Things Happen That Way

by Tinnean

  “Who’s the boy?” I asked instead. He was sprawled between Anacapri and the Plexiglas. A few inches away from his outflung hand was a .22 caliber pistol.

  “Carlyle. He wanted to be head computer geek.”

  “I imagine Babineaux would have something to say about that.” I crouched down, took a pen from my pocket and inserted it into the barrel, and brought it to my nose. It had been fired.

  “Yeah, he would.”

  “Why was Carlyle here?” I placed the gun back on the floor and turned him over. The bullet hole between his eyes was like a third eye, but there was no exit wound. The small caliber bullet hadn’t had enough velocity to punch through the back of his skull. The bullet had most likely rattled around in it, literally scrambling his brains.

  Homme shrugged. “He wasn’t one of the group who were to infiltrate the Division.”

  “I think it might be a good idea to remove his body and Anacapri’s.”

  “And Tactics’s.” He nodded toward the partition.

  “Can you explain that?” I rose and walked toward it. Behind the Plexiglas was Robert Lynx’s body, a hole in his chest so large I could drive my Jag through it.

  “De Becque told me it was more like a compartment. Tactics’s plan was to flood this level with carbon monoxide, but of course he needed to gloat over it. The Plexiglas box would keep him safe.”

  “Bastard.” Had Lynx planned to watch as Mark died, gasping for his last breath?

  I thought of the gun Mark had tried to reach. It was still lying on the floor, and I went back to it, crouched down again, and studied the Smith & Wesson Model 500. I’d read about this gun and the .50-cal cartridges it took. From the damage done to Lynx’s chest, I knew Mark must have shot him. Who’s got the last laugh now, asshole? But I knew Mark’s weapon of choice was a Glock. Why had he switched to the Smith & Wesson, and more importantly, from where had he gotten this cannon?

  “Tactics always thought he was better than Richard.”

  “Did you know Richard?” I would have thought Homme was too young, since the former head of the Division had been ousted from his position years before Lynx recruited Homme. I had no kind thoughts for the man who’d had me kidnapped, but I also had no intention of causing problems.

  “No, but I knew of him. I would have preferred to work under him rather than Tactics.”

  “And yet you stayed with Robert Lynx.”

  He shrugged. “Anyone... anyplace... would be better than where I was before.”

  I wasn’t going to ask him about it. I glanced around the space, only now noticing what looked like an iron maiden. Jesus. “This is your domain. Shall we have someone remove the bodies?”

  Homme tapped the link in his left ear. “Guillaume, I have a job for you.”

  How long were we down here?

  I stayed out of the way as de Becque’s maintenance people efficiently cleaned up the mess in the Dungeon, but there was nothing Homme could do to restore it to the way it had been before Lynx and Anacapri had enacted their petty revenge on it.

  Homme came to me and touched my arm. “Femme wants you at the infirmary.”

  “Mark?” I thought I was going to vomit. “Is he—”

  “He’s alive and in one piece.”

  I left the Dungeon at a run, and took the stairs, not bothering with an elevator. I reached the infirmary just as Femme came out, peeling off her latex gloves and tugging down the mask. She looked tired. “Mark’s still unconscious. I’ve stopped the bleeding and done what I can, but he needs to be seen by a surgeon.”

  “My mother might know of one.” Although how he would get here in time to be of any use....

  “She mentioned Dr. Benivieni, but—”

  “Femme wasn’t familiar with the name.”

  What the...? I blinked dazedly. “Mother? When did you get here?”

  She smiled at me over a face mask and stripped off the latex gloves she wore. “A while ago. You were busy, so I decided to make myself useful and help Femme where I could.”

  “What word about the surgeon?”

  She shook her head. “He was killed in an automobile accident a dozen or so years ago.”

  “Dammit.” I scrubbed a hand over my face.

  “You look tired, sweetheart.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that.” My eyes felt as if a beachful of sand had drifted into them, and my second wind was about to give up the ghost. “I want to see Mark.”

  “Go on in,” Femme said.

  “Quinton, I didn’t think you’d want to stay at the hotel while Mark is here, so Babineaux and Giuliani will accompany me to pick up our clothing.”

  “Thank you, Mother. That’s an excellent idea.”

  “Go to Mark.” She patted my arm, and I shoved open the door and ran in.

  Femme had dimmed the lights, but I could still see how pale Mark’s face was. A blanket covered him from collarbone to his toes, and I moved it carefully. The wound on his arm was neatly bandaged, but his thigh... I shuddered at the blood that oozed through the gauze.

  I replaced the blanket, drew a chair close to the stretcher, and sank down on it. Behind us Reuben’s breathing became stentorian, but de Becque could worry about his own lover.

  “It took me so long to find you,” I whispered as I laid my head down beside Mark’s shoulder and reached across to hold him, taking care to avoid the injury on his arm. “Don’t make me have to go on without you.”

  “M’sieur Mann. M’sieur Mann, you must wake up. You’re in the way, and I can’t examine M’sieur Vincent with you draped all over him.”

  “Sorry.” My voice sounded like I’d gargled with gravel. I ran a hand over my mouth and frowned when I realized I’d been drooling. I pushed myself to my feet and pulled the chair out of the way. Wait… that had been a male voice. “Max? What are you doing here?”

  “What I said.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going to examine M’sieur Vincent’s wounds.”

  “But—” He’d told us he couldn’t return to France. His terminally ill grandfather had pleaded with him to put an end to his suffering, and because Max had, he’d lost his license to practice in France. I shook my head. “How did you get here?”

  “M’sieur Wallace flew me over.”

  “You risked your freedom for Mark.”

  “He enabled me to continue practicing medicine. I owe him more than my career.” He sliced off the bandage around Mark’s thigh and tsked.

  “Are you insulting my work?” Femme stood there glaring at him.

  “Not in the least, madame. If you were employed by Victor Frankenstein,” he added sotto voce. “Now, step aside and allow me to do my job.”

  Chapter 14

  Max did his job, and eventually Mark was transferred to a small room down the corridor from the infirmary, a room that had an actual bed rather than a stretcher. He was still unconscious though, and the only twenty-four hour period that had been worse was the one last fall, waiting for Mother to regain consciousness.

  I was still exhausted, but the events of the night kept repeating themselves behind my eyelids every time I closed them, and I couldn’t fall asleep, so I paced the room, eleven feet to the far wall, eleven feet back to the door.

  I had reached the wall for the eighty-fifth time when the door opened. I wheeled around, my gun drawn, but it was de Becque.

  His expression sardonic, he raised his hands. “Don’t shoot.”

  I growled and put my gun away. “What do you want?”

  “I came to see how Mark is faring.”

  “As you can see.”

  “His breathing is at least easy, unlike Reuben.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked. How is he?”

  “Futé is doing the best he can, but he’s not holding out much hope. Reuben isn’t a young man, and there’s a possibility he aspirated some of the contents of his stomach when he vomited.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “I’m gla
d those who caused this are dead.” His expression was flat, but the look in his eyes was murderous. “The Division is finished.”

  “What will you do now?”

  His shrug was Gallic. “Perhaps I’ll take what operatives have survived and create my own antiterrorist organization. For now, I must go to Reuben. He is a good man, and I’m not the only one who will grieve if he is unable to survive this.” He glanced at Mark. “Keep me informed, if you please.”

  He turned and left the room before I could respond, and I stared at the door as it swung shut.

  Of course it would only be polite to update him on Mark’s progress, but he’d better not think he could take up with my lover once his own lover was gone.

  I resumed my pacing.

  Finally, I drew up a chair to Mark’s bedside and sank down on it, holding the hand of his uninjured arm and telling him of my plans for our future: we’d find a house, move in together, start a family... because I loved him. “Only, you can’t die, dammit!”

  “Quinn?” Mark’s voice was barely audible, and I started and nearly fell off the chair. He swallowed and tried again, this time more successfully. “It’s you?”

  “Of course it’s me.” I tightened my grip on his hand and bit my lip until it bled to keep from babbling in relief. Thank God he’d finally regained consciousness. I was so grateful, I didn’t think to wonder how long he’d been conscious and how much of my rambling he’d heard. “I thought I told you not to get hurt.”

  “No, you said not to get dead.”

  “Semantics.” I was relieved when he growled at me, but of course I wouldn’t tell him so. “And you nearly wound up dead.”

  “But I didn’t.” He tugged at his hand until I freed it, then reached toward my face. It took him a minute to be able to focus well enough to touch me, but when he did, he stroked his thumb across my lip. “Don’t bruise it, babe. I’m gonna want to kiss it as soon as I brush my teeth.”

  “You’ve got to be on the road to recovery if you’re thinking of sex.” I was going to tell him he didn’t need to wait, but my breath could use some freshening as well—and of course I didn’t have my usual roll of LifeSavers with me—so I didn’t say anything, just turned my face into his palm and kissed it.

  “Nothing will stop me from thinking about it as long as it’s with you.” He ran his thumb over my cheekbone, and I closed my eyes and relished his touch. “When did you get here?”

  I told him, then asked, “What do you remember?”

  “Carlyle was a plant. The little weasel is the one who shot me in the arm,” he muttered. “He was working for the Division all along.”

  “And?”

  “That bitch Anacapri was getting set to blow my head off.”

  “And?”

  “And there were two gunshots in stereophonic sound. Hey, I can hear!”

  “Had there been any doubt?”

  “Before I blacked out, all I heard was ringing in my ears.” So that explained why he hadn’t responded when I spoke to him. “The gunshots were close to my head.”

  “I apologize, Mark. I should have.... I was so determined Anacapri wouldn’t put another bullet in you.”

  “Where’d you shoot her?”

  “In the hand, forcing her to drop her gun.” Perhaps another time I’d tell him I’d planned to make her rue the day she’d aimed a gun at my lover. “Femme fired the other shot. She... she blew off most of Anacapri’s face.”

  “Did she say anything about revenge being a dish best served cold?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did. Femme is a very deadly woman.”

  “Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” His expression became fond, and my stomach twisted. From the way he’d spoken of her, I knew he’d been enamored of her at one time. If Femme decided she wanted him, would he jump at the chance to be with her?

  I had to know. “Do you... do you love her?”

  “She’s one of two women I’d put my life on the line for.”

  “Another woman?” Although I kept my tone cool, I felt unhappy. Not only Femme, but another woman as well?

  He gave me a look. In spite of my Ice Man façade, had he realized I was on the point of jumping to conclusions that would break my heart? “Portia, Quinn.”

  I blew out a relieved breath. Of course it’s Mother, I castigated myself. Mark had been impressed by her from the moment they’d first met while he was impersonating Skip Patterson, a friend from my Phillips Exeter days. I supposed I should have been embarrassed by the torrent of emotion that threatened to overwhelm me, but a good deal had happened in a short amount of time, and I wasn’t dealing well with it.

  “So how’d you get here?” Mark asked, distracting me from my morose thoughts.

  “That little something in my phone you connected to yours?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And please don’t tell me you never expected me to find it,” I huffed.

  “I knew you would.” He reached for my shirt front, pulled me toward him, and in spite of what he’d said earlier, brushed his lips over my mouth.

  “Oh God, Mark....” I leaned my forehead against his.

  “It’s okay.” Abruptly he hissed and then growled, “Goddamn hole in my leg,” and I was pleased he didn’t conceal his discomfort from me. “I know this is stupid, but where am I?”

  “Not stupid. You’re in a little clinic in the Division.”

  “That’s gonna piss off the powers that be.”

  “Not at all. There’s no longer a Division.”

  “Pete? Femme?” He looked worried, and again I was pleased he permitted me to see it.

  “They’re fine. Your friend de Becque is taking the survivors and starting his own organization.”

  Mark scowled. “What about the Scarlet Chamber?”

  “I wish I could say it was finished also, but I’m afraid not. The operatives who survived didn’t linger. But you should know this.”

  He shook his head “Once we took them down, Pete and I left the cleanup to Giuliani and his team and went looking for Reuben. That Kiska is one smart cookie.”

  “Who?”

  He repeated what de Becque had discovered: Kiska, posing as a low-level operative, had infiltrated the Division with plans to merge it with the Scarlet Chamber by seducing either Lynx or de Becque and eventually disposing of them.

  “She struck out on both counts. Pete’s flat-out gay—she could bat her baby blues at him all she wanted, but he’d never roll over and let her ride him. Although he might have let her think so. He’s a big believer doing whatever it takes to get the job done, and that includes flirting.”

  “Hmm.” And now that I thought of it, he’d... flirted with me in an effort to learn more about my relationship with Mark. Of course, at that time Mark and I were still playing mind games with each other and hadn’t had a relationship. I’d tried to convince him that de Becque had assaulted me. Mark had burst into laughter and revealed that de Becque was a dedicated bottom. “And Lynx?”

  “He prefers… preferred…young men, the younger the better.”

  “That doesn’t explain his action with Drum.”

  “It does, when you stop to think about it. As far as Lynx was concerned, that was just a power play.”

  “Ah. Like rape is about control rather than sex.”

  “Yeah.”

  I could almost feel sorry for Drum. Almost, because something had gone on between him and Anacapri, and I fully intended to get to the bottom of it. “Mark, you’re not going to get further involved, are you?”

  “No.” He raised his injured arm to demonstrate why he wouldn’t be involved and winced as the stitches no doubt pulled. “She’s Pete’s worry. Reuben?”

  “He’s... no, I won’t lie to you. He’s not doing well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We weren’t fans of each other, but he made Pete happy. How’s Pete dealing?”

  “He’s with him right now, and I think if you hadn’t blown Robert Lynx to shreds, de Becque would have
taken great joy in taking him apart one piece at a time.”

  “We do what we have to do. Quinn... Thanks for being here.”

  “Ass. Where else would I be?”

  He patted the left side of the bed, encouraging me to join him. I couldn’t, of course, not just then, but I propped my hip up on it, and he slid his uninjured arm around my waist.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Almost twenty-four hours. Although Femme repaired your injuries to the best of her abilities, they were beyond her area of expertise. Max had to operate on your leg.”

  “Max? Max Futé?”

  “Yes. He stitched up your arm as well. Trevor Wallace—he’s here too, by the way—”

  “What? Who—how—” Mark groaned.

  “Are you in pain, Mark? Do you want something?”

  “No.” He looked annoyed. “I’m not in pain and I don’t want anything. Why is he here?”

  “He was concerned.”

  “How did he know there was anything to be concerned about?”

  “I called him.”

  He scowled at me. “How? You don’t have his number.”

  “No, but you do, and I used your phone.” I ignored his growl. “I felt he needed to know what was going on.” I didn’t want Mark aware I’d been frantic to find a doctor for him. “Frankly, I didn’t expect him to put in an appearance.”

  In spite of his irritation, I could tell Mark was flattered the head of the WBIS had flown across the Atlantic to see to his wellbeing. He cleared his throat. “What about Max?”

  “Wallace flew him over on the Concorde.”

  “Max never wanted to return to France.”

  “No, but he felt he owed you.”

  “Jesus.” He scowled. “How many times do I have to tell him he doesn’t owe me anything? He kept you alive, and that cancels all debts.”

  “Does it, Mark?” I ran my fingers through his hair, pleased more than I could say.

  “You know it does. And if you don’t know—well, you should. I....” He shifted uneasily. “Give it to me straight, Quinn. Do I still have a right leg?”