by Anne Stuart
“The hell I won’t. No one told me I had to stay put. Lazarus said I was to make myself at home, enjoy the pool, visit their goddamned fitness center. I believe I’ll do that.”
“You can’t leave me behind in this room,” she said. “I’ll go crazy.”
“You can come along. After all, you’re supposed to be a terrorist groupie—you may get to play up to Carlos the Jackal.”
“Spare me,” she said. “This claustrophobic hotel room is preferable. But what if someone recognizes you?”
His hand was already on the doorknob. “The only person who would know me is Flynn and I’ll see him before he sees me.”
“Surely you’ve run into other terrorists while you were in the army?” she persisted. “Someone who might have ended up here?”
Slowly Ian shook his head. “No.”
“No, you’ve never run up against terrorists?” Her voice was getting squeaky with fear and frustration. “Then what makes you think you can have any luck with—”
“I didn’t say I hadn’t run up against terrorists,” Ian interrupted her in a weary voice. “I just said they wouldn’t have ended up here. Whether I like it or not I’m too much like Tim Flynn. I don’t leave witnesses either. Any terrorist I’ve run up against is dead.” His face was bleak.
Holly just stood there, the sense of unreality battening around her aching head. “Seven,” she said, remembering their conversation in Northern Ireland.
“Seven,” he said. “And Flynn’s the eighth.” The door shut silently behind him.
“What do you mean, he went out to reconnoiter?” Maggie demanded, staring at her sister in baffled fury. The sun had set, but Cul de Sac was more brightly lit than Las Vegas, and the sounds beyond their closed door were festive.
She and Randall had been eating a late supper when Holly’s hesitant knock on the door interrupted them. When she’d awakened that evening it had been in Randall’s arms, and for a few short hours she’d been at peace, but the moment she saw her sister’s worried face the tension was back again.
“I couldn’t stop him,” she said, taking Maggie’s wineglass and draining it. “Do you have anything else to eat? I didn’t want to call room service and have them find out Ian isn’t in his room. I didn’t feel up to answering any questions.”
“I don’t think anyone would ask any,” Randall said. “The woman who brought our dinner was a Salambian native, and didn’t know any English at all. I think Lazarus and the previous innkeepers here have it that way on purpose.”
“Speaking of Lazarus, Ian went to see him.”
There was a sudden stillness in the room, one that Maggie couldn’t miss. Randall toyed with his wineglass, seemingly at ease, but she wasn’t fooled. She rose from the table, gesturing her sister toward her half-finished portion, and moved over to the terrace. The courtyard was still crowded, although no one was swimming. Everyone was dressed up, laughing, partying, enjoying their vacation in the sun. Only the proliferation of side arms clashed with the cheerful tableau.
“What did Lazarus have to say?” Randall asked with what appeared to be only desultory interest. But Maggie knew better.
“Not much, apparently. Just told him to make himself welcome, that sort of thing.”
“Did he ask about us?”
“Not according to Ian. As a matter of fact, Ian was disappointed. He was hoping Lazarus would be someone he knew.”
Randall shrugged, and Maggie watched the tension recede infinitesimally from his shoulders. “We can be grateful he wasn’t.”
“That still doesn’t solve our problem,” Holly persisted. “I’m scared half to death. Where the hell is Ian?”
“I imagine he’s looking for Flynn,” Randall said, his voice remote. “Or maybe he’s already found him.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Holly stopped with a forkful of fresh asparagus halfway to her mouth.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” The fork clattered onto the Limoges plate as she raised huge, desperate eyes to Randall’s shadowed face. Once more Maggie felt that small slash of jealousy, once more she stifled it.
“There’s nothing I can do right now. This place is teeming with people who know me far too well. If I put one foot outside this door, Lazarus and his crew would be down on me before I could sneeze. We’ve got the perfect setup for Flynn. I was right—he’s scheduled for the second round of surgery tomorrow. It’ll be easy enough to exchange his time with Mizal. A slip of the knife, something going wrong with the anesthesia, and Flynn’s death will be a regrettable accident. I’ll be too shaken to operate the rest of the day, and we can leave without anyone being the wiser.”
“What makes you think you can pull it off?” Maggie countered. “Or me, for that matter? Don’t you think the other medical personnel will notice if we start butchering the patients?”
“I can fool anyone,” he said, and his tone was matter-of-fact, not boasting. “All you have to do is keep quiet and do as I say.”
“Don’t you think someone—Mizal, for instance—might object if we kill Flynn?”
“No one gives a damn about anyone else here. They’re only concerned with their own skins,” he replied. “It’ll be quick, efficient, and more humane than he deserves. As long as Ian doesn’t blow it.”
“I don’t like it,” Maggie said flatly, turning away from him. “It sounds too … too callous, too cold-blooded.”
“You’d rather have high noon in the courtyard, wouldn’t you?” he mocked, but the mockery was gentle. “Give him a fighting chance and all that?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t give the customers at Champignons a fighting chance, Maggie. And he wouldn’t give us one either. He’d shoot us in the back before we even knew what hit us, and he’d enjoy it. Tim Flynn is like a mad dog, and we’ve got to destroy him the safest way we can.”
“I still don’t like it,” she said stubbornly.
“I’ve got a surprise for you Maggie: Neither do I. But it’s a choice we have to make. As long as Ian doesn’t mess things up.”
“Why don’t Holly and I go now and try to find him?” Maggie interrupted, pushing away from the wall. “No one knows who we are—we could wander where we please.”
“No.”
“Don’t give me orders, Randall,” she said in a dangerous tone of voice, their afternoon interlude forgotten. “I’ll do what I damn well want.”
“Over my dead body,” he snapped. “I know a hell of a lot more about what’s going on around here than you do. For one thing, you and Holly look too damned much alike in spite of Holly’s hair color. You’re almost the same height, have the same eyes, the same stubborn mouth. And you both look like your mother. You can be sure that Flynn hasn’t kept quiet about his little coup. People aren’t discreet in places like this—they like to brag about their latest exploits.”
“Are there other places like this?” Maggie interrupted. “I was hoping it was unique.”
“I don’t really know. I don’t think it is. Don’t try to evade the issue, Maggie. Whether you like it or not, you’d be recognized before you got within ten feet of Flynn.”
“At least we can find out where he is,” she said desperately. “Maybe we can take care of him tonight. For God’s sake, Randall, we’ll have witnesses tomorrow. And what if he recognizes us before he goes under?”
“We want witnesses, Maggie. To prove it was just an accident. And I’ve already prescribed a sedative for him. By the time he’s wheeled into the operating room he won’t be able to open his eyes. For once in your life, do what I tell you.”
“You expect me to stay cooped up in this room like a good little girl?”
He ignored her sarcastic tone. “The quieter we are, the better.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime we wait,” he said, his tone icy and remote like the Randall of old, brooking no opposition.
“What about Ian?” Holly broke in, her voice sm
all and tense.
“Ian’s a big boy. He’ll have to take care of himself,” Randall said.
“But what if he can’t?”
“Then there’s still nothing we can do about it without blowing our cover. We’ll take care of Flynn tomorrow morning, Holly. And I expect we’ll find Ian with him.”
“But will he be dead or alive?”
“Flynn or Ian?”
“Either of them.”
Randall sighed and suddenly Maggie was remembering the night outside the pub in Northern Ireland, where he’d forced her to hold still while they listened to a massacre, listened and did nothing to stop it. Choices, he’d said. Tough, miserable choices. And right now he was making another one that they both hated. She could only hope it was the right one.
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” he said, and his voice was infinitely troubled. “Until then we wait.”
And Maggie, hating and loving him, turned back out to stare into the partying crowd.
nineteen
Cul de Sac had finally shut down for the night. The gambling tables in the huge banquet hall were silent, the pool was empty, the halls were cleared. At four in the morning the African night reigned supreme, and the dregs of the earth slept peacefully.
Or Maggie supposed their sleep was peaceful. She had no way of telling, but she was more than ready to guess that they weren’t troubled by nightmares as she was.
Unable to sleep, she had gotten out of bed and gone out on the terrace. But Randall had no problems in that area, lying face down on the too-soft mattress, his long arms wrapped around a down pillow. She envied his self-discipline. All she could think about when she lay in the bed next to him was how much she wanted him, how in hell they were going to take care of Flynn and get out of there, and what was going to happen to them if and when they did escape.
Things didn’t look promising for their future. They’d never be a comfortable suburban couple. There’d always be anger and a passion so deep it bordered on dangerous. If she had any sense at all she’d run as far and as fast as she could.
But she didn’t have any sense. At least, none that would make her leave the one man she couldn’t live without. All she could do was lie there and want him, and that frustration only added to her nerves.
Now sitting on the floor by the terrace, she stared out into the African night, making her one allotted glass of brandy last. She knew what her problem was. For the first time in recent years she was out of control. She didn’t know the layout, didn’t understand what they were up against, and had no idea how they were going to escape once they accomplished what they set out to do. She was nothing but a dependent female, waiting for Randall to make the decisions, tell her what to do, take care of her. And she didn’t like it.
With Mack there’d been no question but that she was in charge. Oh, sure, Mack was stronger, had a helluva lot more street smarts, and a dead-sure instinct that had gotten them out of trouble more than once. But Maggie had the training, the contacts, knew how to get out of tight spots better than any civilian.
But Randall wasn’t a civilian. Randall had the same training, only more so, had the same contacts, only better ones. Everything Maggie knew, everything she could do, he could do better. It only made sense to let him be in charge, and she was being an egocentric, dangerously selfish bitch to chafe at the restrictions.
Name-calling didn’t help. The brandy didn’t help. She sat there, looking out into the deserted courtyard, and knew that no matter what her common sense told her, she couldn’t spend the rest of the night waiting for Randall to tell her what to do. She was going out on her own.
Her black denims and black cotton field shirt would blend with the night, and the tiny snub-nosed Colt tucked in her waistband would be scarcely noticeable. Besides, everyone she’d seen out there by the pool had been armed, with knives, handguns, and Uzis all within reach of their tanned, sweating bodies. No one would look twice at her if she happened to run into anyone. No one but Flynn.
When it came right down to it, she couldn’t bear the thought of cold-blooded murder, no matter how much Flynn deserved it. She didn’t mind for herself. It was for Randall she minded.
For all she knew he may have killed before, in such a formal, cold-blooded fashion. But she didn’t want him to have to do it again. There was already a layer of ice around his heart and soul. She wanted to melt that ice, not add to the layers, and if he performed such a cold, calculating execution, the bleakness in his eyes might never leave.
So she was going to do something about it herself. She’d seen the medical records Randall had tried to hide. Flynn was in suite 236J-5. As soon as she figured out where the hell that was, she’d find Flynn and just hope the element of surprise would be on her side in the confrontation she had every intention of forcing.
Randall didn’t stir as she slowly rose to her feet. Once more she tried to tell herself to stay put, but the adrenaline was already pumping through her veins. There was no way she was going to spend the rest of the night cooped up in this room.
The door clicked silently behind her as she stepped out into the hall. She waited for a moment, listening, but Randall slept on, oblivious to her escape.
She looked around her. Not a soul was in sight, no one to ask impertinent questions as she went in search of suite 236J-5. She reached behind her to touch the gun, to remind herself of its presence, for a twisted sort of luck and moved off down the hall.
Ian was covered in a cold film of sweat. The air was artificially cooled, and the faint hum of the system was a monotonous undertone to the silent night around him. He was so close, so damned close and Timothy Seamus Flynn was almost in reach.
Ian ran a hand across his sweating brow, ducking back into the shadowy corners of the living room. He’d been there for hours, walked in there cool as you please with no one to notice as he opened the unlocked door. There were no locks at Cul de Sac as far as he could see. Honor among thieves, he had to suppose. Well, who was he to complain? It made his job that much easier.
Flynn had been in the bedroom when he first crept in. It had been sometime after midnight, and Ian had headed straight for the door, his Beretta drawn and ready, when he’d heard the woman. He’d hesitated, listening and then he heard the other voice, that thin, rasping wheeze belonging to Lazarus.
He’d clearly interrupted a menage à trois. Though what the hell Lazarus could contribute from a wheelchair was beyond his comprehension. Probably just a pair of eyes.
The woman wasn’t faring well. Flynn hadn’t changed his habits over the years; he still enjoyed inflicting pain. The woman was crying, weeping and moaning, and for a moment Ian considered putting a stop to the perverse games going on beyond that white paneled door.
Considered, and then rejected the notion. He’d been truthful with Holly—he left no witnesses. If he killed Flynn in front of the others he’d have to kill them too. And while he didn’t doubt that Lazarus’s soul was far from blameless, he didn’t enjoy blowing away everyone who got in his way. As for the woman, she was probably no more than a high-class whore, used to nasty habits. She’d survive Flynn’s tender ministrations—she didn’t deserve to die at Ian’s hands.
No, he could wait. Sooner or later the others would leave, and it would be just the two of them. Him and Flynn. And he’d settle a score that was long overdue.
The noise in the bedroom finally ended. Flynn stopped his deep, malicious chuckle, his sighs and groans, the woman, her mewing and moaning and weeping. Finally the door opened and Lazarus rolled through.
Ian had only his instincts to help him. He’d managed to vanish into a corner of the room just seconds before Lazarus entered, and he held himself motionless.
Lazarus’s still, encumbered figure looked neither to the right or to the left. The electric wheelchair glided from the room, silently, and the door shut behind him, plunging the room into darkness once more.
Ian looked down at the glowing face of his thin steel watch. Quarter past four. Anot
her half hour, and he’d go in. If he was as good as he was sometimes afraid he was, he could cut Flynn’s throat without his bed partner even waking up. Though he’d much prefer Flynn to know who had finally caught up with him.
But he’d lost him before, just by letting such considerations distract him from his goal and many more people had died because of it. No, this was going to be fast and efficient. Then he’d round up the others and they’d be gone.
Fifteen minutes passed, and the cold sweat trickled down his backbone. He stayed where he was, silent in the shadows, just in case Lazarus decided to return. But there was no sound from the hallway, just the soulless hum of the air-conditioning.
The bedroom door opened again, and Ian steeled himself, the Beretta cocked and ready, the silencer long and deadly on the end of the barrel. A small, frightened creature scampered out, a skinny redhead with a pale, panicked face. She was bruised, and shaking, and the filmy white nightgown she clutched around her was splattered with blood.
He must have made an involuntary sound. She’d already closed the bedroom door behind her and was heading for the hallway when she stopped, whirled around and stared in his direction. He didn’t move. The bright moonlight glinted off the elongated barrel of his gun as a thick, dangerous silence filled the room.
Then she smiled, a dour, satisfied smile. She nodded once, then turned and headed out the door. Flynn would find no help from that quarter—just one more soul to dance on his grave.
It was time. It was past time, Ian thought, pushing away from the wall, pausing to wipe his sweating hand on his khaki pants before clutching the gun again. His footsteps were absolutely silent as he crossed the room, the doorknob cool beneath his damp hand. Slowly, deliberately he opened the door to the bedroom.
* * *
“I had just about given up hope of you, boyo.” Flynn was sitting up in bed, his bright-blue eyes maliciously cheerful in the artificial light, his engaging grin splitting his handsome face. “Though in the end you impress even me. I never thought you’d catch up with me here.”