by Harper Allen
“Who do you think I am? What do you think I am, Cosgrove?”
Malone felt rather than saw Ainslie take a small step away from him. She was half way gone, he thought dully. She proved him wrong immediately.
“He’s stalling, Malone.” Her words tumbled over one another. “Don’t you see? He’s using your amnesia against you, just like they’ve done from the start!”
“Amnesia? Dear God—so you really don’t know.” Paul’s eyes widened again, this time with comprehension.
“I really don’t know,” Malone agreed evenly. “I’m pretty sure of what you’re going to tell me, but I need to hear it. Who am I?”
There was no reply from his ex-partner, and suddenly he felt something inside him snap. In a blur of movement, he grabbed the lapels of the plaid robe, jerking the other man out of the doorway and bringing the gun up and under his chin.
“Who am I, goddammit?” he whispered hoarsely, his face only inches from Paul’s. “What the hell do you know about me?”
“They…they call you the Executioner, you bastard. And every civilized government has a price on your head.”
Paul’s voice came out in a strangled, hate-filled croak. “You’re a mercenary assassin, Malone—one of the most feared and loathed killers the world has ever known.”
Chapter Eight
The man was crazy, Ainslie thought coldly, either that or he was following some twisted agenda of his own. And he was good. At his insane pronouncement, she’d stared at Malone in shock, seen the revulsion in his own face and had immediately known he was as sickened as she was by Cosgrove’s lie.
She would never forgive Paul, she thought angrily.
As the three of them, herself bringing up the rear, walked down the basement stairs to what had to be the room Paul kept for his own personal use, she found it hard to reconcile the grimness of the situation with the mundane setting around them. A computer with a plastic dustcover pulled over it sat on a desk in the corner, and on the other side of the room were a sofa and a couple of easy chairs. Malone nodded at the sofa and, without protest, Paul dropped heavily down onto it.
“There’s no chance we’ll disturb Celeste or your son?” Malone asked, frowning.
Paul looked down at his hands, now clasped loosely between his knees. “No chance,” he said tonelessly.
“Good. No matter what you choose to believe, Cosgrove, I’m not here to kill you. I just need information.”
As Malone sat on the edge of the chair nearest to Paul, Ainslie took the other one, first removing a crocheted afghan that was balled up on the seat. As she pulled it away she heard a clinking sound and looked down to see a bottle of vodka and a single tumbler.
Wordlessly she set them on the low table in front of the sofa. Paul’s eyes met hers, and for a second she was taken aback by the deadness in his expression. Then her own hardened.
“Were you always a secret drinker, Paul?” She sat, her gaze flinty. “Or did you just start after the funeral, when your conscience started bothering you?”
“I started after the funeral, Ainslie.”
His use of her name touched a reluctant chord in her. Had it all been an act? she wondered with a sudden, aching sadness. This man had been there to help her through that first terrible period of denial and grief. Was there any way he, too, had been duped by the same people who had turned Malone’s life upside down?
She wished desperately that she could convince herself of that. But she couldn’t.
He’d told her there had been a reason Malone’s casket had been closed. He’d planted that horrifying image in her mind to bolster his assertion that he’d seen the lifeless body of the man she’d loved.
“You lied to me.” Her voice shook with the intensity of her anger. “Why bother? Why did you go to such trouble to convince me beyond a doubt that you’d seen him dead? You had to attend the funeral, to keep up the Agency’s pretence that he’d died in the line of duty, but there was no need for you to strike up a personal relationship with me. I was nothing to the Agency! Nothing I could have said would have raised any official doubts about his death, so why go to such lengths to convince me?”
“I wanted to destroy any hopes you might have had that there’d been a mistake. I never wanted you to think there was a possibility he had survived.” Paul looked up from his clasped hands, his face carved in deep lines. “He’d already torn your life apart. There was nothing I could do about that—just like there was nothing I could do about the other innocent victims he’d destroyed. But I thought I could make sure that eventually you could pick up the pieces and start over.”
“I see. You’re still sticking with your cover story.” Ainslie looked at him in frustration. “Maybe one day you’ll know how I felt, watching the earth fall into the grave of the one I loved. Maybe one day you’ll realize what that’s like, Paul.”
“Maybe, Ainslie.” His eyes, slightly bloodshot from the alcohol, held hers and then slid away. “But you had the strength to get through it.”
“If you wanted me dead so badly, why bother getting me to the hospital the night I was shot?” Malone’s question broke into the brief silence that had fallen. “You could have had a real corpse on your hands easily enough, but instead you saved my life.”
“I saved the life of my partner.” Paul’s tone was harsh. “I saved the life of the man who’d been working the Executioner file with me, the man who’d been brought in because of his special knowledge of the killer. The Agency had only put the last pieces of the puzzle together earlier that day. The decision was made not to tell me that the man I was working with—the man I’d come to like, for God’s sake—was the same murdering scum we’d been hunting for so long. They thought I might not be able to carry it off, and somehow you’d guess that your cover had been blown.” He swallowed thickly. “They were right. If I’d known the truth about you, I wouldn’t have been able to hide what I felt. I’d seen the photos. I’d read the reports.”
He turned to Ainslie. “Do you know even yet what he is? What crimes he’s committed?” A muscle bulged under the dark skin of his jaw. “He doesn’t kill for money, he kills for the sport of it. And his kills are always carefully calculated to lead to more deaths—in some cases, genocide. He sees the world as his own private anthill, and he loves to watch what happens after he gives it one good kick.”
Whatever he believed, it was the Executioner he was talking about, not the man she loved, Ainslie reminded herself forcefully. It seemed that Malone was content to let him go on, as long as they got the information they had come here for. She would follow his lead.
“You make him sound like the bogeyman,” she said evenly. “Genocide? How could a lone assassin, no matter how inhuman, kill thousands?”
“Because he studies the anthill,” Paul said with grim conviction. “He knows just where to place that single kick. A few years ago rumors began trickling out of an isolated jungle region in South America—rumors of a terrible tribal war that had flared out of control. When government troops were finally sent in, what they saw sickened even the toughest soldiers. Two complete cultures had been wiped out—right down to the children.”
His gaze flicked to Malone. “And how many bullets did you have to expend to bring that about? Two, wasn’t it? One for the young wife of one tribal leader, the other for the second tribe’s most revered elder—because right at that moment, the political situation there only needed a spark to set it blazing out of control. You knew that, and you struck the match. Just like you struck it in the Balkans five years ago. Just like you struck it when you assassinated Mocamba in Africa. Just like you struck it at least seven other times that we know of over the last ten years.”
He took a deep breath. With a detached part of her mind, Ainslie saw that his hands were trembling. “You are the bogeyman,” he said softly. “I only wish the Agency sniper had aimed better that night in the alleyway.”
“So the Agency did sanction the hit. And when it went wrong, it went wrong all th
e way down the line.” Malone shrugged tightly. “The wound wasn’t immediately fatal, and they’d made the mistake of keeping you out of the loop, so you got me to a hospital before they learned I was still alive. By the time they got their act together it was too late.”
“When the surgeon told me you were going to make it I was so relieved I could hardly get the words out to thank him. Then Watkins, our team leader, arrived. It was Noah who finally briefed me—told me how you’d infiltrated the Agency by coming to us and offering your expertise. All the while, you were monitoring the progress of the case against you.” Paul’s gaze darkened. “After the alarm went out that you’d somehow escaped, I was one of the dozens combing the streets of Boston for you. You must have had the devil on your side that night.”
“Did you really expect me to lie helplessly in a hospital bed, waiting for a second bullet?” For the first time Malone’s tone held an edge of anger. “Who was he, anyway? Someone I’d shaken hands with? Someone I’d worked with, dammit?”
“The sniper? If I knew I wouldn’t tell you.” Sinking back into the sofa, the agent looked at the gun in Malone’s hand without interest. “I hope they’ve made your life hell, Malone. They’ll never rest until they stop you, and if it comes to a shootout, Ainslie stands a good chance of becoming the first casualty. Is that how you want it to end for her?”
“It’s not going to end that way. But if it did, I’d rather go down fighting by the side of a man I believe in than turn my back on him and spend the rest of my life trying to dull my conscience any way I could.” Unable to sit a moment longer, Ainslie stood, unsteady with outrage.
“You worked with Malone, Paul. You don’t believe any of the lies you’ve just told us—you can’t! Is it blind loyalty to the Agency that forces you to go along with this? Are you afraid you’ll lose everything—your job, your pension, this house—if you stand up for the truth? Is that it?”
He smiled crookedly up at her. “The Agency can’t take anything I care about away from me. I don’t work for them anymore, Ainslie.”
Leaning suddenly forward, he sunk his face into his hands, his shoulders bowed. His almost inaudible words were directed at the floor in front of him, as if nothing in the room held any interest for him anymore.
“He lied to you from the start, and God help me, I kept up the lie after the funeral. I didn’t see any point in hurting you more than you’d been already. He was a mercenary, Ainslie—a mercenary who’d found that legitimate battle wasn’t enough. His assignment with the Agency was only temporary. He didn’t tell you that, did he?”
“No, I didn’t tell her that, Cosgrove.” Malone’s voice was flat. “You’re right, I lied to her. I guess I lied to her about nearly everything.”
Ainslie glanced sharply over at him, disconcerted without knowing why. He was still attempting to play the other man along, she thought. That had to be what he was doing. His gaze met hers for the briefest of seconds, and then wavered.
He looked away.
“You’re incredible, Cosgrove!” Her outburst was immediate, her tone halfway between a gasp and an angry little laugh. She didn’t look again at Malone, but she directed her next words to him. “Whether Paul works for the Agency or not, they’ve obviously still got some kind of hold over him, Seamus, and he’s never going to tell us the truth. Coming here was a waste of our time.”
She turned stiffly, the need to leave suddenly urgent, and behind her she heard quick movement. She felt a hand on her arm, and broke her stride.
Malone was still sitting on the edge of the chair, his shoulders bowed. The hand on her arm belonged to Paul, and as she tried to wrench away from him his grip tightened.
“They don’t have a hold over me. There’s nothing left in my life that anyone could threaten to take away from me, Ainslie.” He was wearing a worn T-shirt under the robe, and from its frayed collar his neck muscles stood out like cords. He looked suddenly much older than she’d thought he was.
“I don’t care about the Agency. I don’t care if I live or die. I’m the one person you can trust to tell you the truth, because I’m a man with no motivation to lie.”
“How did they die, Paul?” As Malone met his expartner’s gaze, his own was shadowed with sharp sadness. “What happened?”
Shocked, Ainslie stared at the man standing beside her, and suddenly everything fell tragically into place—the dismantled swing set, the general air of neglect about the home, even the solitary drinking.
She’d told him that one day he would feel what she’d felt. She wished with all her heart that she could take those words back.
“It was just before Thanksgiving last year.” He could have been talking to himself, his voice was so low. “They’d gone to visit her folks in New Hampshire. I couldn’t get away from the office, but I told Celeste to take Robbie and to have a good time. They hit what the state police said was a patch of black ice on the way back, and the car slid right into an oncoming tractor-trailer. One of the cops from the highway patrol told me they wouldn’t have even had time to realize what was happening.”
“Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry.” Ainslie laid her hand on his. “I wish there was something I could do or say to help. But there isn’t, is there?”
“No.” Gently he released her. “Just like there’s nothing I can say that can help you. But I think in your heart you know I’ve been telling you the truth.”
“Whether she does or not, I do.” A few feet away from them, Malone stood. “I wasn’t sure before, and I guess I was hoping that you’d hand me a miracle, Cosgrove. But I wasn’t really expecting one.”
“You came back from the dead, and if what you’re telling me is true, with your past erased.” Paul’s glance was quizzical. “Count that as your miracle, Malone. Who knows? Maybe you and Ainslie will disappear and make a new life somewhere where the Agency never finds you.”
“I’ll be turning myself in to the Agency tomorrow morning.” Faint surprise colored Malone’s answer. “Now that I know what I’m wanted for, I can’t keep running. It’s time to end this.”
“You didn’t do those things. Whatever Paul believes, he’s wrong. The Agency’s wrong.” Ainslie stared at him in disbelief. “They’ve made a mistake, or someone’s deliberately framed you. I know you, Malone—there’s no way you could have done what they’re accusing you of!”
“You don’t know me at all, Lee. All you know is what I told you, and Paul’s right.” Malone’s face was grim. “I was a soldier of fortune, just like Sully used to be. That’s how I knew him. I’d only been attached to the Agency for a few weeks when we met.”
“You’re wrong. You don’t know that, for God’s sake—you couldn’t know that for sure,” she said automatically. “The amnesia—”
“I told you I remembered every minute of the time I had with you. I remember deliberately lying to you about what I did. I remember Sullivan telling me that you hated everything about the mercenary trade, and two seconds after you walked into my life, I knew I wasn’t going to let you know that I was part of what you hated so much.” Malone dragged in a shallow breath. “I told myself I couldn’t risk losing you before I’d even had a chance with you. I’d probably do the same thing all over again, Lee.”
“You…you lied to me? You were a mercenary, like Sullivan was? Like my father was?”
She fought for composure, but her limbs felt paralyzed with shock and all of a sudden the floor beneath her feet seemed dangerously uneven. Clutching the back of the nearest chair for balance, she grasped at the one truth she felt she could be certain of.
“So you weren’t up front about being a mercenary,” she said, her voice flat. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for that, Malone, but it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re not the Executioner. Whoever he is, he’s pure evil. A man like that can’t hide what he is from the people around him—not for long, anyway.”
“I think I got so good at hiding what I was that in the end I concealed it from myself,” he said, so s
oftly that she had to strain to hear him. His gaze was clouded and faraway, as if he were trying to see through a thick fog. “Except you’re right—I couldn’t bury it completely. I know I’m the Executioner, Lee.”
He closed his eyes for a second, and as she saw his jaw tighten she knew he was riding out another wave of pain. Even so, when his gaze finally met hers again she was horrified by the expression in his eyes.
He looked like a dead man, she thought unwillingly—or a man who wished he was dead. And when he spoke, she knew why.
“I told you that I had flashes of memories of my life before I met you,” he said harshly. “And one of the clearest is of killing Joseph Mocamba, the leader whose death unleashed so much violence and bloodshed that it almost destroyed a country.”
AINSLIE WALKED into the apartment ahead of Malone, took a few more steps and then just stood in the middle of the living room floor, as if she could go no farther. From the radio on the nearby table came low but discordant late-night jazz, the music an unconscious echo of her own jumbled thoughts.
He’d warned her himself, earlier this evening, she thought numbly. He’d told her that the day might come when she would want to sever the connection between them because the man she’d thought she loved had never existed.
He’d been a mercenary like Sullivan, like her father, like other men she’d seen occasionally in the company of her brother—big men, men tanned by foreign suns, men who laughed and joked with Sully, but whose eyes always seemed to be seeing ghosts and shadows. She’d told Sullivan once that being with men like that made her feel as if she was the one fading away, and the surrounding shades becoming more real than she was.
She spared a brief flicker of anger for her half brother. Sullivan had known, dammit. He’d known and he’d kept quiet about Malone’s soldiering past, probably out of some misplaced and romantically foolish reluctance to derail their affair before it had had a chance.
