The FBI diver splashed out of the lake. He held up the ring piece in the sunlight peeking through the thinning clouds. This part of the lake had a sandy bottom. The gold would’ve sunk in and disappeared in mud. They’d have had to cut open the safe.
Kaplan handed him the ring. “You do the honors, Jones,” he said. “You been through hell to get this far. That million-dollar reward from Gramornia should go a mile or two toward making it up to you and Ms. Marton.”
Cort hadn’t known about a reward. That didn’t concern him at the moment. “How’d you find us? How did you know to come?”
“Thank Thomas Devlin for that one. And whoever put up a cell phone tower in these godforsaken woods. Ms. Marton pushed a link on her phone that sent Devlin a direct SOS with GPS coordinates.”
Cort shook his head, speechless. She must’ve sent that signal when Rousso first grabbed her. Fear hadn’t stopped her from acting, from using the same tactic that called him to her rescue more than a month ago.
A conflicting stew of emotions swirled inside him, made his eyes sting. He swallowed hard. He began this quest because he wanted freedom and a full life, but without her, his future looked empty. He would laugh at the irony if he didn’t hurt so much.
“Jones?” Kaplan asked. “You okay?”
“Fine, just fine. Let’s get this safe open. I want this over with.” The sooner he handed over the crown jewels, the sooner all these damn people would leave him alone.
He connected the new ring piece with the others, creating a six-inch tube of gold. The key to the treasure. If for once in his life Leon played it straight. Unless the crown jewels weren’t there. What happened then? He hoped the prince could be crowned with them. But for himself, it didn’t matter as much. The FBI knew he’d been honest with them. Now it was up to Leon.
He tossed off the blanket. As he lay on the tarp that spread beside the hole, he sensed the crowd gathering closer. Mara’s sneakers appeared at the edge of the hole. He didn’t look up.
The raised runes fit perfectly in the circular lock on the safe. He twisted it to the right, praying he didn’t hit another roadblock, like a combination. But the lock turned. The tumblers clicked. With his jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, he grasped the handle and pulled.
“The safe opened,” Kaplan murmured above him.
Inside the deep metal box lay a black duffel bag, the waterproof kind boaters used. With the FBI agent’s help, he hoisted it out and placed it on the tarp. When he began to work the zipper, Kaplan stopped him.
“Not yet,” the FBI agent said. “I promised the Gramornian ambassador I’d wait until the prince’s emissary could be here to witness the contents. He’s on his way.”
***
Mara huddled by the woodstove in Cort’s cabin trying to thaw her icy hands. The scent of wood smoke drifted in the air, and the snap of flames warmed her skin.
A technician had swabbed and bandaged her palms, which barely stung, and her cheek, which throbbed almost as much as her heart. Another EMT treated Cort’s knuckles but said no bones seemed broken. He’d have more scars. So would she, inside.
The duffel lay on the faded sofa, a homing beacon to everyone’s gaze. The wait for this damn emissary was taking too long. If she’d ever had a chance at a future with Cort, she’d lost it. She wanted to leave before she broke down.
Most of the FBI people had driven away, leaving only Kaplan, two other agents, and Devlin as buffers to the tension between Cort and her. The two of them gave a preliminary statement to the special agents while they waited.
Kaplan clicked off the digital recorder and folded his arms. “Ms. Marton, how did you manage to disarm Hauptman and toss the ring? Some self-defense moves?”
Mara felt her face heat. “Not exactly. I play a lot of tennis. I was hoping for a swing at the pistol but when she took out the ring, I came up with a better tactic. I threw up my arm like tossing up the ball—” she demonstrated “—and knocked the pistol loose. Then I grabbed the ring and served it into the lake. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” The agent scratched his balding pate. “You have my congratulations.”
“Thanks. I have no field operative ambitions, but after that, I think I’ll take more of the self-defense classes DSF offers.”
The laughter around the table—Cort even smiled—diffused her tension.
When it was clear no one had any more to add, the agent said, “Twyla Hauptman lost her bartending job a week ago. Boss wanted a younger, prettier face behind the bar. She could’ve fought the firing.” He continued tapping his pen on the table. “But that may have been the reason she became even more desperate for the money Rousso promised her.”
“He wouldn’t have paid either one of them a dime,” Cort said. “After killing us, he’d have shot them. No loose ends and more bottom line for Centaur.”
Mara shuddered, agreeing. “He deserves life in prison. Maybe he didn’t push Dante Falco off that balcony, but he ordered his death. And he killed Danita Inglish and that hired thug in San Francisco.”
“Rousso’s a stone killer, no question.” Kaplan barked a humorless laugh. “Rolf Radulescu—his real name—is a native Romanian. Grew up rough in the slums of Bucharest. Clawed his way out and up with various criminal enterprises. Seems he had ambitions in the Centaur hierarchy. As it is, he’ll be lucky to survive. Centaur doesn’t tolerate failure. Or betrayal. Word is he made a private deal with a West-Coast Russian Mafia boss for the crown jewels.”
“So I wasn’t far off ragging him about his Centaur boss being unhappy with his screw-ups.” Cort’s thin smile resembled Rousso’s noxious one.
The crunch of tires on gravel brought everyone’s head around. One of the FBI agents crossed to the door to admit the newcomer.
The man who walked inside was tall and movie-star handsome, dressed in a black turtleneck, pressed jeans, and a short black trench coat. The last man Mara expected to see.
André Rozmer.
So the French son of a bitch was the agent of the Gramornia prince, not that of Centaur. Bile rose in her throat as she rose to her feet. She wrapped her arms around her waist to keep inside the anger bubbling to a boil.
Like her, Cort remained at the table, his hands clenched into fists, his scowl shooting death rays at André.
André spoke quietly to the agents. He handed them a set of credentials. Then he held up a finger, asking for a moment. He approached her.
“I must apologize, Mara, for so deceiving you and your sister.” That too charming French accent now struck her as smarmy. “I attended Oxford with the new crown prince of Gramornia. From time to time, the royal family asks me to carry out little favors for them, you see. I had to know how close you were to finding the crown jewels and if you would really return them. I had no choice.” He dipped his head in a very small, very Gallic bow.
The little rush of adrenaline spurting through her had a calming effect. “You had a choice all right. You could have chosen to declare yourself to Cort or me. Instead you chose to seduce my sister. To make a fool of her before you tossed her aside like an empty wine bottle.”
She turned aside and stalked across the room to where Thomas Devlin stood by the sofa with the others. To her relief, her boss didn’t touch her. She couldn’t have tolerated another person’s contact at that moment. With one exception. But she didn’t trust herself to look at Cort.
The duffel lay in a pond of light beneath the skylight. Everyone gathered around to watch as André unzipped the bag.
He lifted out an object wrapped in soft cloth. As the fabric fell away, a sunbeam flashed on the brilliance revealed. The scepter’s shaft of old gold gleamed and the gemstones in its round headpiece reflected the rays, scattering light around the room.
“Leon didn’t lie,” Cort murmured. “This time, the old man didn’t lie.”
Next was the crown, with fleurs-de-lis around the base and four arches on top. Mara knew from studying the robbery that the jewels winking along its ed
ges were pearls, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds.
In quick succession, André and Kaplan lifted out the other pieces of the royal regalia, equally magnificent and encrusted with gems—a smaller crown called a diadem, two swords, three ornate diamond-and-emerald rings, and a slim dagger in a gold hilt.
“All of it seems to be here,” André declared. “And just in time to be polished up for the coronation tomorrow. The royal family has arranged for a security detail and a private jet. They await my call.” He began wrapping up the pieces.
“There’s a little formality,” Kaplan interjected softly. Like the others, he could barely drag his gaze from the treasure on the brown sofa. “An inventory and photographs. An official statement and receipt. But we’ll have you ready to go by later this afternoon.”
André opened his mouth as if to object, but closed it again. He honored the agent with that same little bow.
“If you will all excuse me,” Thomas Devlin said, “now that I know my employee is safe, I’ll be returning to D.C.”
Mara’s mouth felt like she’d been sucking on bitter herbs but she forced herself to speak. “If you’re going to the airport, I’d appreciate a lift. Time I got back to work.”
Her boss looked at Cort, who stared stoically into space, then back at her. “Sure. Get your things. Glad to have your company. Plenty of room in the chartered jet.” He’d told them earlier he’d been on the tarmac ready to fly to Maine when he got her signal.
The FBI agents were busy with André and the crown jewels. Hard as it would be, she couldn’t leave without facing Cort one last time.
He was loading more wood into the stove. She stood there a moment before he looked at her. His face a mask of steely resolve and simmering emotion, he seemed to be grinding granite with his molars. The pulse throbbed in his throat. His familiar scent made her want to lean into his warmth and hard body.
She blinked back the tears that stung. She could barely suck in enough air to speak. God, how could this be any harder?
“I know I totally screwed up everything. I’m sorrier than you can imagine. I committed the one crime you can’t forgive. But I swear the only destination I gave my sister was general. I never said Maine. And I might as well confess the rest. You asked me not to tell anyone at work what we were doing. I couldn’t do that. I needed help from a friend, another researcher in my office while we were in San Francisco. I should’ve told you.
“And I want you to know I’m in love with you. I understand it’s over between us. If your parents loving each other didn’t guarantee happiness, neither did my parents’ loveless marriage. There are no guarantees. A relationship needs tending—shaping, smoothing, and polishing, like your furniture—and I failed what relationship we had. I wish you a good life. Maybe someday you’ll be able to move beyond the past and come to trust yourself.”
Lines bracketed his taut mouth. He nodded but didn’t speak.
She turned and walked away. She collected her bags.
“You ready?” Devlin held the door open for her. He took her overnight bag from her.
She tilted her head, thinking. “Not quite.” She stalked to where the others hovered over the crown jewels. “André.”
When he turned around, she reared back and punched him in the face. The arrogant Frenchman stumbled, then slammed down on his Gallic butt. The pure pleasure she felt from striking the blow eclipsed the pain exploding in her knuckles.
André stared up at her in shock. Blood trickled from one nostril.
“That’s from my sister.” She whirled around, catching a glimpse of the others.
The two agents gaped.
Thomas Devlin grinned.
Cort looked as if his eyes might fall out and roll across the floor.
She marched out the door. Tears shimmered and fell, blinding her. Her boss caught her as she crumpled.
Chapter 30
End of June
The sight of Mara’s red Versa pulling into the sunlit driveway sent Cort’s pulse soaring into the stratosphere. He dropped the instructions for setting up the professional-grade Delta cabinet saw and headed to the shadowed barn doorway.
He’d wavered all day between certainty she would be too curious to ignore his invitation and gut-wrenching fear she’d trash the email and shine him on.
But she came!
Everything else had been wound up. The new Gramornian prince was crowned with all the regal paraphernalia. Rousso implicated Hugo in Falco’s murder. In spite of strict security, Rousso was killed in jail, probably contracted by Centaur. A fight in the corridor drew away the guards. When the dust cleared, he lay bleeding out from a stab wound. No weapon and nobody saw a thing. Good riddance. Saved prosecuting complicated cases—crimes in D.C. and three states.
The FBI said the Rousso was about to cut a deal for intel about Centaur. He’d already divulged enough to tease—the leader was an ex-military American called only Z.
Cort mustered the courage to phone Dante Falco’s daughter. At least he had the good news that the killers were caught and one was dead.
The Gramornian royal family had been so ecstatic about his part in ending their difficulties with the prime minister, they doubled the reward. Cort had enough money to set up his own workshop and even advertise his furniture.
Now he had to fix the most important part of his new life.
He strode into the sunshine and crossed the lawn to meet her.
She stood staring at the house. He’d felt the same amazement when he first drove down the narrow gravel lane to this house. Tall hedges beside the lane rescued the residents of the McMansions on both sides from viewing the blight of this residue of rural history. He saw the place as more of a time capsule, an oasis in plastic suburbia.
When she heard his steps on the gravel, she turned. The sight of her expanded a bright balloon in his chest, beginning to fill the void growing there since she’d walked out his cabin door. She wore a short yellow skirt that showed off her killer legs and a lime-green V-neck top that almost gave a glimpse of her power button.
She wasn’t smiling. He needed that smile to make his world right.
He swallowed, unable to speak. Thanks for coming and welcome were inadequate. He was so damn happy to see her all he could do was grin. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Her wary expression warned him he’d better find some words or she might climb back in that little car and drive back to D.C. He’d sure had enough time to think of what to say. A month of staring at his cabin’s drab four walls. A month of stagnation at the workbench. A month of pondering what he was losing and facing what she’d told him all along.
“What is this place?” Her gaze swept the plank-sided barn and the whitewashed farmhouse with its metal roof and wide, low porch.
“My new digs.”
“You left the woods of Maine for an old farmhouse in suburban Virginia?”
Closer now, he saw the small v-shaped red scar on her cheek where Rousso struck her with the pistol. He wanted to deck the man again.
He took her arm and led her up the porch. Not protesting, she trailed along as if expecting to wake up from this fantastical dream.
“Kick in the head, I know. Found I missed... certain things. Hundred-year-old farmhouses don’t drop out of the sky every day, except maybe in Kansas.” She stared at him like he was Oz himself, or maybe the Wicked Witch. “Farmer sold the land except for this couple acre lot. You drove past one of the developments to get here. When he died, his heirs couldn’t agree on what to do with the place, so it sat empty for most of ten years.”
“Until now.”
“You got it.” He was renting for the time being, with an option to buy. But that depended on her. “I’m in love with you.” Those words had kept him going. She might’ve meant them then but by now she probably hated him and Devlin had made his move.
Grow some brass ones, Jones.
The front door led through a foyer into a living room-dining combo. “Hardwood floor
s, working chimney. Needs a lot of work. I’m sort of camping out until I can buy furniture. And build some.” He tried to pretty up the potential, but in reality, what he was showing her wasn’t much. Paint peeling on the walls and mantel. Worn and stained floorboards. Packing boxes, still loaded, as seats around his trestle table, the one she liked.
“It’s fine. The floors look in good shape.”
“Maple. A little work should bring them back. One of the heirs has bought furniture from me. A desk, dining room set. He did some renovations—the kitchen, wiring, plumbing. He’s the one renting it to me.”
“Ah,” she said as if she understood.
If only she did. If only she could read his mind and they could jump ahead without him walking on nails barefoot.
“Cort, you got me out here to see some sort of proof my dad is innocent. What’s the deal? Did you make that up?”
“Never. I do have proof. But give me a minute. You want a drink or something?”
She gave the stainless appliances and the granite countertops a survey, her big green handbag clamped against her hip. “Water would be nice.”
He handed her a glass, took a green tea for himself. As she drank, he watched the line of her throat, the way her hair draped her shoulders. Longed to put his lips on both.
“The little urn on the counter,” she said, nodding in that direction. “Your father?”
He huffed out a breath. “Thought I’d scatter the ashes in the backyard. Put Leon in the sunshine for a change. Now his crime’s paid in full and the jewels restored, it’s fitting.”
“You’ve forgiven him?”
“I won’t go that far. Maybe in time. Let’s say I’ve come to terms with who Leon was.”
When she set down the glass, he suggested they go outside the confining house. The brick patio spread beyond French doors and looked onto an expanse of weedy lawn and more blocking hedges, over the tops of which he could see green hills, not the cookie-cutter houses on either side. All in the eye of the beholder, who was blocking what view.
Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) Page 27