by Anne Stuart
She shook her head. “So why is RU48 more valuable?”
“The vaccine is prohibitively expensive to make, and the drug is cheap. Only the very few with power and money can get their hands on the vaccine, the same ones who can afford to buy the weapon in the first place,” he said smugly.
“And the antidote?”
“Also very expensive, though not as bad as the vaccine or the drug itself. All someone has to do is release the toxin and hundreds of thousands, even more, will fall victim to it. And it spreads from person to person, by touch, or even, if we’re extremely lucky and the batch is particularly potent, it can be airborne.”
“If you’re extremely lucky,” she echoed, smiling sweetly, wanting to throw up.
“The only problem was that people needed to get the antidote within twelve hours of being exposed, or it would be too late, and that doesn’t allow enough time to negotiate. I’ve been working on extending the window of opportunity to thirty hours, and I’ve finally succeeded.” He looked so pleased with himself Sophie considered shooting him with the gun she had tucked beneath the cushion. He yawned. “Good grief, I’m exhausted!” His small, slightly bulbous eyes blinked at her from behind his glasses. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Would you answer me one fucking question?” she said, unable to control herself.
The man frowned. “I don’t like your language, young woman. Or your tone.”
For a moment Sophie wanted to laugh hysterically. This monster was lecturing her on manners. She managed a tight smile. “You’re a brilliant scientist. A genius.”
He nodded, taking the words as his due.
“So why didn’t you take your remarkable intellect and put it toward something positive, like . . . like helping people like me to walk. Is it the money?”
He waved a hand, airily dismissing such a notion. “Of course I can understand your obsession with such paltry matters, but the fact is I have no wish to dedicate my life to the few people who’ve managed to cripple themselves riding motorcycles or driving too fast. Where’s the glory in that?”
She was calm now. His words were slurring just slightly as exhaustion set in. “So it’s glory you’re after?” she said.
“Certainly not! But it’s glory I deserve. I want to make a difference in this world. The Chekowsky Solution will stop people from their petty squabbles . . .” He yawned again, the muscles in his face growing slack. “And keeping . . . and keeping revolutions and wars . . . wars . . .” His head nodded, then drooped on his chest, and the room was silent.
Sophie didn’t move. What had she expected him to say? Most evil people thought they were the good guys. “Dr. Chekowsky?” she said in a loud voice.
He didn’t move. She stretched across the sofa, ending up flopping on her stomach, and tapped him on the leg. “Dr. Chekowsky? Are you awake?”
No response. She leaned back, glancing at his empty wineglass. The dregs of her crushed Vicodin lay in the bottom—it served the old glutton right for gulping his wine like that, she thought. He’d been much too trusting—in his line of work he needed to be more suspicious, like Mal had been. Instead, he’d gulped down what she’d handed him without a second thought.
She pulled her stash of pills from beneath the cushion and set it on the table. It had been a last-minute impulse that had made her grab the medicine along with the gun when she came back downstairs, and for once, just this once, things were going her way. Just to be on the safe side she waited another five minutes, sipping her undoctored wine, occasionally poking at the comatose man, before she rose to her feet, satisfied. If she remembered her training he should be out for a good six hours, maybe longer given his difficulty in getting to the island. Now the question was, where to stash him?
The obvious choice was the wine cellar, which was actually little more than a mud-packed cavern beneath the kitchen. The man probably weighed over two hundred pounds, and only that little because he was short. She was strong, but maneuvering him there was going to be difficult. And then she remembered her titanium wheelchair.
It was lying on its side by the foot of the stairs where she’d sent it tumbling, and when she set it upright it was, of course, undamaged. Archer never stinted in his loving care of his wife, she thought bitterly. After rolling it over beside Chekowsky’s chair, she set the brakes and turned to look at him.
It wasn’t the most graceful transition—he felt twice as heavy when he was a dead weight, and his arms and legs flopped everywhere as she tried to haul him into the chair. He kept sliding off it, and she pulled off his jacket and tied it around him, the sleeves around the back of the chair to keep him in place. He was so large the wheels rubbed against his body as she rolled him into the kitchen, but she persevered, determined.
There was a combination lock on the cellar door, but she already knew from her previous excursion that Archer hadn’t changed it—it was still his birthday. Idiot, she thought, spinning the dials and opening the door into the dankness. There was no light down there—Archer usually used a lantern when he went in search of wine—and there wasn’t much room. Dr. Chekowsky wasn’t going to notice these little inconveniences, and the glorified hole was on the far side away from the living room. If he woke up before she got out of there and started making a fuss, there was a good chance she wouldn’t even have to hear him.
She brought the wheelchair to the edge of the short, steep flight of stairs, untied his jacket, and tipped him forward. It sounded as if he hit every single step as he went down, ending with the crash of broken glass as he landed up against the wine bottles. Another crash, which sounded as if one of the fully loaded sets of shelves had collapsed on top of him. No, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone for a long time.
She threw his coat after him, closed the door and locked it again, then examined her conscience. He could die—from injuries, from exposure . . . hell, from an overdose of the acetaminophen in Vicodin. Did she feel guilty?
Nope.
She went back into the living room, stretched out on the sofa, and finished her glass of wine.
Chapter Eighteen
Mal dragged the boat as high onto the sand as he could make it before he collapsed, coughing up water. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up again, fierce in its determination to wipe him off the face of the earth, and he’d barely managed to reach shore. There had been the broken pieces of other small boats and even the occasional body floating in the raging waters, and it had taken all his skill and more to avoid them. His skill, and Archer’s.
Archer was sitting in the sand on the other side of the wrecked boat, a little winded but not even coughing. Somehow he’d managed not to swallow any water, and they’d made it back to Isla Mordita just as the first fitful rays of dawn were appearing on the horizon.
Mal rolled over on his back, looking up. The sky was still dark and angry, despite the early light, and the storm was far from over. He’d thought he was never coming back here—he had every intention of finishing with Archer and his scientist while they were gone and sending someone else in to rescue Sophie. It would be so much simpler if he never had to see her again.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her, and that was far too dangerous in his line of work. She was a distraction, she made him vulnerable, and therefore he had to get rid of her. He’d make the Committee treat her well—it hadn’t been her fault that she’d been flung into such a tough situation before she was ready—but he still had no intention of ever going near her again. She was like a drug, and he couldn’t get enough of her. The only thing to do was never have another taste.
“You all right, Gunnison?” Archer called over the rough wind.
“Just peachy,” he growled. He’d had no choice. When the yacht had foundered off the gulf coast, Archer had abandoned the men who’d survived, stolen the first boat he could find, and headed back to Isla Mordita, and he’d turned the gun he’d used to kill the older couple who’d owned the boat on Mal.
“Afraid I’m going to need you,
old man,” he’d said affably. “None of my men are any good on a boat, and you know what you’re doing. Besides, I think you’re far too interested in getting back to my wife, aren’t you? Get on board. Now.”
Mal lost his own gun when the boat had broken up, and killing Archer while they were out on the rough ocean would have been too fucking dangerous. He wouldn’t have made it without Archer, though he hated like hell to admit it. Then again, Archer had needed him to survive, so that wiped out the debt.
Mal pushed himself into a sitting position. The remains of a small cabin cruiser were smashed against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, and there was a dead body lying on the sand. It was hard to be certain, but he didn’t recognize the man or the boat. “Who’s that?” he said, tipping his chin in the direction of the corpse.
“Beats me,” Archer said, bored. “Someone who got caught in the storm and didn’t have our expertise, I’d guess. That, or you’ve got some competition when it comes to my little Sophie.”
“Your little Sophie is about five foot eight,” he snapped. He couldn’t wait to kill the bastard.
“How would you know? Did you measure her lying down?” Archer said lazily, and Mal, already cold from his plunge into the gulf, froze.
How could he have made such a mistake? He knew Sophie’s height because he knew where she came up against his own six foot two when she’d pressed up against him in the boathouse.
He recovered quickly. “I’m an observant man,” he drawled, “and I can figure things out. She’s got long legs.”
“So she has,” Archer said pleasantly. “Too bad they don’t work. You ready to tackle the cliff?”
They’d landed on the western beach, just under the bluff of land that held the old sugar mill. A rickety set of stairs, so many flights he didn’t want to count them, led up to the promontory, and that was the only way they would get back to the house. The steps were so flimsy they didn’t look like they could hold a butterfly, and they were going to have to hold both his and Archer’s bulk. There was no way Archer would wait until Mal reached the top to head up there, no way Mal would let Archer have a chance to reach Sophie before he did.
He shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any.” If the steps collapsed, then so be it—at least Archer would be wiped out. Mal rose to his feet, steady despite the last few harrowing hours. His jeans and shirt were soaked with salt water, and he felt bone weary. He was going to have to make this up as he went along. One thing he knew for sure: Archer wasn’t going to make it back to the house alive.
The stairs were in worse shape than he’d suspected, cracking beneath Archer’s heavy, muscular weight. He’d gone first, of course, leaving Mal no choice but to follow, and he kept pace, even as the wood creaked and splintered beneath his soaked deck shoes, watching every move Archer made above him. Archer was talking, of course—he never shut his fucking yap. How he managed to bound up the wooden steps and still talk was beyond Mal’s comprehension, but then Archer wasn’t your normal, everyday megalomaniac billionaire. He always seemed to be on some form of speed, though Mal suspected it was just his own hyper nature that drove him. In years and years of intel, there’d never been a hint of drug use—Archer was just high on himself.
The sky was growing a little lighter, and the cold breeze biting through his wet clothes seemed to grow a little softer. He wasn’t shivering—that was easy enough to control, but he was so damned cold he probably had icicles coming off his dick. He needed to break Archer’s neck and get someplace warm.
The bird came from out of nowhere, a gull, shrieking, startling him for one impossible moment, long enough for Archer to kick downward with his foot, knocking Mal off the stairs.
Mal grabbed at him, catching his ankle, as the wooden structure collapsed beneath them, with only the final flight clinging to the top of the cliff. Beneath them he heard the wood shatter on the rocks below, and he looked up at Archer grinning down at him.
“Might as well let go, old man,” Archer said jovially. “I don’t need you—I’ve got plenty of customers for Pixiedust, and I think my wife likes you a little too much.”
Mal was swinging loose over the sand, only his iron grip on Archer’s ankle keeping him from falling to his death. “After all we’ve been to each other, Archer?” Mal called up. “I saved your life out there.”
“And I saved yours. Which makes us even, don’t you think? I like you, Mal, I really do, but you’ve outworn your usefulness. I can sell the stuff directly to your boss and cut out the middleman.” He shook his leg, trying to break free of Mal’s hold, but it did no good—Mal had no intention of letting go. “You’re annoying me,” Archer shouted over the increasing wind. “I’m cold and tired and I want to get back to my wife. Just let go, won’t you? You’re never going to make it up here, and I haven’t got all day.”
Mal laughed breathlessly. “Why don’t you pull me up, and we can talk about it man to man?” He was strong, but he’d used up a lot of his strength in their battle against the sea, and he wasn’t certain how long he could last. Long enough, he told himself, his fingers digging into Archer’s leg as he slid his other hand inside his pants. The custom sleeve that rested beside his junk had kept the knife in place despite all the tossing of the boat, and he pulled at it, careful not to let Archer see what he was doing.
“I’d love to, but you disapprove of the way I handle my marriage, I know you do, and I really dislike disapproval. Besides, my wife was supposed to feel degraded by your attentions—she wasn’t supposed to actually like it. I’m afraid you’ve worn out your welcome . . .”
Mal swung himself upward with a huge lunge, stabbing the knife into Archer’s foot as he grabbed for the bottom step of the stairs.
Archer’s scream howled through the night. He kicked wildly, trying to free himself, when his hold on the stairs broke and a moment later he was gone, falling head over heels down the cliff to disappear into the darkness below.
Mal stayed where he was for a moment, clinging to the broken step. Beneath him, there was no scream, only the sound of the surf. Not even Archer MacDonald could survive a fall like that. He was dead, gone, that quickly, after such an interminable time. So why didn’t Mal believe it?
He took a deep breath and began to pull himself up onto the remaining flight of stairs. It shook beneath him, and it wasn’t going to last long. With his final ounce of strength he surged upward as the rest of the wooden structure let go and crashed down on top of where Archer MacDonald would be lying, and Mal landed on the crumbling cliff just as the lightning split the sky once more, and the rain poured down on his weary body.
Sophie thought she heard a scream. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa again, a little creeped out by the darkness overhead, and she woke up with a start. She could hear nothing but the wind, which had picked up once more, and then, a few sleepy moments later, a huge clap of thunder followed by another deluge. She sighed. She’d known the storm wasn’t over yet, but she’d hoped.
It was marginally lighter outside, but with the storm she had no idea whether it was dusk or dawn or even high noon. She’d left her watch upstairs. Time had been so meaningless over the past few years, and keeping track of it only made things worse—she’d stopped thinking about it, structuring her solitary days on her own terms. There was no clock in the vast living room, or if Archer had added one it was lost in the shadows. She was exhausted—and until the power came on there was nothing she could do but think about the man she’d tossed into the cellar and wait to hear whether he survived, whether he made enough noise . . .
It was driving her crazy. She was going back to bed. The short-lived calm of the storm disappeared, and it was raging with a vengeance, and even if the mad scientist in the cellar had managed to get here in one piece, she had very strong doubts she’d be able to leave—at least, not quite yet.
She headed up the stairs, leaving the remains of her picnic dinner and Chekowsky’s drugging on the glass coffee table. The sofa, for all its enveloping, even smot
hering comfort, provided very little support, and she was used to sleeping on her hard-as-nails mattress. She got to the top of the landing and hesitated.
Goldilocks had rejected too soft in the living room, and now the thought of her own hard bed was less than appealing. Hell, she could make all the excuses she wanted, but she was going to sleep in his bed, in his sheets, and she’d always planned to.
The door to the balcony had blown open in the storm, leaving the floor of Mal’s room wet, the room filled with the fresh ozone of a tropical storm. Leaves and flowers scattered the room, blown in by the wind, and she wanted to laugh. The bed itself was unmade—Archer must have sent the servants off-island before they finished their morning routine. Of course he had—he’d clearly wanted everyone gone before she woke up.
After setting the gun down on the bedside table, she shoved her shorts and underwear down her legs, then untied the dress shirt and pulled it over her head. It had felt good wearing those clothes today. It had been a spit in the eye of an undiscriminating fate, a way to take back what had been stolen from her. She slid into bed, pulling the bamboo sheets around her body.
It had been so long since she had slept naked, and the feeling was heavenly as she stretched between the soft sheets. She closed her eyes in the semidarkness, and Mal was all around her, the feel of him imprinted in the bed, the sheets wrapping around her like strong arms.
She’d had too much wine, too much stimulation. She was half drunk and well past making any sensible decisions. When she woke up she’d shower if the gravity-fed water still allowed her to, dress, and head down to the beach to find a way off this place. No matter how violent, storms couldn’t last that long, and it should start to clear before much longer. The seas would be choppy for a while, and she’d put it off as long as she dared, but in the end, what better reason was there to risk her life but for freedom?
She rubbed her face against the pillow like a kitten rubbing against a stroking hand. She could smell his skin, she thought, not sure how she recognized it. Not sweat or cologne, just something indefinable that made him there with her, and she knew she should get up and go to her own room, knew this was dangerous in her current condition, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.