by Anne Stuart
She wouldn't show him how frightened she was, how much she wanted to throw up. She put a bright, angry smile on her face. "I think I'm in the mood for a family reunion," she said with false brightness.
"A wise decision," Ross Cardiff said calmly. "I never was particularly clever with my hands. Clumsiness can be so painful."
"Cardiff's here, mon." Cecil's phony Caribbean accent was still getting on his nerves, but for the first time Michael ignored it.
"Bloody hell. How did he get here so fast? I thought we had another couple of days at least."
"I'm not sure. But he was chatting up Sir Henry, and the two old biddies were getting on like a house afire."
"When was this?"
"This afternoon. He left the embassy around five, and he hasn't been seen since."
"He's not staying there?"
"That remains to be seen. At least he hasn't been anywhere near the Cadre. Everyone's holed up at the old army barracks way out on the peninsula, thinking they're bloody invisible. Stupid fools."
"What the hell is he up to?" Michael peered through the dark. His nerves were hopping beneath his skin. He always felt this way just before everything all blew to hell. He hadn't been involved in anything of this magnitude in a long time, and his instincts, his reflexes, were off. He was going to die in this one. He knew it Ml well. And he didn't really give a damn.
"Beats me," Cecil murmured. "I tell you, I was spooked as hell to hear he'd shown up. At least he's out of the way for now."
"Who says?"
"One of my contacts. He was seen driving out to the eastern end of the island just before sunset. No one lives out that way, just a few abandoned villas, and the road's not much better than a goat track. He'll probably get lost looking for the Cadre's hideout and not be seen until all the shouting's over and he can come out and take credit for it and…what's the matter, mon? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"The eastern side of the island? Are you sure?"
Cecil shrugged. "I trust my contact. Why?"
Michael rose, surging upward. He didn't waste time with rational thought, weighing the alternatives, or anything else. His instincts kicked in, and he went with them. "Francey," he said abruptly.
"So they'll keep each other company," Cecil said easily.
"Like hell," Michael said, his voice as cold as ice. "He's going to kill her."
Chapter 18
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The night had grown cold, far colder than Francey would have expected as she stumbled behind Ross Cardiff's small, immaculate frame. She found if she kept a modest three paces behind, no further, he would leave her alone. If she tried to fall back, he would put those soft, manicured hands on her, and hurt her, and she knew if he did it one more time she would start screaming and never stop until he did kill her, and then what good would this midnight trek have done anyone?
At least Michael wouldn't find her in his bed. The image Ross had conjured up had been horrifying, for Michael's sake, not hers. If it came right down to it, she would go over a cliff rather than let them use her to hurt him. He'd already said goodbye, dismissed her from his life. If she died, he would mourn, there was no doubt of that. But he'd managed to shut off his emotions with a cold efficiency that astonished her. He would probably be just as efficient in dealing with her loss.
If she was going to die. She wasn't prepared to accept that, not yet. That was the other thing that sent her off into the night with a man who was either mad or intensely evil or both. She was still ready to fight. For her life. For Michael's life. And for the future that he didn't believe in.
They'd driven at first, bouncing over unpaved dirt roads in a late model Range Rover that Cardiff barely knew how to drive. He ground the gears, stalled out, skidded on the loose gravel and generally proved himself incompetent. That weakness went a small way toward improving her equanimity. She almost went so far as to offer to drive for him, then thought better of the notion. He was a man on the very edge, and a woman's mockery might just drive him over.
They'd been walking for the last half hour. Cardiff had stashed the car behind a small outcropping of bushes, and the two of them had taken off down a narrow spit of land leading away from the island. The place was desolate, deserted, a setting for ghosts. A fitting place to meet her sister once more.
Francey's only shoes were a pair of flats she'd worn for traveling. There was blood on them, Dex's blood, and she'd wanted to leave them behind and go barefoot, but thought better of it when she saw Cardiff's expression. He would like nothing more than to drag her barefoot through nettles, or whatever the Maltese equivalent was.
She had no idea they were getting close until they passed the first lookout. The whole affair was ridiculously melodramatic, with passwords and such, like little boys playing soldier. The watch was a young man with a mop of curly dark hair and bright, irrepressible eyes. "They're waitin' for you," he said, gesturing ahead into the impenetrable darkness. "That's the one?"
Cardiff smirked. "The very one."
"Heard they did for Dex and Petey. Her highness is in a rare taking, I promise you." His glance swept her, cool and unconcerned. "Rumor has it they're sisters. They don't look much alike, do they?"
"Particularly not now," Cardiff said with a hollow laugh. "Keep an eye out, lad. They're not planning to come until dawn, but things might change. Cougar's never been one to follow orders."
The young man didn't look as though he cared for Cardiff's orders, either, or the condescending tone they were delivered in, but he nodded anyway. "Better get along with you now. She wants her pound of flesh, she does."
Francey considered diving into the bushes.
"Don't even consider it, Miss Neeley," Cardiff said, putting his soft, slimy hand on her arm once more. "Teddy here's an excellent shot, and I happen to know he's equipped with the finest of British military equipment, including heat-seeking bullets. I've seen to it myself. You wouldn't get two feet."
Francey swallowed the scream that tickled the back of her throat. "I'm getting tired," she said in a flat, unimpressed voice. "Do you suppose we can get on with it?"
"A cool one," Teddy said admiringly. "Sorry I'm going to miss all the fun."
Francey shivered.
Cardiff didn't release her again. The two of them continued onward in the dark, past the ruined remains of what seemed like an old army outpost. She could smell the sea, the clean fresh fragrance of salt, and in the distance she could hear a rustling sound that might be the wind in the trees that she couldn't see. Or surf crashing on rocks.
The light blinded her. Sudden and shocking, it blasted into their faces, and she stumbled backward, breaking free of Cardiff's grip as she put an arm up to her face.
"It's about time," Francey knew that voice. Faintly husky, like her own, with the charming lilt of Ireland overlying it. Enriched with the sound of murderous contempt. "You are a stupid bugger, Cardiff. Did you get lost along the way?"
Cardiff was fool enough not to be frightened. He'd underestimated her sister, Francey knew that immediately. Francey didn't. The moment she heard that voice a flood of memories came rushing back. All of them evil.
"I'm not a boy guide, Caitlin," he said stiffly. "I've brought you the woman. The rest is up to you."
"You're not interested in watching?" The voice was silken, insinuating. "I underestimated you, Cardiff. I thought your tastes were a bit more sophisticated."
Cardiff shrugged. "I want the money, Caitlin, and then I'm leaving. I've told you, there's no guarantee that the Cougar will stick to the plan. He's always been too independent, and I value my skin enough not to stick around."
Francey could see nothing but Cardiff in the brightness of the artificial light. "Boys," Caitlin Dugan said, "pay the man."
Francey saw it coming; Cardiff didn't. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late. The gun was silent, wielded by unseen hands, a deadly, snicking sound beneath the rush of surf and wind. Cardiff's bland face creased in sudden surprise as the bullet ent
ered his brain. "Damn," he said faintly. And died.
"Fool," Caitlin Dugan said. "Stupid bloody English bugger." And she stepped into the pool of light.
Except that she didn't step, she lurched. And with sudden sickening horror Francey understood Cardiff's amused remark that they no longer looked alike.
In the hours since she'd learned Caitlin wasn't dead, she hadn't had time to figure out how she'd managed to miss that huge, oncoming car. Obviously she hadn't. The vibrant, determined young Caitlin who'd dragged her across Manhattan in a vain effort to save Patrick was gone, replaced by a malevolent hag with a ruined face and body. Her body hunched to one side, her arm hung useless, her leg a withered stick. The left side of her face had been smashed, distorted in a cruel parody of healing, leaving the unmarked right side of her face an even greater contrast. If Caitlin had hated her legitimate half sister before, her reasons had increased a thousandfold.
"Sister dear," Caitlin hissed, hobbling over to her. "What a joy to welcome you to our humble encampment."
Francey had always been taller than Caitlin, but now she towered over Caitlin's hunched body. She tried to summon up pity, regret, some distant feeling of emotion for the warped soul that was her sister. But the smell of death was all around her as the woman looked up at her out of bright, malicious eyes that were eerily like her own, and it was all Francey could do not to shudder.
"Get it over with, Caitlin," she said flatly. "You've brought me here to kill me, so have done with it."
"I wouldn't think of doing anything so tame," she crooned. "I have great plans for you."
"I'm certain you do." She kept her voice cool as she clenched her bloodstained silk skirt in her fists. "I won't be much fun, I'm afraid. I'm squeamish, and I don't like pain. You won't have any trouble making me scream and cry. If you're going to think of all sorts of nasty things to inflict on me, why don't you get started? You heard Cardiff—Michael's coming. He's going to be quite a distraction for you."
Caitlin smiled. The teeth on the left side of her face were gone, increasing the ghastliness of her expression. "But, sister mine, that's part of the plan. I agree, it would be child's play to torture you. Instead, we're going to sit and have a nice sisterly conversation while we await your sweet Sir Galahad. And he'll come, I promise you. Not at dawn, as he'd planned. But alone, and very soon. You see, I made certain that he'd get word about you. The chain of information is so lengthy that by the time he gets word, he'll trust it implicitly. And he'll come for you. I can't wait."
She sounded like a child on Christmas morning. "What then?"
"Why, then you both die. Slowly, painfully. And I can start concentrating on more important things. My people are getting impatient with me. They follow me because they're afraid not to, but I know they don't understand my decisions. I don't bother to explain—I know what I'm doing. And getting rid of the two of you is imperative if we're to continue our life's work."
"Your noble calling," Francey said with contempt.
But Caitlin wasn't disturbed. "Hoping I'll jump the gun, dearie? Not on your life. I'm looking forward to your lover's expression when he shows up and sees you."
No one bothered to remove Cardiff's body. The bright lights were turned off as Francey was dragged to the burned-out shell of a building where Caitlin made her headquarters, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could see the weaponry, poised and ready, the motley group of men with sullen eyes and angry mouths. Someone shoved her down on the far side of a small campfire, and when she tried to move she heard the unmistakable warning click of a gun.
She still wasn't ready to die. When the time came she would face it, fighting all the way. But she didn't want to die for nothing but a madwoman's vengeance. She wanted a chance, one last chance, and she was going to do her damnedest to get it.
Caitlin sat next to her, watching her with gleeful anticipation, probably waiting for her to blubber and beg. She would do that if it would help, but Francey doubted her sister would react with anything more than amusement. Together they waited, Caitlin avid-eyed, Francey with numb dread.
At one point Francey must have drifted asleep, waking up with a jerk. "I must say, I'm in awe of your sangfroid," Caitlin said. "I doubt I'd be able to doze if I were waiting for judgment day."
"I've done nothing to be judged."
"Your life is an affront!" Caitlin shrieked suddenly. "All that money, that comfort, that safe, fat American life, while your father was bleeding to death on the soil of Ireland."
"Planting a bomb, wasn't he?" Francey said with a disdainful sniff. "Better him than innocent victims."
She almost died then; she knew it. If it hadn't been for the sudden distraction of the tall shadow at the edge of the fire, she would have breathed her last breath beneath Caitlin's clawlike fingers.
"I'm here."
The blind fury on Caitlin's face vanished in a ghastly parody of a coquettish smile. "How sweet of you to drop in," she murmured. "I gather you got my invitation."
He stepped into the circle of light thrown by the fire, and Francey stared up at him in shock. Once again he was a different man. Dressed all in black, with some sort of camouflage paint on his face, he looked like a savage. Cold, emotionless, brutal, he was a stranger, and far more dangerous than all the sullen killers who milled around Caitlin's ramshackle camp.
He didn't even glance in her direction; all his attention was focused on Caitlin Dugan. "It was delivered. What do you want?"
"I've got what I want. You and my sister. I have a taste for vengeance, Cougar, and you've more than earned it. You killed Patrick, you killed my baby brother, and you killed two other loyal soldiers on that little island."
"Don't forget Dex and his friend."
"Oh, I'm not forgetting. I figure we have plenty of time. You see, we know about your plans. We know you have twelve men waiting at Delbert Beach planning to intercept the arms shipment we've been waiting for. They won't dare come to your rescue—the mission is more important than the lives of two people, isn't it? Of course, they don't know that the arms have already arrived, along with a generous donation from some of our more militant, anti-British Middle Eastern friends. The British government didn't win any new friends with their participation in the Gulf War, Cougar, and that's greatly helped our cause."
"I imagine it has." His voice was low, cool. "What makes you think your information is correct?"
"Because it came from the top of your particular food chain. I don't suppose you noticed Ross Cardiff lying over there."
"I've seen a lot of dead men in the past few days, Caitlin. I admit I wasn't curious enough to investigate."
"He's been helping us out. Of course, he was doing it for money, not for politics, which made him a liability. But he's the one who makes the plans, you're simply the lackey. By the time your hand-picked little strike force realizes the shipment isn't coming, we'll be long gone." She cackled. "Of course, we'll leave your bodies behind. You would like a hero's burial, wouldn't you? Maybe you'll get to be buried next to your true love."
He still didn't look at Francey. She was listening to everything with numb horror, her eyes glued to Michael's tall, dangerous form. He walked closer, moving past her to squat in front of Caitlin, his back to Francey. If she hadn't been so mesmerized she wouldn't have noticed the knife he somehow managed to push toward her in the dirt as he concentrated on her murderous sister.
"What if I told you, Caitlin Dugan, that you were as big a fool to trust Cardiff as he was to trust you? That despite his title, no one paid the slightest bit of attention to him? That we know when the arms were delivered, and there aren't twelve men waiting on Delbert Beach, but more than one hundred of the most highly trained operatives the British government and their allies can afford, and they're damned close? What would you say to that?"
Francey managed to slide the knife under her skirt without attracting any attention. The men surrounding them were all mesmerized by the confrontation between the two powerful forces.
Caitlin's expression didn't waver. "I'd say you were bluffing. An act of desperation, knowing you can't save her."
"Even if I tell you the arms were delivered by a rusty fishing trawler out of Morocco on Thursday morning between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m.?"
Francey didn't need to hear the ominous rumble of voices surrounding them to know that Michael was right. "We'd best get out of here, Caitlin," someone spoke up.
"I'll do the deciding!" Caitlin shrieked. "Can't you see he's lying?"
"How would he know when the arms arrived, or how they got here? You were a fool to believe the traitor. We're leaving."
Caitlin lurched to her feet. "The first man who tries to leave is a dead man. Take him." There was a moment's hesitation as no one moved, and she screamed again. "Take him, damn you!"
To Francey's surprise, Michael didn't fight. Four men surrounded him, and she suspected if it came down to it, they would need all four to restrain him. But for now he wasn't resisting. "Let her go, Caitlin," he said evenly. "She didn't kill Patrick or your brother. She's never done you any harm. You've got me to play with—let her go."
"Her existence did me harm!" Caitlin staggered past him to grab Francey, hauling her to her feet. "The only reason I haven't killed her is because I want her to have the pleasure of watching you die first." She was drooling slightly, and her clawlike fingers were digging into Francey's arm. "And you will die, both of you. We have plenty of time. If you have a hundred soldiers surrounding us, where are they? We have guards stationed all around, and none of them has called in anything suspicious."
"None of them has called in at all," a voice spoke up. "Teddy was supposed to check in half an hour ago, Diurmud twenty minutes ago. We can't raise them on the radio."
Again the rumble grew louder. "We're out of here, Caitlin. We've followed you through thick and thin, but this goes beyond what's sensible. We're taking the arms and heading out. We're—"
The sudden explosion was deafening, blinding. Francey was thrown to the ground, something large and heavy crushing her. For a moment, stunned, she didn't move, and when her mind cleared, she realized she was in the midst of a battle zone.
