The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  He stepped onto the edge of the lowest shelf, shook as hard as he could. Stable enough, and he climbed, edging into the center of the unit for balance. He only needed to climb up one more shelf . . .

  Sonofabitch! Adrenaline coursed through him. "Natasha, what's behind this back wall?"

  The back wall now sporting a deep gash from the falling corner of the shelving.

  Concrete board didn't gash.

  "Uh, I'm not sure. Wick remodeled the basement a couple of years ago."

  "Think, sweetheart. Think." Christian inched his way in that direction. "And hand me up the hammer." He heard her scrabble around beneath him, digging through the rubble and clutter.

  "Here." She slapped the handle into his hand. "I think that's the wall where the furnace was."

  A furnace. A chimney. How old was this house?

  He scooted within striking distance of the wall, balanced on the edge of the shelf he feared was starting to buckle, drew back his arm, and swung. The claws of the hammer bit deep into the drywall. He pulled away big chunks, working his way to the right to reveal one-by-eight slats randomly hammered together. As if boarding up a hole. . . .

  He hooked the claws behind the first board and jerked it away from the wall. The second came free with a creaking snap. A third followed. A fourth and fifth, and there it was.

  The coal chute built into the original structure.

  He glanced down a moment, blinked, said . . . "This wall faces the driveway. Beneath the kitchen."

  "Yes! God, I didn't even think!" She moved closer to the shelving unit. "The chute's door is beneath the hedges. It looks like a miniature cellar entrance. I can't remember the reason they built it like that, but I do know it hasn't been used in years."

  His heart racing, he braced his feet, shifted to balance his weight directly beneath the chute, stuck his head into the dark opening, and sniffed.

  Rotted wood. Dank earth. Oily coal residue, but no smoke.

  The fire wasn't yet burning on this side of the house. Smoke would be rising up the basement stairwell and elevator shaft, but it wasn't here. Not yet.

  He yanked away the last two boards. "We're going up."

  "What about the fire? The smoke?"

  He shook his head, drawing in a full breath. "We're good, but we've got to hurry." He turned back, held out a hand to help her onto the makeshift ladder. "You need to lose the shoes."

  "Okay." She kicked off the heels and stood in her bare feet, her thigh-length skirt, and a pink and black sweater taped tight to her body. The binding restricted her movement too much; she would never be able to climb. Christian's mind whirred.

  She stepped onto the edge of the lowest shelf, scooted her way toward him, moved up onto the one where he stood, and gave him a shaky smile. "Now what?"

  Damn if she wasn't in more pain than he'd realized, more than she was letting on. Deep purple half-moons colored the skin beneath her eyes, and he kicked himself a thousand times for letting Bow get the drop. "If I don't untape you, I don't think you'll be able to climb."

  She nodded, swiveled so that her injured arm was within his reach. This time he went for the switchblade in the sole of his boot, cutting her free instead of jerking her around like last time when he'd had no clue she'd been shot.

  Christ. . . she'd been shot.

  "A trick of the trade?" she asked, wincing only once during the process.

  "Doesn't do me a lot of good when I can't get to it." He closed the knife, shoved it into his pocket.

  "You would've used it on Wick?"

  "In a heartbeat."

  She nodded, her eyes tearing up. "I wish you had."

  God, but he loved this woman, her bravery, her belief in him, her trust. He looked down into her eyes. "This is going to hurt like hell, you know, climbing up."

  "Nah. I've got that adrenaline thing going on. I'm impervi­ous to pain."

  He cupped the back of her skull, kissed her forehead. "Then up you go, soldier."

  "Wait." Her voice echoed with panic. "After I'm out, then what?"

  He thought. "If there's fire, hit the water garden. But if you can get to your SUV, we're outta here. You need to get stitched up."

  "And you? What happens next?"

  "One step at a time, sweetheart. One step at a time. Now let's go."

  Natasha rolled out through the coal chute doors into the hedges and screamed.

  Smoke billowed far above her head. Flames crackled and popped. Heat poured down. She scrambled around onto her hands and knees, gritting her teeth at the knife blade of pain slicing through her arm.

  Climbing up, God, grabbing for handholds, rotted wood crumbling. She couldn't believe she'd made it. Her palms and soles felt like porcupine skin. But she was out. And Christian was right behind.

  "Natasha!"

  "I'm here."

  "Can you get to the garage?"

  She whipped her head around. "Yes. The cars are fine. Wick's van is gone. The garage door is open."

  "Okay. You need to find a shovel. A hoe. An axe. Some­thing."

  "Why? What's wrong?" she cried. She could see the top of his head, and he wasn't right behind her at all. No. No! Panic welled. Her chest ached. "Christian!"

  "The chute's too narrow here. The dirt's caved in."

  Caved in because she'd climbed through first and dislodged the rotting wood holding it back. "Hang on. I'll be right back."

  "Hurry, sweetheart. Hurry."

  She shot to her bare feet and ran, heart pounding, toward the open garage. Mr. Courtney kept his gardening tools . . . where?

  She whipped her gaze from the workbench of mechanic's tools, oil, coolant, transmission fluid . . . to the pegboard, the hammer, the saw . . . to the table beneath, the sander, the drill . . . to the closet in the far corner. Yes!

  The padlock hung open. She couldn't believe her luck! She jerked open the door and screamed, grinding her jaw against what felt like a shark latched onto her shoulder with spikey teeth. She swore she was going to throw up, swallowed hard against the urge.

  The sharpshooter shovel, the hand trowel, the hoe, the spade. She grabbed all she could and ran back, ducking and yelping as burning embers rained down from the trees above.

  "Here!" She dropped to her knees, handed him down the trowel, used the hoe to chop at as much of the remaining wood as she could reach. Beneath her, Christian sputtered and disappeared from view. "Christian!"

  "Down here," he called from the basement, his voice muf­fled by chunks of timber and dirt clods falling.

  He wasn't going to make it! He was going to die!

  She tossed aside the hoe and started using her hands, scooping out dirt into her lap and the ground around her. She couldn't dig fast enough. The smoke was everywhere now. Her eyes watered. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't feel her limbs at all to know if she was doing any good.

  But then he was there, his gorgeous face covered with dirt and old soot as he shoved his shoulders through the widened tunnel, twisting upwards until he hooked his hands over the edge of the chute's frame. He hauled himself free, rolled out onto the driveway.

  She watched his chest heave as he struggled for breath on his hands and knees. She watched until she couldn't wait an­other moment, then launched herself forward and hugged him as hard as she could. He was out. He was alive.

  She couldn't bear the thought of losing him when she'd only just now found him. "Stupid place for a coal chute, huh?"

  "I wouldn't have it anywhere else." He hugged her back as if he needed to ground himself in the same reality of their sur­vival, and then seconds later shoved to his feet.

  He grabbed her by the hand; they sprinted for her SUV, duck­ing away from the fire debris now pouring down. Christian opened the Infiniti's front door, Natasha the back. They climbed in, slammed the doors in unison. ,

  "You got keys? Or do I hot-wire?"

  "On the visor. I leave them in case Mr. Courtney needs to move me out of the way. What about the Ferrari?"


  "It's Deacon's. It stays," Christian said as the engine roared to life. He wheeled around in the drive and shot forward down the estate's private road, leaving the Ferrari behind.

  That beautiful hot-bodied car suddenly was the ugliest thing Natasha could imagine. It belonged to a man who, in ab­sentia, had destroyed so many lives. She couldn't even bear to look back. To see her home away from home of so many years going up in flames.

  And then it hit her. "The Courtneys! And Woody! Do you think they got out?"

  "I don't know, sweetheart. Hang on!"

  Christian whipped the wheel, sent the SUV sideways onto the main road. Natasha yelped as she tumbled across the seat and Christian picked up speed. She caught her breath, scram­bled back up, glanced out the window.

  "Christian! Stop!"

  He slammed on the brakes, stopped in the middle of the road.

  "Oh my God! Look!" She gestured wildly toward the gap­ing hole through the retaining wall at Overlook Point.

  "Shit." Christian gunned the SUV forward into the circular turnaround, threw the vehicle into 'park,' and slammed open his door.

  Natasha followed, gravel biting into her bare soles as she hurried forward. Christian stopped her with a raised arm thrown across her chest.

  She cried out, pushed her way past and stared down the rocky slope toward the lake's shoreline where Wick's van lay in a mangled heap.

  "Oh, Christian. Oh God. We've got to go down."

  "We're not going anywhere."

  "But Wick—"

  "A thousand bucks says he's not within twenty miles of here."

  She glanced over at him. His T-shirt was torn at the neck­line and one shoulder seam, and dirt coated his jeans, his hands, his face. She remembered the first night they'd met, less than two weeks before, when they'd stood in this very spot and flirted in their finest.

  Did she care if Wick was at the bottom of the lake? Did she want to know?

  He had tried to kill her and Christian both. He might very well have left the Courtneys and Woody for dead, too. She turned from Christian and looked off in the direction of the house. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched the smoke bil­low, and the flames leap from tree to tree.

  Her arm begin to ache unbearably, her knees to sag. "I don't even have a phone to call 911."

  "No need," he said, his voice cold and flat.

  She glanced back toward him and picked up the sound of approaching sirens, a sound that should have brought relief, but instead brought uncertainty. It was what she saw, however, that frightened her to death.

  The look in Christian's eyes.

  He gently took her by her good arm and returned her to the SUV. She didn't argue. She didn't fight to stay where she was. She didn't demand he release her so she could clamber down the incline to the lake.

  She didn't have the energy to do more than comply. Ex­haustion was rapidly replacing panic. Nothing was over. No­thing was complete. But what happened from here was out of her control.

  She wasn't even going to be able to keep him around. "Natasha, listen."

  She shook her head, stood her ground. That much strength she still had. "No. I don't want to hear it. Just go."

  "I have to. The authorities will get you to the hospital." He bit off a curse, shoved his hands to his hips, then scrubbed one over his head. "Fuck it, no. I'll take you."

  She stepped in front of him, placed her palm in the center of his chest. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it twenty-eight years without you."

  "Fuck." He spun away, kicked out at the SUV's tire. His eyes glistened brightly when he looked back seconds later. "I can't be found here. I can't be questioned."

  "I know that." The sirens were getting close. She and Christian stood in plain sight. "Go. Take my car."

  He shook his head. "Where's the closest pay phone?"

  She glanced to his waist, where he usually wore his cell. "He took your cell, too?"

  Christian nodded. "Won't do him any good if he kept it."

  "Secret spy stuff, huh?" She tried to smile. Her mouth quiv­ered. And nothing else came out.

  Christian's expression darkened. "You do know what to say, right? When they question you?"

  "Of course. My godfather left me to die. That he was working with a man named Peter Deacon. That's all I know."

  Finally, his eyes softened. "You know you don't make a bad spy yourself."

  "Right." She rolled her eyes. "Just call me Jennifer Garner."

  "I've got to go, Natasha," he said, sobering. She nodded. "Keep on the west side of the road. There's a corner store in about five miles."

  "Thanks, sweetheart." He backed away. "Be safe." "You, too."

  He glanced sharply in the direction of the sirens, looked back at her. "It's not you I'm leaving, Natasha. I'll be back for you. I will find you again."

  "I know. You're a wonderful spy, Christian Bane." He was more than a wonderful spy. He was a wonderful man. Wounded and honorable. A worthy and valiant partner with whom she wanted to spend her life.

  "Oh, baby." He cupped a hand to her cheek, leaned his forehead against hers. "Pm not so sure I'm more than a sur­vivor."

  When he released her, she waved him away. Once he'd dis­appeared into the woods, she let the tears go and walked slowly toward the road to flag down the authorities.

  For so long she'd measured the men she'd known by the two who had meant the most in her life. Two fairy-tale princes created by a lonely little girl. No single man had ever gotten past that ruler to engage her heart.

  Or, truth be told, she had never given one a chance, seeing as she'd been taught to suffer fools lightly and had looked for faults long before strengths. Yet if she had been so wrong about Wick, how many men had she unfairly blown off by making assumptions that were untrue? But Christian . . . oh, Christian.

  In Christian Bane she had discovered a complex man, one harder than most, more capable and worldly, yet in so many other ways lost and little-boy vulnerable. He wanted to pro­tect her from his uncertain future when, for the first time in her life, she'd never been more sure of hers.

  Now to convince the stubborn man that marrying him and living happily ever after was one fairy tale she believed in with all of her heart.

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty feet from and parallel to the road, Christian crashed through the underbrush, losing his footing, picking it up again, struggling to keep his balance and his mind.

  Even knowing he had no choice, he couldn't believe he was leaving Natasha behind. If there'd been another way . . . if there'd been time. . . .

  But there'd been neither. He couldn't risk being found at the scene and compromising SG-5. His priority now was to call the ops center and find out if Julian had returned to the city or was still in the area.

  Timing was critical. The authorities would be combing the estate for evidence of all that had happened here. Bow's fire guaranteed they'd find little. Which meant using the data Christian had pulled from Jinks's hard drives to put Bow and Deacon away.

  Deacon would be the easiest. Bow, not so, though the mo­ment he resurfaced he'd be wishing he'd locked himself in that fiery basement. No matter what it took, no matter how long, Christian would make sure the old man suffered double the pain he'd caused Natasha.

  The most logical place to begin setting up the trail of evi­dence would be Bow's office at the university—as long as that office was still intact. Tripp would be in the city; he could get started as soon as Christian got to a phone and made contact.

  Sirens approached rapidly. He hit the ground, flattened himself behind a thick stand of brush. The ambulance with Natasha. He should be there with her. He slammed a fist into the dirt, waited another few minutes before setting off at a more even pace.

  Thirty minutes later he came to the crossing and the rear of the corner store. Hands on his knees, he leaned forward to catch what he could of his breath before finding the pay phone, dusting detritus from his clothing as he walked from the woods out into the op
en.

  He dialed the number set up at the ops center for unsecured calls. When the connection clicked through, he said simply, "Bane," then left the line open for the trace. Several minutes later, a computerized voice replied, "Thank you," signaling that his location had been made.

  Now to wait. And to convince himself that getting back to the city was paramount, that he had no time to stop at the emergency room where Natasha would have been taken. He couldn't do anything for her now but make matters worse. He'd fucked her over too many ways already.

  Once she was healed and had moved on with her life she would see that. See that she was better off without a man who hopped from frying pans into fires on a regular basis and who might not come home someday. Eventually she would see that she didn't really love him at all.

  Not like he loved her but had been too blind to see.

  Eight weeks later

  Christian watched MaddyB circle the track and found him­self grinning for no real reason but the obvious. That Hank would be flying high come racing season. The filly was two years old and chomping at the bit, ready to show her stuff. Typical female stepping into her prime.

  Another reason he couldn't help but grin. The thought of a prime female turned Christian's mind in the only direction it seemed interested in heading these days. He'd told her he would find her, that he would be back. And, yeah, he knew ex­actly where she was.

  He knew she was working out at her health club again, that her shoulder had healed with no permanent damage. He knew she had taken a new position with a brokerage firm in the fi­nancial district. He knew she spent her weekends blowing off steam with Susan, Yvonne, and Elaine.

  He just hadn't yet grown the balls to go to her. He sup­posed he needed to figure out why.

  The sound of Jackson Briggs's approaching chopper caught Christian's attention and reminded him all too vividly of the day Natasha had discovered who he really was. Funny thing, though, was the reality of that man no longer existing. And he had Natasha to thank for that.