by Kylie Brant
He stopped short in his tracks, rage leaping through his veins. Oppenheimer had struck her. His fists clenched inside the thin latex gloves he wore. For a moment, just one, he allowed himself the indulgence of imagining his fingers around the other man's throat, squeezing tightly. There would be a certain savage satisfaction in making him pay for laying his hands on Juliette. In making him pay for all the suffering he'd brought to her.
He heard her voice again, steady, mocking the man. It took more effort than it should have to uncurl his fists. To move toward the crates. Time and again she'd proved her ability to take care of herself. But her skill in that area didn't prevent him from wanting to shield her from risk. From hurt. Grimly, he recognized one truth Miles had uttered. Sam had lost his objectivity, at least where she was concerned. He could no longer deny it. Nor could he bring himself to care.
"Still hitting women, Hans?" Lances of pain radiated from her cheekbone. She almost welcomed the ache. It banished any remaining trepidation, and left only resolve in its wake. "I'm not surprised. You always were a spineless bully. Which angers you most, I wonder? The fact that I have the Moonfire, or the fact that I broke into your estate." She cupped her hand to her cheek, feeling the heat that still lingered there and gave him a taunting smile. "You're not thinking clearly. If you were, you'd be wondering where else I've slipped in and out of without you knowing. And what reasons I might have had for doing so."
"I'll kill you where you stand." His voice trembled with fury. "What will that damn thief think when his messenger's body is found floating in the Seine?"
"That would be exceedingly shortsighted of you, considering that over the years I've accessed nearly every corporate headquarters in which you have an interest. It's convenient to have those legitimate fronts to cover the income derived from your other activities, isn't it?" She waited for awareness to flicker across his face, followed by wariness. "I have copies of documents that your rivals would find very interesting. Not to mention the authorities." Her smile was rapier sharp. "Touch me again, and those documents will be used to destroy you."
It took more courage than it should have to walk past him, relying on memory to guide her through the home. To her left was an airy room with vaulted ceilings and white pillars dotting the area. Selecting a chair, she sat, crossed her legs.
"You're lying. About all of it. A woman isn't capable of the jobs le petit voleur has pulled."
He'd followed her into the room. She understood that by not sitting he was establishing his power, making her tilt her head up to look at him. He'd always been quite well versed in ways to control people. But he wasn't going to be allowed to control her, or this situation.
"Really? I've found that people are capable of anything, given the right motivation. I wanted to strip you of everything you cared about, and I've managed nicely, haven't I? I understand that the insurance companies quit issuing you coverage." She didn't attempt to keep the smugness from her voice. "That was a side benefit I hadn't expected. And now I'm going to destroy you with the information I've stolen unless you pay me quite an impressive sum of money. I can assure you I'm quite capable of following through. Where you're concerned, I'm capable of just about anything."
"Why?" he asked bluntly. His face had settled into a stoic mask that revealed none of the rage she knew he was feeling. "Why me? There are dozens of richer men on the continent."
There was a burning in her belly, fueled by a wealth of bitterness. "Have you made so many enemies, Hans, that you can't recall any single one that might wish you harm?" He stilled, stared hard at her. "It's true I could have targeted anyone I chose, if money was all I was after. But revenge is so much more personal, don't you think? And although it's been ten years in the planning, I must say, I've found it every bit as fulfilling as I could have hoped."
He stared at her for several moments, as comprehension mingled with disbelief on his countenance.
Settling farther back in her chair, she plucked at the black trousers she wore, feigning disappointment. "Still having trouble with your memory? A woman doesn't like to believe she's that forgettable. It's been a decade since I escaped from your penthouse. But you surely must have wondered how I knew about this place." She paused a beat. "I'm sure you'll understand why Grandmama failed to send her love."
"Alison?" The word seemed to have been torn from his throat. He did sit then, a graceless drop to the seat behind him as he continued to gape at her.
"I see you do remember me." Her throat was clogged with emotion, her chest tight with it. Old grief, she discovered, could still throb like a fresh wound. "So I'm certain you also remember my mother."
* * *
Chapter 14
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The back of the boathouse was cluttered with tools strewn next to the stacks of crates. Whatever the boxes held, it was obvious they were opened here. Selecting a crowbar, Sam climbed the shortest stack and fought to find a secure foothold while he worked. The pencil flashlight clenched between his teeth, he wielded the tool on the lid of the top one. Given his awkward position, it took longer than expected. When he'd loosened the top, he moved it over to the next stack, and dug through the foam fill for the contents beneath.
His search yielded an object wrapped in heavy plastic. He knew by touch alone that it wasn't a weapon. Tearing aside enough of the covering to identify the object, he found a delicate urn, covered with Eastern markings. Although he didn't doubt it would fetch a high price in a trendy store, it was obviously new. And just as obviously not what he was looking for.
Hissing out a breath, he shifted position enough to set it on top of the lid he'd removed, and lifted out another. And then another. There were a dozen of them in all, in two layers, and despite what he knew about some of the endeavors the man was involved in, the shipping of overpriced knickknacks wasn't a crime.
A small noise sounded in the confines of the building. Straining his ears, Sam waited for it to be repeated. When it was, he relaxed a bit, satisfied that it was just a vigorous wave slapping against a mooring. Turning back toward the opened crate, he started the task of repacking it. He'd set the first of the urns carefully inside before stopping when his knuckles scraped the bottom of the crate.
He paused, leaned back precariously from his perch to examine the exterior of it. With his hand still inside, he rapped on the side of the crate where it ended, measured the distance visually. It was a good eighteen inches above the bottom edge of the box.
Excitement began to thrum through his veins. It wouldn't make sense to add another wood slat merely to protect another layer of urns. He took the vase out that he'd been replacing and reached for the crowbar again. The foam impeded his progress, but when he got one corner loosened he set the instrument aside. Wrenching upward with both hands, he had the false bottom off and was staring at the contents nestled beneath.
Machine guns. He leaned closer, so the beam of the flashlight would provide better illumination.
M-60E3s, from the looks of them. The weapons were routinely used by the U.S. counterterrorist teams. With a grim sort of irony, he realized that thanks to Oppenheimer, some of the terrorist groups the U.S. battled would be as well-equipped as the American teams.
Upon the heels of that realization, came another. This discovery meant the mission here had been accomplished. There was no reason to linger on the island any longer. A sense of urgency began to build. Oppenheimer wasn't going to risk his cache of weapons being discovered. And unless Juliette was very, very convincing, he wasn't going to believe it was a coincidence she'd insisted on meeting here.
He reached for the mike attached to the earphones around his neck. Tersely, he instructed the pilot to radio Miles with the find. If Caladesh acted quickly, local law enforcement would soon be swarming over this island.
Adjusting the transmitter he wore, he listened for a moment to Juliette's voice as he returned to the task of repacking the crate. His hands faltered when he heard her expose her identity to the man. Others might no
t hear the pain that threaded her words. Might not guess at the weight she'd carried around for far too long. He couldn't prevent a reaction to both. With an odd sense of resignation, he accepted that she'd begun to matter to him. More than was comfortable for a man whose life revolved around commitment only to his immediate family and to his country. The time was fast approaching when he was going to have to decide how to deal with that. And how to get Juliette to deal with it, as well.
Working quickly, he replaced all the urns, shoving aside handfuls of foam to cover them. He set the lid down on top of the crate as securely as he could. With any luck, the island would be overrun by law enforcement personnel before the crate could be discovered.
Taking the flashlight in his hand, he climbed down the stack of crates and headed toward the door again. When Juliette heard the chopper overhead, that would be her cue to wrap things up with Oppenheimer. While she was safely boarding the helicopter, he'd be swimming back to the location where he'd been dropped earlier. If their luck continued to hold, they'd be on their way back to Paris within the next twenty minutes.
Slipping from the building would be tricky. He listened, but couldn't hear a sound outside. In the time it took him to push the door open and slip outside, he'd be totally exposed if one of the guards had returned. He didn't draw the gun he had snugged at the small of his back. He needed his hands free to refasten the chain and padlock.
He slipped through the door and secured it. He crept to the comer of the building, carefully peered around it. There was no one in sight, although he could hear voices drifting along the water. The guards were continuing their search.
He headed in the opposite direction, intent on finding a place to take cover until the chopper got there. With considerable effort, he focused his attention off the drama that was playing out between Juliette and Oppenheimer. The next few minutes until he got her safely off the island were going to be the most grueling of his career.
Instinct alerted him even before he heard the small sound behind him. Throwing himself to the side, he reached for his gun at the same time. He hit the ground, rolled once and came to his feet in a crouch, weapon drawn. And found himself looking up at the barrels of two assault rifles, both of which were pointed at his head.
He didn't need to translate the command uttered by one of the guards to know enough to drop his weapon. Hands half-raised, he rose slowly. With his weight poised on the balls of his feet he waited for them to flank him, order him on the ground. Feigning confusion, he said haltingly, "Je ne parle pas francais." One of the men moved closer to shove him down and when he did, Sam sprang.
Yanking him off balance, he knocked the gun barrel aside and twisted his body, using the man as a human shield as he rushed the other guard. The impact of bodies colliding sounded extra loud in the stillness. One rifle went flying when Sam sent an uppercut to the man's jaw. The second guard was aiming again when Sam used the first man's body to shove him off balance. With a well-placed kick he doubled the man over. The weapon slipped out of his grasp as he gagged and dropped to his knees, clutching his genitals with both hands.
The first guard knocked Sam to the ground, and they rolled, engaged in a near silent lethal battle. The other man ended up on top, and his hands wrapped around Sam's throat, squeezing tightly. Sam landed a punch that had the guard's head snapping back, but his grip didn't loosen appreciably. His head was lifted to be slammed against the ground. Colors dancing before his eyes, he knew consciousness was receding quickly. Making a bridge of his hand, he drove it sharply upward, catching the guard beneath his nose. There was a sickening crunch of bone giving way and the other man's grasp grew lax, as his limbs went boneless.
Shoving the body off him, Sam stumbled to his feet, nearly fell. The first guard was attempting to rise as well. Sam picked up the rifle and drove the butt sharply into the side of the man's head. Swaying slightly, he surveyed the two unconscious bodies. He had no idea how many of the guards were on the island, or how soon it would be before these two were missed. But he did know that his and Juliette's luck had abruptly run out.
It took valuable minutes to search his pack for a length of nylon rope to tie the men together. Even more time to rip the sleeves from their shirts, to use them as gags. Tossing one rifle into the water, he slipped the strap of the other over his neck. Then he dragged them to the edge of the dock and pushed them off. The water wasn't deep enough to drown them, but their location would ensure that no one stumbled over them for a bit. Hopefully it would buy him enough time to get Juliette off the island without more trouble.
Juliette. For the first time he became aware that he'd lost the transmitter that kept him connected to her. Swearing, he went back to the scene of the struggle with the guards. He found the goggles first. He must have dropped them when he'd rolled across the ground. With their aid he was able to locate the transmitter. He picked it up and fitted it into his ear even as he jogged for cover. The faint whir of the chopper could be heard in the distance. It wouldn't be long now.
Ducking between a couple dunes, he adjusted the transmitter for a clearer reception. What he heard had every muscle in his body going tense, ice shooting up his spine. There were definite sounds of a struggle going on in the villa. Even as the realization occurred, he heard Juliette cry out, as if in pain. The sound propelled him forward. He ran toward the villa in a crouch. The noise from the transmitter couldn't drown out the scream of panic blazing across his mind.
He couldn't be too late. He couldn't be.
Juliette stared at Oppenheimer with burning eyes. Old bitterness had festered, erupted, an oozing open sore. "You do remember Celeste, don't you? Or have you murdered so many women you can't keep them all straight?"
He'd recovered admirably from the shock of discovering her identity. Even now he was looking her up and down with unmistakable avarice. "Little Alison. You grew up nicely, in spite of everything. You have the look of Celeste in your eyes. Although I never recall hers looking quite as dangerous as yours do right now."
"I am dangerous," she said softly. His use of her real name was barely familiar, as if it belonged to a passing acquaintance she'd known long, long ago. Alison London had died ten years ago, and Juliette Morrow had been born in her place. Tremors of fury were racking her system. "I'm the woman who's made it her life's work to make you pay for every thing you ever did to us. Do you think, the cost has been high so far? It's going to get far greater. If I release those records the authorities will descend on your businesses with magnifying glasses. Any hint of wrongdoing in any of them and you'll be tied up in the courts for years."
"My businesses are legitimate." He reached up, adjusted his collar. The gold insignia ring on his finger winked in the lamplight. Her attention was drawn to it, held. She knew without closer examination that it was fashioned into a crest, a twisted dragon with rubies for eyes. In her mind she could still see the glint of it on his hand, as his fingers ripped her blouse from her young form.
Nausea rose, threatened to choke her. Ruthlessly, she turned her back on the young, vulnerable fourteen-year-old she'd been. All that mattered now was that she finish this. Finish him. She managed a nonchalant shrug. "You may be right. Your business rivals may find the documents of more interest. Especially the ones disclosing your practices of bribing your competitors' employees to engage in corporate espionage for you." She saw with satisfaction that she'd scored a direct hit.
' T want twenty million dollars wired to my private account. Once the transaction has taken place, the copies of your documents will be returned, and I'll stop targeting your property." She gave him a taunting smile. "I've been thinking of retiring, but I'll need a nest egg. Living expenses can be so unreasonable." He'd understand a demand for money. He'd expect it. And before he could inevitably begin plotting how to get his hands on the copied documents, while having her eliminated, he'd be in prison. For a moment she could almost be satisfied with that.
"You dare to blackmail me? Me?" His fingers were curled into t
ight fists of rage. "I could have you killed before you walk out this door."
"Murder?" She lifted her brow. "Not exactly unfamiliar territory for you, is it?"
"They never found your mother's body, did they?"
She swallowed hard, struggled to remain impassive. But he pressed on, as if aware he'd drawn blood. "I'm afraid I had to insist she participate in one of my films. After my instruction, she certainly had the aptitude for it."
She froze, Sam's words echoing in her mind. I'd heard he started out in the porn field.
As if reading her thoughts, he continued. "Isn't it ironic that her debut film was also her denouement? She played her part quite well. Right up to her untimely end. Had you known, you could have found a copy in my collection in the vault."
An awful truth began to register, was violently rejected. For a moment Juliette thought she'd be ill. His voice faded in and out, each sentence flaying away a bit more of the last illusion she had remaining. There was a name for the type of pornography that featured an all too final ending for one of the participants. And the horrible thought of her mother meeting her death that way had a hot ball of grief and fury surging through her.
"I've changed my mind," she said, getting to her feet. Her knees were so weak that for a moment she wondered if they'd hold her. "We'll make it thirty million. You can afford it, and God knows you deserve far worse." She didn't even attempt to keep the emotion from her voice. She wasn't that good an actress. "I'll call you tomorrow with the account number. Once the money has been transferred, we'll talk again."
She wasn't allowed two steps before he'd surged to his feet, grabbed her arm. When he wrenched it behind her, a startled cry of pain escaped her. "Do you think I'm just going to let you walk out of here?" His laugh was ugly. "I'd expect even Celeste's child to be more intelligent than that."