Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “Yes, sir.”

  His employer never bothered with pleasantries nor did he. Their association was strictly business.

  He would enjoy a cup of tea, but first things first. He walked down the hall, checked to make sure she was still sleeping soundly and then returned to the kitchen. Standing by the windows overlooking the private garden in back, he dialed another memorized number.

  “Hello.” Such a nervous, frightened voice.

  “Listen very carefully,” he said. “I will not repeat these instructions. You are to do exactly as I tell you. If you do not—”

  “Don’t hurt her. Please. I will do whatever you want me to do.”

  “Good. If you cooperate fully, then she has a good chance of coming through this unharmed.”

  Luke Sentell had spent the day waiting for Meredith Sinclair to recover from whatever kind of spell she’d had that morning. He didn’t pretend to understand what made the woman tick, any more than he could believe without question the validity of her psychic abilities. If he couldn’t see it, smell it, hear it, taste it, or feel it, it didn’t exist. Not in his world. Not for any normal, logical human being. And yet he had seen Meredith work her hoodoo on several occasions and without fail, her visions—or whatever the hell you wanted to call them—had proven to be accurate.

  He sorely wished that his path had never crossed with Meredith’s, that Griffin Powell had not chosen him to accompany them on his initial European manhunt when rumors about Malcolm York had first begun circulating. His boss had brought Meredith along, using her as his bloodhound, hoping she could sniff out who had started the rumors. Griff had assigned him as Meredith’s personal bodyguard. The job had quickly become a combination of babysitter and nursemaid. Whenever Meredith had come out of one of her trances, she would sleep for hours, as if whatever she had experienced had zapped every ounce of her energy.

  A really crazy thing had happened on that first partnership with Meredith, and every subsequent time they had been together. For some unknown reason, whenever he was around, his presence seemed to fine tune her sixth sense. He had no idea why. Considering he was a skeptic, you’d think having him around would have an adverse effect. Instead the opposite was true. He had to accept the truth—it was what it was. And that’s why he was here with her now, the two of them stuck with each other on another manhunt.

  That morning, after she had fainted and fallen in a heap at his feet, he had lifted her and put her on the sofa. Trying to wake her had been pointless. He knew from past experience that the best thing to do was simply let her rest until she came out of it on her own. She had slept for hours and when she awoke, she had gone to her room after telling him that she needed to be alone for a while.

  Here it was after three in the afternoon and she was just now emerging from her bedroom and gracing him with her presence. When he glanced up at her from the copy of the Daily Telegraph he’d been reading, he was surprised to see her looking so well. Her eyes were bright and clear, her cheeks had color, and her voice was quite strong when she said, “I’m ready now.”

  “Do you want something to eat?” He folded the newspaper and laid it on the coffee table. “It’s nearly three-thirty and you skipped lunch.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you. I just want to try again. I’ve spent time concentrating on what I saw and felt this morning, trying to make sense of it all.”

  “And did you?”

  “Only partly,” she admitted. “When I told you he was coming toward me, I wasn’t sure what I meant, but now I know. This man who calls himself Anthony Linden was in flight, coming here.”

  “Here as in London or here as in this hotel?”

  “Here as in London.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be,” she told him. “I’m never a hundred percent sure of what I see and feel. All I can do is let it happen and afterward try to figure it out.”

  “So, you’re guessing about Linden being in London.”

  “I suppose you could call it guessing.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Sensing.”

  “Humph.”

  “I’m well aware of the fact that you consider me a freak of nature, Mr. Sentell. And you think I’m mentally disturbed, that anyone who claims to be gifted is actually crazy.”

  “There you go again, putting words in my mouth.”

  She glared at him, her hazel green eyes sparkling with anger. “We’re wasting time with this conversation. I’m ready to go to work. Where’s the gun?”

  Where’s the gun? The first thought that went through his mind was that she wanted to shoot him. He barely managed not to smile.

  “The gun isn’t going to help you,” Luke told her. “You’ve been there, done that. You probably got everything from handling the gun that you could. Right?”

  “Possibly, but I need something to connect me to Anthony Linden if I’m going to find him.”

  “Then let’s go where you think he’s been. If he flew into London, the odds are that he came through Heathrow.” Luke glanced at her wrinkled sweats and T-shirt. “Change clothes. We’re going out.”

  “We’re going to the airport?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  When Maleah and Derek arrived together at Griff’s office, a first-rate, state-of-the art complex housed within his home at Griffin’s Rest, they passed by several agents who flanked the open door to the auxiliary headquarters for the Powell Agency. Brendan Richter nodded and spoke to them. He had been assigned to keep tabs on Barbara Jean and act as backup for Sanders. Shaughnessy Hood, a giant of a man and the only agent physically larger than Griffin Powell himself, threw up a hand as they walked past him. Griff had given him the task of guarding Nic twenty-four / seven. On the opposite side of the door, Cully Redmond watched them approach.

  “Morning,” Cully said.

  “When were you called in off patrol?” Derek asked.

  “About an hour ago,” the big, robust redhead replied. “Sanders assigned me temporarily to Dr. Meng because Michelle came down with a stomach virus this morning.”

  “How’s Michelle doing?” Maleah asked.

  “I haven’t seen her, but Sanders said it’s probably just a twenty-four-hour bug and she’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.”

  “That’s good.”

  Derek cupped Maleah’s elbow and escorted her into the office. Apparently they were the last to arrive. As soon as they entered, Sanders closed the door and took his usual place, standing directly behind Griff. Derek had decided quite some time ago that Griff and Sanders were closer than brothers, the bond between them stronger than any blood tie could ever be.

  Seated at the head of the table, Griff presided over the small group. Not for the first time, Derek was struck by Griffin Powell’s commanding presence. More than the fact that he was a large, tall man was the air of confidence and the demeanor of authority that radiated from him.

  Having been fascinated by human nature all his life and with a natural aptitude for the subject, he found himself more often than not making mental mini-profiles of others, in both social and professional settings. This ability came to him so naturally that he often didn’t realize what he was doing until his mind had already formed an opinion.

  Nic sat on Griff’s right. Usually, she sat at the other end of the conference table. Her having moved closer to her husband could mean nothing more than this meeting would be comprised of a small group. But Derek surmised that not only did Nic need to be near Griff, but that she wanted to send a strong message to everyone in the room that she was Mrs. Griffin Powell, always at her husband’s side.

  BJ sat in her wheelchair on Nic’s left. Barbara Jean Hughes possessed an ageless beauty, which meant she would still be attractive at eighty. And despite her being a paraplegic, she exuded a joie de vivre he admired and envied.

  The exotically beautiful Dr. Meng, her head bow
ed and her hands folded together in her lap, sat beside BJ. He sensed a deep sadness in Yvette. She wore that melancholy like a thin shawl about her shoulders, an accessory to her soul, not the soul itself.

  Maleah rushed ahead of him, went straight to Nic, and gave her friend’s arm a reassuring squeeze before sitting beside her.

  Maleah Perdue was a special lady.

  Blondie.

  His Blondie.

  Without realizing what was happening, Maleah had, as the old saying goes, gotten under his skin. Although it wasn’t something he wanted, he actually found the fact that he cared about Maleah rather amusing.

  Care about her?

  It’s more than just caring.

  Admit it, Lawrence, you’re in love with her.

  He watched her hovering over Nic and sensed her desperate need to console her friend. Maleah might be a control freak, but God help her, she was a caretaker, the two traits often related. Sister traits. And even if she didn’t know it—which he suspected she didn’t—Maleah had the capacity to love deeply. He had seen that manifested in her feelings for her brother Jackson, his wife Cathy, and their son Seth, as well as in her love for her best friend, Nic.

  Would she, considering her deplorable childhood, ever trust any man enough to love him with that same depth of emotion and loyalty?

  Any man?

  Damn it, Lawrence, that’s enough introspection for one day. You’ve admitted that you’re in love with Maleah. You don’t need to figure out anything else right now. Things like whether or not she loves you and if she does, do the two of you have a future together. Considering you both have an aversion to commitment, marriage is probably out of the question.

  So what’s wrong with an affair?

  Determined to refocus on business, Derek surveyed the room’s occupants again, quickly scanning everyone before he took the seat beside Maleah, which put him directly across from Yvette Meng.

  Yvette lifted her head, a fragile smile on her full, red lips, and looked at him with large, luminous brown eyes.

  “How are you this morning?” he asked, simply being polite.

  “I am well, Mr. Lawrence. And you?”

  “Just fine, ma’am.”

  When Maleah pivoted around in her chair and glanced from Derek to Yvette, Yvette lowered her head again, as if sensing Maleah’s disapproval.

  No doubt Yvette Meng had endured men’s lust and women’s envy all of her life. Men saw her as a sex object; women saw her as a rival. And yet if you looked closely, you would realize that Yvette was heartbreakingly alone, separate and apart from all others, and by her own choice.

  Obviously Griff hadn’t called the meeting to order yet. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze unfocused as if he was deep in thought. Ever the stoic solider, Sanders stood with his arms crossed over his chest. On the defensive. Always guarding Griff as if it was his sole purpose in life.

  Knowing what little he did about the years Griffin had spent in captivity on the island of Amara with Sanders and Yvette, Derek understood the bond comrades-in-arms shared. But the depth of their relationship went beyond the norm. Derek could only imagine under what circumstances their three souls had joined.

  Griff lifted his head, cleared his throat and looked from one person to another, beginning and ending with Nic.

  “We asked a great deal of Maleah,” Griff said. “She interviewed Jerome Browning, the original Carver.” He looked directly at Maleah. “Nic told me about the information you shared with her last night. Thank you for what you did.”

  Maleah simply nodded.

  Derek reached out and took her hand in his. She gripped his hand tightly, but kept her gaze focused on Griff.

  “I realize that we can’t automatically take Browning’s word for anything,” Griff said. “But I believe he was telling the truth when he told Maleah that the Copycat Carver is a professional assassin, just as we suspected. Derek had come to this same conclusion while working up a profile of the killer.”

  All eyes on Griff, everyone remained silent, waiting for him to continue. Derek understood now why only the ones present in the room had been included in this private meeting. Griff intended to keep the circle of intimate knowledge as small as possible. Across the Atlantic, Luke Sentell and Meredith Sinclair were searching for the truth—and the whereabouts of two men who were presumed dead. Maleah had confronted the copycat killer’s mentor and paid a high emotional price for information that confirmed the worst case scenario. She had every right to be here. Derek had been included today because of his status as a profiler. Nic was here because she was Griff’s wife.

  And then there were three.

  The Amara Triad, as Nicole Powell referred to her husband, Sanders, and Yvette.

  “Jerome Browning informed Maleah that the copycat killer had bragged about his billionaire employer,” Griff said. “He did not mention the man by name, but he did tell Browning that the billionaire owned a Pacific island and enjoyed the perks of his profession—human trafficking.”

  “It is not possible,” Yvette said, a slight tremor in her soft voice. “He lied. Either the copycat lied to Browning or Browning lied to Maleah.”

  “I don’t believe Browning lied,” Griff said. “I believe that the man the copycat killer works for is passing himself off as Malcolm York.”

  “But who is he and why is he pretending to be York?” Yvette asked. “And why would he want to avenge the real Malcolm York’s murder?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” Griff told her. “The first step is to locate Linden, if he is the copycat, and stop him before he kills again. Once he’s eliminated, we’ll have a brief window of opportunity to find this pseudo-York before he hires another assassin.”

  “Do you think he plans to continue killing people associated with the Powell Agency?” Maleah asked.

  “I do,” Griff replied. “I am his ultimate target . . .” Griff paused, glanced over his shoulder at Sanders and then at Yvette. “My guess is he wants to draw out the three of us. What his reasons are, I don’t know. What his connection might have been to Malcolm York, I don’t know. And why he’s striking out now, after sixteen years, is a complete mystery.”

  “It would seem that we are at his mercy,” Yvette said. “But I refuse to believe that we cannot stop him.”

  “We will stop him,” Nic said, her gaze colliding with Yvette’s.

  Griff reached out and grabbed Nic’s hand, bringing her attention away from Yvette and to him. “Less than half an hour ago, Luke Sentell contacted me with news, interesting news, if true. Meredith believes Anthony Linden is now in London.”

  “If Meredith senses Linden’s presence, then you can be sure that he is there,” Yvette said.

  “Why would Linden, if he’s the copycat killer, go to London?” Maleah asked. “Is it possible that he’s chosen Luke or Meredith as his next victim?”

  “I think that’s highly unlikely,” Griff replied. “Certainly not Meredith since they were en route to London less than a day apart. And I can’t imagine anyone being able to find Luke Sentell unless he wanted to be found.”

  “Then why would the copycat go to London?” Derek asked. “Unless his employer recalled him.”

  “That would be my guess,” Griff said. “The only problem is that we have no idea why he would have recalled him. If this fake York intends to continue killing people connected to the agency, why rein in his pit bull?”

  When Luke had carried an obviously unconscious Meredith through the hotel lobby and to the elevator, people had stared at him as if he were a murderer.

  “I’m afraid my wife can’t hold her liquor,” he had explained, smiling like an idiot.

  They had spent half an hour at Heathrow before Meredith passed out from sheer exhaustion. She would probably sleep soundly the rest of the evening.

  He laid her across the foot of the bed and removed her shoes. Then he turned down the covers and placed the fully clothed Meredith beneath the sheet and lightweight blanket. She looked about
fifteen lying there, her face void of makeup, her hair fiery red against the white pillowcase. He lifted her head enough to maneuver his index finger beneath the tight band holding her ponytail in place, and with one quick snap freed her thick mane of wild curls.

  “Sleep tight, Orphan Annie,” he said as he paused in the doorway.

  He closed her bedroom door and returned to the living room. After sitting down and pulling his thoughts together, he called Griffin Powell.

  “Luke?”

  “Yes. Are you free to talk?”

  “I’m alone at the moment. Nic and I have been in a meeting with Maleah and Derek. Sanders and Yvette, too, of course, and Barbara Jean. I’ve filled them in about the possibility that Linden is in London.”

  “Linden’s not in London.”

  “But I thought Meredith was sure he was there.”

  “She was and he was,” Luke said. “I took her to Heathrow this afternoon and she picked up his scent almost immediately. She says he was there at the airport sometime recently, perhaps only hours before we arrived, and he wasn’t alone. But she doesn’t know who was with him, only that his companion was female.”

  “If Linden is not in London any longer, then where is he?”

  “Good question.”

  “Didn’t Meredith pick up on anything else, get any sense of which direction—?”

  “Of course she did,” Luke said. “North of London, possibly northwest.”

  “She couldn’t be more specific?”

  “She was trying . . . before she passed out.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Yeah, I think she’s fine. You know what happens to her after she has one of her visions. She’s sleeping now and I expect she might sleep through the night.”

  “Do you think she can find Linden?” Griff asked.

  “Maybe. Of course my brain is telling me no way in hell.”

  “Your gut, Sentell, what’s your gut telling you?”

  “That there is a fifty/fifty chance she’ll lead me straight to Linden.”