by Sharp, Zoe
Sean caught up with me inside half a dozen strides, snagged my arm. “Aren’t you overlooking something?” he said tightly. “What about Autumn Sinclair?”
“She’s still missing.”
“Is she?” Sean asked. “Or does she simply not want to be found?”
I felt a flush of anger—or was it fear? “What would she have to gain?”
He shrugged. “Power?” he suggested. “With Tom out of the picture and her claws already into Jimmy, she’s suddenly in a pretty strong position.” He paused, added, “And what proof does Jimmy have that she’s actually pregnant?”
“That’s enough,” I said, surprised by the snap in my own voice. “You’ve no proof she’s lying about that. You’ve no proof she’s involved at all—”
“And you’ve no proof she isn’t,” Sean fired back. “She disappeared off the boat in the middle of a hijack. What is it about this woman that you’re defending her? If it was anyone else you’d be suspicious. Instead, you’re determined to put the blame onto Vic Morton.”
I pulled away from him. “People don’t change their basic nature,” I said. “Not that fundamentally.”
“So where does that leave us?” Sean asked. He stared at me for a moment, shook his head in frustration. “You have changed, Charlie. You’re not the girl I remember. The way you threatened to take out Baptiste’s arm . . . You’re harder, more ruthless.”
My instinct was to get in a fast verbal blow—that if I’d changed then it was because he’d shaped me, coached me, to let go of my hesitations and regrets. To act decisively in high-threat situations.
To kill when it was called for.
And maybe when it was not.
I didn’t want to go there. Deliberately, I latched onto the reference to Baptiste, believing it was safer.
“If I hadn’t threatened Baptiste, do you think we would have got the truth out of him?”
“Torture rarely produces the truth—only a version of it. The version they think you want to hear.”
He sounded so certain, so sure.
A flutter of images passed my eyes like a film projector running at half speed. Of Sean threatening to torture a man who held my mother’s life in his hands. Threats are nothing without intent. Had our victim not believed absolutely that those threats would be carried through, they would have been useless.
As it turned out, they had not been useless. At the time even I had believed Sean would not falter.
But now?
I realised that I’d been wrong when I said that people don’t change on a fundamental level. Sean had changed. Not just his recollections of me, or even his emotions, but his character.
I’d spent the last few years of my professional life trying to be more like him. And just when I thought I’d finally succeeded, I discovered the Sean I’d known was gone.
As you said, Sean, where does that leave us? Where does it leave me?
I shivered despite the balmy night. “Sean, I—”
“Hey, Sean! Charlie!”
We turned together, found Jimmy O’Day hurrying towards us.
“Have you seen Morton?” I asked.
“What? No,” he said. “He’s about here someplace.” He looked round, distracted. “Dad needs you.”
We followed him back to Tom O’Day, now clutching a cup of coffee with both hands, as if he too were feeling the cold. He looked up as we approached. I saw the worry in his face.
“I can’t raise Marie,” he said. “She’s supposed to be back at the hotel. I wanted to ask her . . . I know she has nothing to do with this, but I need to know that she’s safe. Will you . . . bring her here?”
I heard the contradictions beneath the words, the uncertainties and the pain.
“Why us?” Sean asked.
O’Day shrugged. “My own guy is dead,” he said flatly. “Morton’s place is with Jimmy.” I flicked my eyes to Jimmy, standing alone, but nobody mentioned the fact that Morton seemed to be neglecting his duty in favour of personal glory. “Just bring her here—that’s all I ask.”
“What if she doesn’t want to come?” My question was double-edged.
Tom O’Day met my gaze with more bravado than confidence.
“She’ll come.”
Seventy-one
Sean and I took a cab back to the hotel. Tom O’Day had given us his key card, but we knew we couldn’t verify his wife’s presence from the front desk. The system in place dictated that any enquiries about guests would be passed on to their security staff immediately, no exceptions. I couldn’t complain too much about that, though. After all, we were the ones who’d insisted on it.
We split up in the lobby. Sean needed to go back to his room to change out of still-damp clothes. He headed for the elevators. I decided to take the stairs up to Marie’s suite on the sixth floor. There was a feeling of urgency niggling away at the back of my mind that wouldn’t let go.
I pushed my tiredness aside as I jogged up the first flight. I knew I was the only one who suspected that Vic Morton might be wrapped up in this. And being totally honest with myself, I didn’t know if the reason behind it was my own bitter experience with the man. Had he changed?
OK, so he was dismissive of his client and still seemed on the cocky side, but he’d certainly stepped up when it mattered.
On this occasion.
I remembered again the way Castille had gone down, when just for that split second I’d thought it was Sean who’d taken the hit. Morton could easily have let Castille shoot the pair of us if he’d wanted to. Could have waited until a fraction afterwards to kill Castille, and still made himself out to be the hero.
He could have done.
But he didn’t.
Why?
I kept heading upwards. The stairs were formed concrete covered in thin corded industrial carpet. No frills. My feet were almost silent as I moved.
Unfortunately, so were his.
I don’t know what warned me—a change in the air pressure, maybe even a faint scent of something. I’d reached the fourth floor, started to turn up onto the flight leading to the fifth. I was almost to the half landing when my stride faltered.
Vic Morton stepped into view above me. I don’t know which of us was more startled. Just for a second his face betrayed him. His expression cracked and I saw not just loathing but fear, too. It was not a pretty combination.
“Fox!” he said, forcing a rueful smile. “Can’t believe I ever thought I’d say this, but am I glad to see you.” His eyes went to the stairwell behind me. “Meyer not with you?”
I eyed him warily. I was in a poor defensive position and didn’t like it much. I moved up onto the landing so we were on a level, put the wall at my back.
“No,” I said, not inclined to explain where Sean had gone. “What are you doing here?”
The smile faded. “I spotted the blonde sneaking off the boat. Can you believe it? Definitely something dodgy going on. I thought I’d follow her—see what her game was.”
“Autumn?” I said blankly. Autumn Sinclair. I didn’t want to believe she had a game at all. “Everyone in their right mind was getting off the boat—what’s dodgy about that? And I thought you couldn’t find her.”
“I couldn’t,” he said. “Which means she had to be hiding, right?”
Or you’re just not very good at searching.
“So you walked away from your principal without a word, leaving him unprotected in a crowd of strangers, while you went swanning off to play detective?”
He flushed, moved in closer, sneered, “I don’t think you have any room to lecture me about how to protect a principal, Fox, do you?”
My hands ached to act, to strike. I ignored the temptation presented by the vulnerable sweet spots of the point of his chin, the side of his jaw, his nose, eyes, temples, ears. Instead I took a breath and said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
He shrugged, recognising the avoidance mostly for what it was. “This is where she came,” he said. “Went straight u
p to O’Day’s suite.”
Which might or might not be true. Nothing to be gained by arguing at this point.
“OK.” I glanced around, stabbed a finger towards my feet. “But what are you doing right here?”
His jaw tightened. “On my way to call in reinforcements,” he said. “After everything that’s gone on tonight, you never know what that bitch is planning next, eh?” He tried another smile, seemed disappointed when that didn’t work any better than the first. “Besides, Mrs O’Day’s got Thad with her—Jimmy’s usual guy. He’s not bad, providing nobody feeds him anything with nuts in it.”
Jimmy’s official bodyguard had fallen sick just before this trip, I remembered—conveniently sick—and Morton had stepped in as a last-minute replacement. The cynic in me wondered how much he’d had to do with that.
But . . .
He could have let Castille kill you, I reminded myself again. He didn’t.
“OK,” I said at last, my tone still cautious. “Let’s go and see what she has to say for herself, shall we?”
He stepped back with a mocking half bow, gestured to the stairs leading upwards. “After you.”
I made no moves to go first, just gave him a level gaze. He pulled an apologetic face. “Yeah, well can’t blame you for that, I suppose,” he said over his shoulder as he started to climb. “I’ll tell you one thing, though.”
I started up after him, still wary. “What’s that?”
Morton put both hands on the railing and jacked his lower body up, punching down and back with both feet, aiming for my head and upper body.
I ducked instinctively. My change in pace threw off his aim. The heel of his shoe caught my cheekbone, scuffed past my ear. The other foot hit me square in the chest. My ribs imploded as the air blasted from my lungs and I went down in a twisting tumble of limbs.
I tried to go loose, to remember all those break-falls from the martial arts and self-defence training I’d done.
The corded carpet was still thin and the concrete steps underneath it were still bloody hard. I smacked down brutally on elbows, hips and knees, bounced into a heap and lay there for a moment. My back was wedged painfully against the corner of the wall by the exit to the fourth floor. I fought to catch my breath.
Morton jumped the last few steps and booted me almost casually in the ribs as he landed. The jolt of pain was electric. I fell back, gasping.
“Yeah,” he said cheerfully, nodding down at me. “I think that about covers it.”
Seventy-two
I said nothing. I didn’t have the breath to speak.
Being taken by surprise was different to being surprised. In truth I realised I’d been expecting this moment—something very like it—since the first time I’d laid eyes on Vic Morton again at Ysabeau van Zant’s mansion.
A painful image of him shaking hands with Sean just before we’d left the reception flashed into my mind. So that was something else Sean seemed to have lost along with chunks of his memory—his judgement of character.
I managed to get one hand underneath me, started to push myself off the floor. Morton waited until I was nearly there, then kicked at my elbow. I saw it coming just early enough to let the joint fold before he struck. My face hit the floor, but at least he hadn’t succeeded in breaking my arm.
I turned my head, scraping my already grazed cheek against the rough carpet, and looked up at him. He was not close enough for me to do anything about, but too close for comfort. He was breathing fast through his nose and his hands were clenched rage-tight.
“Going to finish what you started?” I asked, my voice still wheezy.
We both knew I wasn’t talking about now.
“Oh, don’t tempt me,” he muttered. “I’ve dreamed about doing this ever since I saw your name on the list for this thing. That was weird—actually seeing it there in black and white because you’ve been fucking haunting me for years.”
Whose fault is that?
A bubble of laughter forced its way out of my mouth bringing blood with it. I’d bitten my tongue but let him think it might be something worse.
“Finally growing a conscience, Vic?”
He ignored the question. “If there’s one thing I regret it’s that we didn’t kill you when we had the chance and put you in the ground somewhere out on Pen-Y-Fan where you would never have been found,” he said calmly. “If I’d known the stink was going to follow me around for years afterwards . . .”
No words of regret for the rape itself, I noted bitterly. Or for what effect it might have had on me, either at the time or in the intervening years.
The pain had settled back from piercing to dull. I took a shallow breath and sat up in one movement, not letting him get the boot in again.
Morton stood over me, almost casually, balanced on the balls of his feet waiting to strike again. I knew I shouldn’t do anything to antagonise him while I was at such a tactical disadvantage.
Sod that.
“I was the one who was court-martialled,” I pointed out. “I was the one thrown out in disgrace.”
“And yet here you are now, working for one of the best outfits in the country. Do you know what it’s cost me to have my record cleaned up so I can get any kind of a job in this industry?” he demanded. “And sod’s law says when I do—just when I think I’ve got it made—I run across someone who was around at the time, or heard about it from a mate of a mate, and then I’m being shown the fucking door again. All down to you.”
I took in his words in silence for a moment, realisation settling over me. Then I shook my head, managed a small bitter laugh. “Bollocks,” I said. “That’s utter bollocks and you know it, Vic. The reason you keep getting shown the door is because you talk big but when it comes down to it you’re just not good enough, and you won’t admit it.”
He took a step in closer. “You’re in no position to get smart with me, you little bitch.”
I watched him without fear, bolstered by the knowledge that I was right. I’d been a better soldier and now I was a better bodyguard, and the fact burned him until I’d become his personal nemesis—the reason for all his faults and failings.
I made a limp gesture with one hand. “And how is . . . this going to help you?”
He blew out a frustrated angry breath. “You think I don’t know you’ll have put the word out? That I won’t be out on my ear again by Monday morning? By which time you’ll be back in New York or wherever—all nice and cosy and out of reach. I reckoned this was my last chance to give you a kicking.”
I thought of my conversation with Parker. He’d offered to do exactly what Morton feared—to have him blacklisted. I’d settled for a quiet word in O’Day’s ear, but the effect would have been the same. Morton would indeed have been sent packing.
So, was this little more than straightforward revenge? Do unto others before they do unto you. Was that it?
No, I realised. That was never going to be it.
“How much did Castille pay you?” I asked instead. “To tip him off which flight Baptiste was on.”
Morton stared down at me for a moment. He was trying to keep nothing in his face and not managing it well. I caught glimpses of nervy surprise, fear and a kind of weary resignation.
“How do you work that out?” he asked, a challenge more than a question.
“Because I saw Castille kill Ysabeau van Zant, and I know she was the one who got him onto the boat. But somebody else tipped him off about the helo flight. And that someone had to be you.”
He shrugged. “Plenty of people on that rooftop. Could have been any of them.”
“But you’ve got a rep, Morton, for being able to supply whatever a client wants. In this little corner of the world, Castille seems to have been the go-to guy. That means you had to know him. And he knew you—that you had a price. He missed Baptiste in the parking garage, didn’t he? So he wanted a second bite.”
Morton smiled, little more than a bitter twist of his lips, but instead of the denial I’d been
expecting he said, “Ah well, it’s not easy saying no to a guy like Castille. He’s had a hard-on for the kid since the whispers first got out that Baptiste might have been around when his brother bought it.”
“So you sold him out,” I said. “What about John Franks? What about the other people on that helo?”
If anything, the smile widened and I knew he was thinking of the fact that I’d been one of those extra passengers. A bonus, clearly.
“Franks was a pro—he knew the risks.” He shrugged again. “And everyone has a price, Charlie. Even you.”
