James murmured. “Who would have thought it. Why did you want Annie to die?”
“We believe in tidiness. She knew there was something odd about that missing picture, and we figured she was the key to finding it, whether she realized it or not. Sooner or later she’d start to piece things together, and we’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle.”
He sighed gustily. “We tried to think of other possibilities, but the girl was a lot smarter than her father ever gave her credit for being. And more stubborn.”
“Who was Win’s right-hand man, General?” James asked quietly. “Who’s going to be helping you get the department back on track?”
“You mean, who’s been doing his damnedest to get you killed for the past six months? You expect me to answer that, son?”
“Yes.”
The General leaned back. “And you know I will. Because I have a gun, I have a house full of trained soldiers, and you’re already a dead man. I heard it on the news. There wasn’t enough left of those cars to even identify the pieces, but they assumed you were in there as well. Your family will get a government pension and you’ll just disappear. As you should have years ago.”
“I don’t have a family.”
“Too bad,” said the General. “Just like Annie Sutherland. No family. No connections. No one to inherit that house, that money …”
The panic and rage that swept over James was instantaneous, shocking. He wasn’t used to emotions, not when he was facing a job. A job he might very well not complete.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She’s probably dead already, son,” the General said gently.
“She’s with Martin. I saw to it. He’s not going to let anyone get to her.”
“No,” said the General. “He’s not.”
The knowledge, grim and foul, sat between them like a coiled snake. “I see,” said James.
“You let sentiment get in your way at last. If you hadn’t been blinded by your gonads, you would have started to wonder why Martin was being so helpful. Why he sent the Sutherland girl to see you. But in the end you lost it, didn’t you?”
He stared at him. “Maybe,” James said softly. “Maybe not.”
The General didn’t pretend to understand. “I’m going to have to shoot you, son. Not quite sure how we’ll cover it up, but I’m sure I can think of something. Maybe you’re one of those crazed communist pacifists who came in here to kill me. Maybe just a thief. Either way, I have the right to defend my home.” He raised the gun. “Once Martin finishes with the girl, he’ll know what to do. A bright boy, Martin is.”
“What’s he going to do with Annie?”
The gun wavered for a second. “Kill her. He doesn’t really have much choice. He’ll make it look like suicide. After all, she just took off from her job and disappeared for a week without any warning. She’s been despondent over her father’s death, upset over her breakup with Martin.”
“She broke up with him.”
“We can rearrange history to suit ourselves. He’ll be a gentleman about it, if that’s what you’re worried about. She won’t even know what’s happening. She’ll be too distraught mourning you to even realize she’s about to join you.”
“She thinks I’m dead.” James’s voice was flat.
“She’s just a little premature.” The General lifted the gun.
Old habits died hard. Old soldiers, and young ones, died just as hard. He didn’t have time to fire the gun. James caught him across the side of the neck, and he went over, toppling out of the chair, James following him down.
He had his own gun, wi
th its silencer, out, pointing in the center of the General’s forehead, ready to pull the trigger. A little more blood wouldn’t even be noticeable on his dark clothes, and he wanted the old man to die. To look him in the eye and know that his brains were about to be blown apart.
He cocked the gun, straddling the old man. The General lay perfectly still beneath him, a blank expression on his face, and James cursed, wondering if he was dead already. He reached down for a pulse in his neck, and it was there, thready.
And he could feel the misalignment of his neck. The old man was as good as dead. Better. He was paralyzed, helpless, staring up at the man who could end it all for him.
James put the gun to his forehead once more, waiting. Waiting for the dark flicker of panic and knowledge to shadow the General’s eyes. When it came, he smiled.
And stepped away from the body, stumbling slightly on his bad leg. “You’re a dead man, General,” he said softly. “And there’s nothing more you’d like than for me to finish it. Your neck’s broken. You’re paralyzed for life, and there’s nothing anyone can do for you except strap you into a machine and turn you over every few hours so the liquid doesn’t fill your lungs and choke you to death.
“And the worst part of it is,” he went on, his voice cool and merciless, “I didn’t do it to you. You can’t even blame me.”
Only the General’s eyes were alive, blazingly, furiously alive in that slack face. “You want me to kill you, don’t you? You want to go out in a blaze of glory?”
James stepped back, tucking the gun in the pocket of his leather jacket. “I’m afraid I can’t do that for you, General. I’m retired.” And he turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Twenty
The house smelled musty, closed up. She’d been gone a little more than a week, and yet it seemed a lifetime ago. The flowers were still alive, the milk in the refrigerator hadn’t soured. Annie wandered through the house where she grew up, Martin close behind her, observing everything in a daze.
“Let me get you a cup of tea,” he said gently. “I know you prefer not to drink.”
“Brandy,” she said in a harsh voice.
“All right.” He kept his voice calm and soothing as he took her arm.
She didn’t resist him. She was incapable of thinking, of doing anything. She let him take her into her father’s study, the room she’d avoided ever since his death, and when he settled her down on the leather sofa with a crystal glass of brandy in her hand she went willingly enough. And let him sit beside her, taking her cold, numb hand in his.
“I wish I could have spared you, Annie,” he murmured.
“You sent me to him,” she said, taking a sip. It couldn’t warm her.
“I should have lied and said I didn’t know where to find him.”
She glanced up at him. “You don’t lie, do you, Martin?”
He shrugged, a rueful smile on his face. “We all lie, Annie. It’s human nature. Even your father, God bless him, lied.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her oddly, something in her tone of voice startling him. “Did you find the answers to your questions, Annie? Did you find out who killed him?”
“You know, don’t you?”
Martin nodded. “Would it help if I told you I didn’t realize James had done it until after you left Mexico? It was unforgivably stupid of me. All the signs were pointing toward him, but I just couldn’t believe it. If I’d known in time—”
“What would you have done, Martin? Stopped me from going?” She took another sip, but it had no effect.
“I would have killed him,” he said fiercely.
She smiled. “You already said he was better than you were. You wouldn’t have stood much of a chance against him.”
An odd expression marred his face, and then it was gone abruptly. “We’ll never know, will we? He’s dead now. It took five pounds of plastic explosive to do it, but he’s dead.”
“How do you know that?”
He looked startled. “Security …”
“They wouldn’t know what the bomb was made of. Not yet. How did you know?”
He sat very still beside her. And then he sighed. “Ah, Annie, my love.”
“Did you set it?” she asked with deceptive calm, fingering the gold locket around her neck.
He shook his head. “Not my area of expertise. I arranged to have it done, of course. But let me assure you, death was instantaneous with a force of that magnitude. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”
“Wouldn’t he?”
“No,” said Martin. “Unfortunately.” And then he smiled at her. “Where’s the letter, Annie?”
“He trusted you, Martin.”
“He never trusted a living soul. He was just left with no other choice but to hope I could take care of you. He knew he was a dead man. He’s known it for months. He just didn’t know how it was going to happen. I imagine he’s grateful that the waiting’s finally over.”
“Your imagination is overwrought.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t have to learn all this. It still doesn’t have to come between us. I was your father’s right-hand man in his work. I’m doing my best to carry it on. You could be by my side. We had something quite special together, and you know it. I knew how to please you, how to do exactly what you liked—”
“Because you had access to my therapist’s records,” she pointed out calmly.
“He told you that as well, did he?” Martin said with a sigh. “I’d underestimated him. Did you sleep with him, Annie? Did you make him lie on top of you in the dark and do just what you wanted, until you came with those polite little sounds you make?”
“No,” she said.
Martin’s face broadened in a smirk. “Good.”
“I went down on him in a car outside of Dublin.”
He slapped her. It shocked him, and he stared at his faintly trembling hand in surprise. She didn’t react.
“You surprise me,” he said after a moment. “And I surprise myself. I hadn’t realized it would matter so much to me. I’m not sure which I mind more, the fact that you slept with him or the fact that he could make you do those things. I think I really mind him more than you.” He leaned back, comfortable on the leather sofa, watching her. “Where’s the letter?”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Destroy it. We have to start afresh. Everyone who worked for your father is gone now. Including James. That just leaves me and the General. Between us we can build something even more powerful, and far more lucrative. That was the problem with your father. He wasn’t that interested in money—he just liked playing games with life and death.”
“Did he ever care about anything?”
Martin shrugged. “I think he had a passing fondness for me. And for you as well. He wanted us to be together, you know. He wanted you to be his adoring little daughter, but if you were determined to marry he decided I’d be the perfect mate. Not that I was his favorite. I think the person he loved most was James. The man who killed him.” He reached out to touch her, and it took all her nerve not to jerk away from the soft stroke of his hand. And then his fingers caught in the locket, ripping it from her neck with a cruel twist.
She didn’t make the mistake of fighting for it. “Into jewelry, Martin?”
He flicked it open with a perfectly manicured thumbnail and stared down at the neatly folded scrap of paper. He closed it again, tucking it in his pocket with a satisfied sigh. “That takes care of that,” he said. “And now I just have to deal with you.”
She stared at him, at the man she’d married and once thought she loved. At the embodiment of her father’s evil. “Won’t that be a little difficult?”
“James isn’t the only one who can kill, Annie. The difference was he never enjoyed it.” Martin stroked her face. “I do.”
His hands were soft, warm against her chilled skin. There was no way she could get the locket back from him, no way she could stop him. S
he wasn’t even sure that she wanted to.
“Are you going to make it look like murder? Won’t that draw undue attention to this house?”
“Suicide, my angel. You’re going to throw yourself down the stairs where your father died. You’ve been distraught these last few months. You even left a suicide note in your own handwriting.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I still have my resources.” He took her hand in his. “Come, Annie. You don’t really want to wait any longer to join James, do you?”
She smiled at him, rising gently. And then she smashed the crystal goblet into his face.
She had a gun in the house, up in her room. She knew how to use it, and she wanted to. She wanted to kill with a fierce desire unlike anything she had ever felt before. She raced across the room, ignoring Martin’s scream of rage and pain, and scrambled up the long, curving stairs where she had once descended, the perfect bride.
The perfect bridegroom was racing after her, pounding up the stairs after her. It was dark, and she didn’t bother to turn on the lights. She remembered all too well another trip up those stairs in the darkness, with James behind her.
Martin’s hand caught her ankle, and she kicked backward, connecting, and he fell backward with a furious cry, falling back down the stairs. She didn’t believe for one moment that would stop him, and she kept going, racing into her third-floor bedroom and diving for the bedside table.
The gun was gone. She knocked over the light as she tried to turn it on, and she yanked the drawer out onto the floor.
“Looking for this, Annie?” Martin stood silhouetted in the doorway, and she could see the gun in his hand. He reached over and flicked on the light, and it took all her strength not to flinch at the sight of his bloodied, gashed face.
“I’m not pleased with you,” he murmured in a hypnotic voice. “Not pleased at all.”
“I imagine you’re not,” she said. “You’ll have a hard time explaining the condition of your face—”
