Shiver of Fear

by Roxanne St Claire

  Her face fell like he’d slapped her. “You know damn well I want more than that,” she admitted forcefully. “I want a relationship with her. I want to…” She swallowed. “I want to love her. And have her love me. Is that so wrong?”

  “Not at all, in the right time and place. But you need to manage your expectations. Be careful of wanting too much.”

  “What’s wrong with wanting love? Wanting a family? A real mother? A child of my own? I’m not some kind of freak, Marc. I’m just a… woman. I just want the same things every woman wants, and for some reason, I can’t have them. It’s like I don’t deserve them.”

  But she did. More than any woman he could think of at that moment. “You’re not just a woman, and you deserve all of those things,” he said softly, taking a few more steps to close the space, ready to comfort her with his hands, his mouth, his body. “You’re a strong, beautiful, smart, brave woman. You’ve got a soul and heart. You are flesh and blood and—”

  She halted him with a raised hand. “Bad blood.”

  “That’s crazy. You are more than your bloodline, Devyn. Much, much more.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “It’s not important whether I do or not,” he said. “Do you believe that?”

  She leaned against the doorjamb as if the question defeated her. “I want to.”

  “Then believe it.”

  “You make it sound so easy. You have no idea what it’s like to live with this over your head. It’s like no matter what I do, it wouldn’t change what I am. I can’t change the people I’m truly connected to. Blood is thicker than water, and, sorry, but you are living proof of that.”

  He reached her and placed a gentle hand on her cheek, holding her gaze to make his point. “I think you’re living proof that a person can overcome whatever genetic imprint they happen to think they are born with.”

  She just looked at him, searching his face, a question in her eyes. “You know what I wish?”

  He shook his head, stroking her jaw, her lips, her cheek. “What do you wish, Dev?”

  “I wish you didn’t know any of this about me. I wish we met under different circumstances and that I had a clean slate in your head and we could just… have a connection.”

  “I don’t know about you, honey, but I feel a connection.” He wanted to lower his head to kiss her, but something in her eyes stopped him. “You saved my life, Devyn. That’s pretty much a bona fide blood-and-sweat connection.”

  “Is it?”

  He nodded, getting closer. But she slipped away and stepped into the bathroom, still looking at him.

  “I need to… think about this.” She closed the door and left him standing there, getting hard and hungry and frustrated.

  He backed away and ripped his T-shirt over his head, air cooling his sweaty skin as he stripped. On the bed, he ran his hands through his hair. What would it be like to live without family, without purpose? He couldn’t blame her for wanting it so much, but if finding Sharon Greenberg meant risking her life, he couldn’t let her do that, either.

  Somehow he’d have to convince her to abandon the plan.

  On the other side of the bathroom door, the shower started, just as his phone beeped. He grabbed it, recognizing the number.

  “What do you have, Gabe?”

  “Enough to tell you to get your fucking ass out of there, fast. This is global, this is big, and you are risking your life if you go one inch closer to Liam Baird.”

  Or Gabe would help convince her. “Who is he?”

  “A broker, a troublemaker, a bit of a rabblerouser with big connections. It’s the connections they want, not him.”

  “And who are ‘they’?”

  “Tehrik-e-Jafria.” At Marc’s hesitation, Gabe added, “Pakistan’s answer to Al-Qaeda. Dude, I’m not shittin’ you. Out. Of. There.”

  “What’s Baird doing?”

  “Bioterrorism is all I was able to get, and I sold what’s left of my miserable soul for that much. My guess is he’s selling biochemical WMD shit to the Pakis for loads of cash.”

  Biochemical weapons of mass destruction. The kind made from… botulism spores. Like the very spores that had been stolen from the University of North Carolina lab right before a certain research scientist with world-renowned toxin expertise disappeared, according to the FBI files Vivi had sent.

  “What about Dr. Sharon Greenberg?”

  That was met with dead silence. “What about her?”

  “I need to find her.”

  “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, she’s gone to the dark side. Does the dirty science work that Baird’s too stupid to do but smart enough to sell,” Gabe said. “And forget that she’s an American. They’ll take her down in the process of closing in on Baird. They’re close to getting him, but nobody would tell me how close.”

  This would kill Devyn. “You’re sure? Maybe she’s undercover SIS.”

  “I think I’d know that.”

  “You don’t know everything.”

  Gabe snorted. “I know this op is huge and it’s dark. Very, very dark. The only thing I got for sure was this: you go near that project, you tip the balance of power, you alert Baird to the fact that he’s about to get nailed, and you can kiss your little business, and your ass, good-bye.”

  “Is there any way this could be misinformation?”

  Gabe sighed. “I don’t get much of that, but you know, anything’s possible. Just get the hell out of there, brother. Take care of business on U.S. soil. Leave the rest of the world to us guys.”

  And he was gone.

  Now he had to go tell Devyn the good news. She was right about her bad, bad blood.

  The plastic goggles squashed Sharon’s bruised cheekbone, and her breath inside the surgical mask was sour from hours without food and very little water. Her legs throbbed with aches and pains, even when she rested her behind on a stool during each painstaking step of harvesting the isolated toxins from the bacteria, then putting them through purification and gasification. Her head hummed with the rush of blood and worry that she’d made a very big mistake this time.

  But Sharon’s hands remained steady, the cost of a physical error so high, she refused to make one.

  Next to her, Baird’s phone buzzed. He checked it, and his entire body language perked up as he answered. “Salam.”

  Okay, Pakistan calling.

  “Of course we’re ready,” Liam said coolly, eyeing the vials and test tubes spread before her. He pointed at the row of aerosol cans, all but three full now.

  “I can deliver them when you want them, where you want them,” he said, turning away and walking to the door. “Let’s discuss the details now.”

  Don’t leave, don’t leave! She wanted that information. This was the key to getting Devyn to help her out of this mess.

  “The shipyard?” Liam asked, opening the door. “You’ll have to get through tough waters. Maybe you’ll need”—his gaze fell on her—“a bargaining chip.”

  Of course, her instincts had been right. Liam would throw her out there as a hostage. But how shocked he would be to learn the truth. The only problem was… No, it wasn’t a problem. Not if she could figure out a way to have Devyn help her.

  She held the test tube over the flame to transform the liquid inside to gas, listening hard for more information.

  But the room was virtually soundproofed, and she heard nothing for a few minutes until the hinges squeaked and she knew she was no longer alone. She stole a glance over her shoulder and met the blue eyes of Ian O’Rourke.

  Hope flared like the flame on her Bunsen burner. She looked over his street clothes. “Please get proper covering, Mr. O’Rourke. You could die by breathing in one of these spores.”

  He picked up a mask from the table and slipped it on.

  “Are you almost finished?” The mask muffled his voice, but not the tone of concern.

  “Three more cans. He wants twenty-fou
r.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, watching her work. Her hands didn’t tremble, but her insides did. Could she trust this man? Was he SIS?

  She thought that occasionally about Marie, the housekeeper, too. That woman lurked around every corner and seemed to have enough of a reason to hate the IRA and its descendants. Both of them could be working part of the same assignment she was, or neither of them. It was time to find out. Because when this was all over, she’d either have no allies or she’d be dead.

  And that wasn’t the reason she’d put herself through this particular hell. One man had to dangle and die. And only one. She had to remember why she’d agreed to do something so vile as create poison to kill people. The real reason she stood in this room turning spores into canisters of death.

  He cleared his throat. “Mr. Baird didn’t happen to mention a location on his call?” he asked softly.

  If she said or did anything to give herself away to the wrong person, she’d be dead and everything she’d done the past few weeks would have been for naught. But…

  “The shipyard,” she said.

  Desperation pressed her down, but her fingers remained steady as she tilted the vial.

  “Do you need anything, Dr. Greenberg?” Ian asked.

  In other words, a reward for the information she’d just given him?

  “I don’t think you can get me what I need, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  He looked hard at her. “Try me.”

  For a long moment, they stared at each other, unspoken questions hanging in the dank air between them. Should she… try him?

  Behind her mask, she wet her parched lips and took the biggest chance of her life. “Do you have a daughter, Mr. O’Rourke?”

  He barely blinked. “I have a son.”

  She nodded. “You love him.”

  “Very much.”

  “Would you do anything for him?”

  A smile flickered in his eyes. “I believe I am right now.”

  She let out a quick breath. “I need you to get a message to someone,” she whispered.

  He didn’t move, but she could see that he knew who she meant. And how to find her. This was either the stupidest thing she’d ever done or the smartest.

  She finally exhaled. “Give her…” She closed her eyes and reached deep into her pocket, pulling out the picture she’d been carrying since she got here. Taking a pen next to her notebook, she wrote the first thing that came to mind underneath the tiny image, then handed it to him. “This.” She stole a look at him, trying to read an unreadable expression. “Can you do that?”

  “No promises.”

  “Please?” Her voice cracked. “Please,” she repeated.

  “I’ll try.”

  “I have to trust you,” she said softly. “I have to trust you work for the right side in all of this.”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “Ian!” Liam barked the name as he threw open the door, and both of them startled a little. “I’ll be right back. Don’t leave her, not for one second. Do you understand? I don’t care if she pisses herself—she doesn’t leave this room until the last three cans are done.”

  Ian agreed tersely.

  “And for Chrissakes, put on some fucking gloves,” Liam added. “You’re no good to me paralyzed, man.”

  Behind her, the door slammed again. Ian made no move to add the protective gear, even when Sharon reached for a canister and placed its open top over the test tube, a silvery cloud moving inside.

  “I have two more to do,” she told him.

  “And then, Dr. Greenberg, your job is done.”

  Ian moved to the door, behind her and out of sight, while she went through the motions without even thinking. The hard part, the isolation and harvesting, had been done hours ago.

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked quietly.

  “Only… a chance.” A chance not to be the hostage.

  “Then take it.”

  She popped the top on the canister, handling it carefully. After she’d returned it safely to the shelf, she turned around to face him.

  But the room was empty, and her prison door stood wide open.

  For a moment, she just stared, expecting him to appear at any moment, having stepped away into the vestibule. But he was gone. And she… she could escape.

  Slowly, she lowered the goggles and took a few tentative steps toward the door.

  She took one deep breath and stepped into the vestibule. Then up the stairs, expecting to be jumped or stopped or worse. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked, opening to a dimly lit kitchen. She glanced around the empty room, then entered, her eye on the door.

  She put her hand on the knob and turned it, her heartbeat so loud and hard and fast that she could barely breathe. Outside it was cold and wet and dark. “Run.” The voice came from behind a hedge, a familiar voice, a woman’s voice. “Run before he kills you.”

  Marie was crouched in the shadows of shrubbery. The housekeeper’s usually sad eyes were bright, and her expression was set in a strong, serious line. Sharon almost reached for her, but Marie pointed toward the pathway. “As fast as you can!”

  “Marie, please, come with me,” she urged, reaching out her hand.

  The woman drew back, horror on her freckled Irish face. “I can’t!”

  “You can. We can escape. Before the gunfire, before… You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? The raid?”

  Marie waved toward the road. “Go. You can get out of here.”

  “They won’t care about us,” Sharon insisted. “Come with me. Come!” She reached for the woman again, but Marie jerked back.

  “She’s gone!” Someone shouted from inside.

  “Go,” Marie said again. “I’ll cover for you!”

  Footsteps made her decision; she’d go alone. She launched into a run, following the bushes, taking her path to the cemetery. It was locked at night, but if she could make it all the way down the one side, there was that gate where she’d been hit. Maybe it was—

  Gunfire cracked through the night, a bullet exploding on the pavement near her feet. Another shot deafened and nearly hit her.

  Stretching her legs, she dug for speed and strength, rounding the bushes into the street, staying in the shadows, wind whistling through her ears.

  She made it to the thickest of the bushes on one side of the massive cemetery grounds. If she could get in there, she could get lost among those ten thousand graves. There were places to hide, to wait this out.

  To wait for the young woman who surely would come to help the mother she’d never met. That had to be what sent Devyn across the ocean—that need to connect. If it was strong enough, she’d come.

  She threw herself into the bushes, hitting the wall behind, the bricks scraping her hands. Could she climb it? If she could, if she could just get over it, she could hide among the bramble and bushes of the most unkempt areas of the cemetery.

  Placing one sneaker on the first brick, she ignored the pain in her legs, the burn spurring her on to pull herself up. With strength she had no idea she had, her fingers found the top of the wall and she hoisted her whole body up with a grunt.

  She lifted her right leg, hooking her calf around the top of the wall, the cone-shaped cement tearing at her clothes and stopping her cold. Her left foot slipped, driving the stone deeper into her right thigh, ripping her pants but not her flesh.

  A gunshot exploded, the bullet whizzing right over her head. Jesus, they had her. She had one second, maybe less, to live or die.

  With a furious cry, she heaved her body up and finally straddled the top, a sitting target for the shooter. Ducking, she pulled her other leg over and balanced on her hands, ready to leap to the other side just as another shot blasted the night, the sound and fury of it thrusting her to the ground.

  She thudded onto the earth, her legs buckling, her teeth cracking with the impact. Frozen, she tried to breathe and listen for the next shot or the sound of them scaling the wall b
ehind her.

  In the distance, she heard footsteps and men’s voices.

  She stumbled to her feet just as a new pain fired through her body, a burn so intense she cried out, slamming her hand over her arm, crying into the mask she still wore as she realized what caused the agony in her arm.

  A bullet. Blood poured out and fire coursed over her skin.

  Now her fingers trembled uncontrollably. She had only one hope. The daughter she’d ignored for thirty years. Would she come?

  CHAPTER 23

  The shower water had to be damn near a hundred degrees, burning her face, her chest, right through to her heart.

  And still Devyn was cold.

  Why was her mother on a suicide mission?

  There was no immediate answer, but the voice in her head was still loud: No one on the good side goes on a suicide mission.

  Or did they? She knew nothing of the spy world, of British intelligence, of the “spooks,” as Marc called them. Maybe they did go on suicide missions. Closing her eyes, face to the stinging water, she clung to the hope that started in the bell tower. The hope that Sharon Greenberg was some kind of high-level government agent working to bring down a terrorist.

  “Jesus, Devyn, it’s like a sauna in here.”

  Marc stood right outside the glass doors of the shower; she could tell by the proximity of his voice. But she couldn’t see him through the steam that had turned the door milky white or the puffs of clouds her burning shower water had produced.

  “You better have invaded my privacy with an estimated time of departure.”

  “I did not.” His voice was flat, and serious.

  She smelled a fight coming on. She smeared her hand on the glass, clearing a section in front of her face, getting a watery view of his bare chest. She swiped her hand straight down the glass a foot or so, getting a complete view of the rest of him.

  So, maybe it wasn’t a fight she smelled. If it was, he fought dirty.

  “Then why are you here?” Almost immediately, the glass started clouding again, but it was still transparent enough for her to see his manhood, nested in dark hair, not erect but alive.