by Misty Evans
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Consciousness crept into Brigit’s awareness with a steady, painful hum. The plane droned under her. The right side of her head throbbed.
Her stomach roiled at the smell of jet fuel and body sweat lingering in the air. Easing her eyes open, she saw metal chain handcuffs around her wrists and the seat belt pinning them to her lap. A bright yellow polypropylene rope cinched her upper body to the seat. Her vision swam and her head swayed side to side, heavy and unbalanced.
Night lay over the Atlantic. In the dimly lit cabin, Cormac O’Bern sat across the aisle in a similar predicament as her, but still unconscious. No doubt Peter would use O’Bern to assist his escape once they touched down.
What would Peter do with her? Brigit twisted her head and tried to see if Tory was nearby. A sharp pain jetted up her neck at the effort, and her lungs struggled to fill against the confining straps of rope.
Since she was seated next to the window and pinned to the seat, her view was limited. The pain was too much, and her eyes swam with tears. Wimp, she yelled at herself. Failure. She hung her head and closed her eyes again.
Why hadn’t she, for once, asked for the help she so desperately needed and called Michael before going to the airport with Moira?
No answers came from the plane’s continuing drone or her pounding head. Little pain pricks danced in her hands.
“Here, drink this.”
Brigit’s eyes flew open to find Tory standing beside her with a clear beverage in a plastic drink cup. The liquid fizzed, tiny bubbles rising and breaking the surface.
She opened her mouth to talk and Tory tipped the cup. Cold pop ran in her mouth. Her throat was parched and the sweet/tart drink tasted good.
As Tory continued to feed her small sips, Brigit tried to think of what to say, but it seemed impossible to understand her sister or the fact Tory would go along with Peter’s cruel treatment. “You can still have a life, Tory,” she spoke over the noise of the plane. “I can help you.”
Tory’s smile was bittersweet. “Finish your drink.”
Brigit did, some pathetic part of her hoping the small gesture would endear her to Tory enough to make her sister want to be a better human. Want to stay with Brigit instead of leaving with Peter.
Tory disappeared down the aisle, and after a few minutes, Brigit’s brain refused to keep thinking. Soon she fell back to sleep.
She awoke with a jolt sometime later to the sound of men’s voices arguing outside. Her head was impossible to lift and her mouth was again as dry as a desert.
Where was she? Why was she tied up? As she fought the fog in her brain, one message came through loud and clear. She’d been drugged.
A familiar woman’s voice, shrill and desperate, topped the men’s. Tory. Bits and pieces fell into place. Brigit forced her head up and scanned the interior of the plane. Empty silence greeted her. The door was open and the stairs were down. A lone interior light brightened the plane from over the doorway.
She was in Ireland.
Outside the window, she could see shadows moving on the edge of the light’s yellowy reach. Beyond it, everything was an eerie grayscale. Dark blobs, shaped like trees, fenced the area in the distance. Wherever they had landed, it was no airport.
More arguing, one man’s voice pleading. Brigit flexed her hands, found they had no sensation. She worked against the rope holding her to the seat, but if anything, the rope seemed to tighten.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, she leaned her head back and stared out the window. Two of the people seemed to have gotten shorter. Were they on their knees? The largest shadow moved toward them. Peter. He raised his arm and Brigit’s breath froze in her chest.
The gunshot echo reverberated through the cabin. One of the men dropped to the ground. Brigit screamed, “No!” but her weak voice was drowned out by the second gunshot.
As she struggled frantically against her bindings, she saw Peter and Tory take off at a run. Tears sprang into Brigit’s eyes, and as they overflowed her lids and ran down her cheeks, she hung her head.
How was it possible Peter, a cold-blooded killer, was her brother? While they had different fathers, they still shared their mother’s gene pool. It made her feel dirty, ugly. Like a monster.
Overriding that, Brigit wondered how Tory could choose life with Peter over life with her.
Shame and self-loathing burned in her chest. It always boiled down to one thing. Tory chose Peter.
Stop it. She would not go there again. For too long, she’d tortured herself with that betrayal. She had to let it go. Tory had made her choice, and she’d chosen Peter.
Time and time again.
So be it. She couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved.
Yeah, right. How many times had she told herself the same logical fact and then jumped right back on Tory’s trail, determined to make her see the light?
She was pathetic. All these years of wanting, needing her little sister to love her, and this was what she got for her trouble. Rejection. Pain. Betrayal. She was so tired of fighting. Tired of hiding the truth. Tired of trying to take care of everyone else. She wanted a life, a family.
Hell, at the moment, she’d settle for a dog like Pongo.
Michael. She wanted him too. His blue-gray eyes challenging her, his blond hair mussed from sleep, his quick wit and George Clooney smile. His power.
Power had always polarized her. Either she chased it or avoided it. Now she wondered what it might be like to do neither. What would it be like to just be friends with it? She might have a chance, if she ever got free from her bonds, to contact Michael and find out.
Her nose ran and she turned her head to rub it on her shoulder. As she shifted her arm a fraction under the rope, her hands moved and her breath snagged in her throat.
Under her hands, in her lap, lay a key.
Tory. A wave of hope crashed through her. Tory had left her the key to the cuffs. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love, but then again, maybe it was.
Analyze later. Right now she had to get the men outside medical help.
Doing the best she could with her dripping nose, she tried to make her fingers work to grasp the tiny metal key. Lack of sensation in her fingers made them move as if she were underwater. Again and again they failed to grasp it.
Flexing and releasing her hands, she ignored the painful prickling sensation, and at last got a firm grip on the key. The next few seconds passed by in a blur as she worked at maneuvering the key into the small lock of the handcuffs.
When they sprang free from her right hand, Brigit let out a proud, “Yes!”
Another minute went by as she unbuckled the seat belt and wiggled out from under the rope. She was sweating by the time she gained her freedom. Her head pounded and her arm ached. Everything ached. A seven hour flight across the Atlantic was bad enough. Bound and drugged, with a painful headache, was worse than listening to Truman do his Jonas Brothers impersonation. And if she didn’t pee soon, she’d die.
Both O’Bern and his assistant lay on the ground, blood pooling from their chests. Brigit checked for pulses, found none and sent a prayer up to the heavens for each of them.
Back in the plane, the restroom was small and cramped, but she didn’t care. The relief pushed all the night’s atrocities from her mind for a few brief seconds.
After washing her hands, she splashed water on her face and noted the solid bruise on the side. She’d been trying to control her life since the night of her mother’s death and all the time her life had been controlling her.
Leaving her ghostly image in the mirror behind, she made her way out of the plane, checking her pockets for her mobile. The only thing she found was the rabbit’s foot.
She entered the cockpit and sat in one of the seats, searching for the radio. Slipping a headset on, she hit buttons and sent out a mayday when she heard static in her ear. “This is Dr. Brigit Kent, an Irish citizen. I’m in a small plane in a field and I need help.”
She leaned forward and read the coordinates off a digital compass and then scanned the rest of the control panel, looking for the plane’s ID. A small, green flashing light caught her attention. “Two men are dead—”
The light flashed again and Brigit’s heart froze in mid-beat as realization dawned. The black numbers of a digital clock were counting down from twenty. The clock had wires running out of it into a gray block of material. Her gaze traced the wires. Duct tape secured the material to the panel and still the green light flashed in time with the descending numbers.
Ten…nine…eight…
Brigit yanked off the headset and ran.
Chapter Thirty
“Stop right there.”
Peter heard the cold sound of a double-barrel locking into place and froze in his tracks, one arm rising to protect Tory.
The farmer had emerged from the shadows of a large oak. “Ya mind tellin’ me what yer doin’ on me land?”
The night had been one problem after another, and Peter’s patience was spent. Several acres behind them, an explosion rocked the pasture. The farmer ducked and stumbled backwards, throwing up his gun as the fiery flames threw light on his wizened face.
As Tory ducked too, Peter lunged forward and disarmed the farmer in one swift motion. Stepping back, he pointed the end of the barrel at the man’s head and sighted it.
“No,” Tory yelled.
She gripped Peter’s arm with both hands and jerked it down. Her face was a mixture of fear and grief as her gaze jumped between him and the wreckage burning behind them. “What ’ave you done, brother?”
He shrugged her hands off. “What I needed to do, just like before.”
Raising the shotgun, he again took aim at the old man.
Tory stepped in front of the gun’s barrel, blocking him. Tears bubbled over her bottom lids and streaked down her face. “Have you lost your mind? Blowing the plane with…”
She hiccupped and shook her head, dashed the back of her hand against her wet cheeks. Clearing her throat, she set her shoulders. “This man…he’s one of us.”
His half-sister’s rebellion was over Brigit, not the sheep farmer. “Brigit was not one of us,” he reminded her.
Tory laid a hand on the gun and pushed the end toward the ground. “There’s been enough killin’ for one night, Peter.”
He lowered the gun to his side and glanced behind him. Brigit was dead. O’Bern was dead. He waited for the remorse to pinch his soul. When it didn’t, he tossed the gun into the tree line and took off at a jog.
The sun was rising in the east, turning the strips of fog rising from the bottoms yellow and pink. Hearing Tory’s footsteps behind him, he smiled into the fading night.
He’d won.
He’d finally won.
Michael woke to the sound of a cell phone ringing. He jerked awake and sat forward, fumbling in his pockets for his phone.
Across the aisle, Gunn spoke, and Michael realized it wasn’t his phone ringing. He sank back in the seat, closed his eyes and eavesdropped.
“When?” Gunn said.
His tone made Michael’s stomach tense and he opened his eyes again.
After a long pause, Gunn sighed. “Both O’Bern and his assistant died by bullet?”
Michael’s breath stuck in his throat. Brigit. What about Brigit?
Gunn glanced at him and held his gaze. Even in the dimly lit cabin, Michael could see the tense set of the man’s jaw. His stomach clenched harder.
“I’m going to put the Deputy Director of the CIA on the phone and I want you to repeat what you just told me.”
Gunn’s eyes were watering as he handed him the phone. Michael willed his hand to reach for it.
He swallowed before identifying himself to the caller. As he listened to the words pour out of the man’s mouth on the other end, his gut heaved.
O’Bern’s plane had landed in sheep field outside Dublin, two people reported fleeing from the plane by a farmer. A communication from Dr. Brigit Kent was received by a local control tower, but her communication stopped at the estimated time of the explosion.
Her body had not yet been found, but the fire still burned as there was no way to reach it with equipment or fire retardant.
A cold hollowness filled his chest as Michael handed the phone back to Gunn. His brain screamed Brigit’s name. You can’t be dead.
Flynn, Del and Brad were now all awake. As Gunn disconnected, all three stared at Michael as they listened to Brigit’s assistant tick off the information in a rough voice before he hung his head.
Peter Donovan was the lowest of the low. He’d kidnapped a six-year-old and left her to burn in an apartment. He’d shot and killed two men in cold blood.
He’d blown up his sister.
Vicious anger exploded in the hollowness, and Michael’s mind slid into the dark shadows he’d come to know well after his encounter with Raissi. He gripped the armrests and locked his jaw tight. Peter Donovan had crossed the final line between justice and revenge in Michael’s carefully preserved world.
I will hunt you down, he vowed to Peter’s image, and put you on the express train to hell.
A loud tearing noise reverberated over the drone of the plane. He glanced down and saw the armrests in his hands, the leather ripped at the seams.
No one made a sound until Flynn coughed. “I’d suggest anger management training if I didn’t know how cheap these seats were made. Titus obviously needs to upgrade.”
Naturally, Flynn would reach for derisive sarcasm. For once, Michael was grateful for it.
Chapter Thirty-One
“I found ’er! Over here!”
The muffled male voice broke through Brigit’s semi-lucid dreams of Tory and her mother, and she groaned.
Her head had split open, she was sure. She opened her eyes but only one seemed to be working. Through it, the world swam in streaks of green, black and blue. The other eye’s lashes snagged on grass.
Snapping her eyes shut again, she drew a deep breath. She was lying on the ground, and snatches of memory swam through her brain.
The pungent smell of earth mixed with a more acrid smell. Hot metal? Burning rubber? A high-pitched ringing stung her left ear while her right was mercifully buried in the mud under her face. She raised her hand to cup the pain-filled ear, and her shoulder screamed at the movement.
God, I’m a fucking mess.
Again the muffled voice spoke, blurred and soft around the edges. “Easy, there, Miss. Help’s on the way.”
Help. Yes, she needed help.
Lots of it.
She tried to say thank you, but her voice wouldn’t work. She popped open the eye that wasn’t buried in the grass and tried to rise up on her elbows. The man had squatted down next to her and now touched her back in a controlled block. “Whoa, now. Ya best stay where ya are.”
He was right. The world spun and Brigit sank back down into the grass. As the man shrugged off his blue jacket and laid it over her, she flexed her fingers and her toes. They obeyed, but when she tried to lift her head again, a hundred pound elephant was sitting on it. She stopped trying, closed her eyes and drifted…
When the emergency medical technicians arrived, they kept her conscious as they poked and prodded and talked about her. After wrapping her neck in a brace and inserting an IV in her arm, they shifted her onto a back brace as well and suddenly she was able to see the sky. Black billowing smoke covered the morning sun.
Over the background noise and the ringing in her ears, she caught snatches of the ongoing conversation around her. Possible spinal injury…head injury…internal bleeding.
She swallowed the bile in her throat. If she was possibly going to die, she had to tell Michael the truth about Peter. The truth about everything. Her lips were thick and rubbery. She forced them apart but her voice still refused to cooperate. “Michael,” she whispered.
The man who’d found her shushed the technicians and leaned over her face. “What did ya say, Miss?”
“Michael? He yer husband?”
She tried to shake her head but found it immobile. “Stone.”
“Stone? That yer name?”
She sighed. “Mi…chael…Stone…he’s CIA…”
The man quirked his brows but nodded. “Aye, I’ve got it. You want me to contact ’im. Now what’s your name, lass?”
“Bri…git…”
“Brigit? Now there’s a hearty Irish name, it ’tis. Yer gonna be just fine, Miss Brigit.” He patted her hand. “Ye’ve survived a rough one, but ye be in good hands now. And I’ll be sure Michael Stone is contacted.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Thank…you…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Finding the site of the plane explosion was easy, getting up to it was impossible.
Fire trucks, police cars and Haz Mat vehicles blocked the narrow country lane. Press vans jammed the field. People by the dozens packed themselves against the police barricades, trying to get a look, take a photo and propagate gossip about why the plane had landed in a sheep field and who lay under the white sheets on the ground.
Titus stayed at the airport to refuel and store his jet. He’d had the good sense to have an armored SUV waiting to transport the others to the field south of Dublin.
The SUV got within a quarter mile of the site, and Michael jumped out and started jogging toward the crowd, the others behind him. By the time he reached the barricade and pushed his way through the gawkers, he was sweating. The temperature was only in the forties, but the heat from the wreckage permeated the air, along with the stench of burning rubber, jet fuel and hot metal.
He identified himself to a local cop, flashed his badge and grew impatient as the cop looked him over and then used a walkie-talkie to ask permission to let him pass. Permission was granted, although reluctantly.
The cop dragged the barricade open enough to let Michael and the others slip through before directing them to a knot of blue-uniformed officers.
A helicopter skimmed the still-billowing smoke from the plane. Crime-scene-recovery technicians, wearing bright orange vests, fanned out on all sides of the plane’s skeleton, scanning the ground, the stone fence and the trees that formed a north-south border on one end of the field.
