Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  Ah, but she was. 'You've been through a hell of a lot these past few weeks.'

  'You would know.'

  She had told him in excruciating detail and, if those LPP bastards had still been alive, Mark would have smashed their beady-eyed heads into the wall.

  She was looking at him in a funny way, trying to read him, it seemed. 'Look, Mr. Neal –'

  'Will you please stop calling me that. You're making me feel really old.'

  She studied him a moment. 'Well, exactly how old are you?'

  Bull’s-eye. He felt the tops of his ears growing red. 'Almost forty. Why?'

  'Why not?' she asked. 'You already know everything there is to know about me and you didn't even have the courtesy to ask.'

  'Believe me, I would have if I'd had the chance.'

  She looked him up and down and took a bite of her sandwich. 'Yes, I believe you would have. Anyway, what I was about to say when you stopped me was that I realize none of this is your fault.'

  'You really shouldn't blame your father either. He did his damnedest to protect you.'

  'I see. You've been an analyst for Defense for maybe, let’s see, ten years?'

  'Eight. But you've got pretty good instincts.'

  'Okay, eight years, eight wonderful years with the DOS, and you feel qualified to tell me where to lay the blame for my own kidnapping?'

  He couldn't resist. 'Yes.'

  'Mr. Neal,' she said on purpose, 'you've been in the business so long you've lost touch with the human element.'

  Why was he still sitting here, a receptacle for her hostile words? Part of him wanted to storm from his chair and give her the show she wanted. Prove to her she wasn't the only one spiraling out of control on this chilly Spanish evening. But no, he wouldn't do it. He was stronger than that. Stronger than the rage that burned within her.

  The air hung heavy between them. She looked at him and raised one eyebrow. 'You're a strange man.'

  'Strong, silent type,' he assured her with a grin.

  Joe and Cromwell sat in the hotel bar swirling their bourbon. The old man looked up with tired eyes. 'Mark and I agreed, it has to be Pete.'

  Joe nodded. 'Nobody else had access.'

  Cromwell took another sip of his drink, resting his elbows on the bar. 'Damn sloppy, that’s what it was. DIS should have caught Barcelona.'

  Joe kept his mouth shut. The Defense Investigative Service was Defense Department territory.

  'You fellows were just lucky AIC’s interest was in keeping you alive.'

  'To a point,' Joe reminded him. 'But you’re right, the warehouse was their only hit. They were waiting to reel us in all the way in Santiago.'

  'That or let the LPP take care of you on the way. AIC underground has really mushroomed. No doubt they had eyes on the LPP. Decided to let Carnova do their dirty work.'

  'Lazy sons of bitches,' Joe said, taking a belt.

  'You ought to get down on your knees and thank the good Lord for their sloth.'

  Joe called over the barkeep and ordered another round. He was buying tonight. Ana was dining al fresco with Neal. Very uptown, Joe thought, wrapping his lips around the rim of his newly fortified glass. He took a swig then hoisted his glass in the air.

  'To Salvador Rebelles, God rest his soul.'

  Cromwell sat pensive for a moment. 'To Salvador,' he said, slowly raising his glass.

  Rebelles had been Spanish Intelligence all along, someone sent to secure their mission. An unofficial general for an unofficial cause. And, he’d died in the line of duty. If he hadn’t known and been able to tell Mark the calls had been coming from Washington, they might not have been able to piece it together so quickly.

  It had been Spanish Intelligence watching in the pub, providing backup at the warehouse (the thug who’d hit Denton hadn’t made it out alive), and on the road to Santiago. Salvador had been Michael, not Lucifer, after all, and, as the Spanish saying goes, now slept with the angels.

  Joe looked into his glass, thinking maybe he’d had enough – and not just of the bourbon.

  'Have they got Jarvis?' he asked.

  Cromwell set his glass down on the bar. 'Closing in as we speak.'

  Pete was booked on the 7:00 p.m. flight to Barcelona from Dulles International Airport. Something had gone the hell wrong. Somehow Vaquero had tipped his hand, screwed things up and the whole fucking thing had blown up in their faces.

  Didn’t matter. There’d be another time, another chance for the AIC. Nothing had been definitively proven. And, once Pete was out of the country, the DOS would never be able to tie up that loose end.

  He’d been nervous about sitting still at the gate, so instead had walked down the hall to a pushcart selling popcorn. He’d fiddled with the bag, but hadn’t eaten. Damn stuff always stuck in his teeth.

  By the time he heard the boarding call, his hands were a sweaty mess. He got rid of the popcorn, removed his baseball cap and pulled a small black comb from his hip pocket to fix his hair. He still had on the sunglasses he’d worn in from the parking lot. Pete was no master of disguise, but it looked like he was going to make it on that plane.

  He told himself to slow down as he ambled into line with the other passengers. An enormous woman in front of him was berating her adolescent son for something that couldn’t be worth the public humiliation. A hot iron twisted in Pete’s chest, and he realized he was crying for that little boy. The one he couldn’t possibly save, because he’d already grown up.

  He didn’t even see them until he felt the pinch on either side, just above his elbows. A pair of granite-faced agents pushed his arms rudely behind his back.

  'Peter Jarvis,' the fair one said as the dark one slapped cold metal around his wrists. 'You are under arrest for treason against the United States of America.'

  She needed a walk, and Mark Neal had insisted on coming along. She hadn’t wanted the company, but after a while something in his easy gait had reassured her. She had confidence he wouldn’t get too close. He hung back a few paces and let her lead.

  Let her lead. What a laugh. No man in her life had ever had faith in her ability to be in charge. For her father and Joe it was evidenced by their deceit. And Scott didn’t even feel her capable of selecting a wardrobe. She realized with a tender pang that his controlling behavior had, of course, been a symptom of other things, an insurmountable barrier of circumstance culminating from his youth. There were probably other things, too. Other things she wasn’t aware of. She had to believe it had never been her. It was the only thing that made sense.

  They walked aimlessly, skirting reckless dark corners, mossy brown buildings hanging black with the night. There was a certain comfort in having him there, a security in his distance.

  For now, Ana knew, the only way to judge a man clearly was from afar.

  When he turned his head away, she swung her eyes behind her, taking in his tall but solid frame. He had the lean, long look of a runner, with broad shoulders that offset a square face. His chestnut hair was graying just a bit at the temples and, for an instant, she found herself remembering her father at a younger age.

  Ana broke the long steady stream of silence. 'You have children?' she asked, looking for something casual to say. Anything to take her mind off the present.

  'No,' he answered, smiling down at his shoes. 'Always wanted them.'

  Thinking she’d hit a sore spot, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. 'I’m sure you’d make a great father,' she said. And, for some unknown reason, she found herself believing it.

  He looked up from the pavement. 'I have a hunch you’d make a pretty good mother yourself.'

  She looked into his eyes, then quickly turned away. There’d been something there that startled her, something she didn’t quite recognize but felt she knew.

  She picked up her pace, winding them back toward the main square.

  He was a nice man, maybe too nice. The last thing Ana wanted was for anyone to take pity on her. She was struggling against a feeling that had been mounting i
nside ever since she’d heard about Scott.

  At first, she thought she was too numb to feel anything. But no, something was there, a burning and twisting inside, something battling to the surface, struggling to be free.

  'You all right?' Neal was standing beside her.

  She had stopped, she realized, before a small courtyard fountain. She had seen it before.

  All at once something wailed from within, a wild primitive sound she did not recognize as her own until Mark Neal stepped forward and drew her into his arms.

  The plane surged as Joe sauntered back to the place where Ana was seated. He grabbed the smooth rib of the overhead compartment to steady himself. She was sitting there staring out the window, watching the hills of Galicia disappear behind the clouds, her hair pulled tightly behind her, eyes hollow. She had the same look Joe's aunt had the year his cousin died. He never saw the light return to Aunt Peggy’s eyes. There was something irrevocable about losing a child.

  Ana turned from the window to accept a cup of coffee from the airline attendant. Her seatmate declined and rose to go to the rest room. This was Joe's opportunity. He strode down the aisle and slid into the vacant seat. She looked at him, unmoved, then swirled the cream into her coffee.

  'Ana, I've tried every way I know how. All I want is five minutes of your time.'

  She looked over at him, then down at her father's gold wristwatch. 'Five minutes? Then what?'

  'Then maybe you'll understand a little better just what I had to go through, what I was up against.'

  'What you had to go through?'

  Joe felt the hairs on his neck prickle his denim collar. 'Give me half a chance.' He looked at her, pleading. 'I don't think you understand –'

  'That's the problem. You don't think I understand much, do you? Don't think I know it was a job. Keep an eye on the Kane girl. Keep her out of trouble. Jesus, Joe, do you take all your assignments to bed?'

  'It wasn't like that!'

  'No? How was it?'

  'Different. You were different. I never meant for things to get so screwed around.'

  She began to thaw. 'You're one lousy excuse for an agent.'

  He looked down at the arm of the chair, knowing she was right. Trouble was, he’d let things get personal. He had started to fail at his job the day he'd lost his professional distance. But he'd been fighting it for so long that, when that night at the beach house finally came, he just couldn't fight it any longer. She'd worn him thin with her penetrating glances. She’d turned him inside out with the way she crossed her legs and made him crazy when the raw scent of her breezed into a room.

  He spoke without raising his eyes. 'My mistake.'

  'What was your mistake?' she asked, her voice a whisper.

  He looked at her now, for the first time admitting it to himself. 'Falling in love with you.'

  Albert could hear their voices six rows behind him, but it was impossible to distinguish individual words above the engines’ roar. She hated him. It was clear. They would all hate him. Isa and Emalita too. Maybe it would have been better for the entire family if he'd really died. He'd been a fool to think Ana would be glad to see him.

  She'd sequestered herself in her room and refused to come out, even for the requisite debriefing. He was relieved that Mark, at least, had been able to persuade her. She’d talked to him. Told him as much as she could, as much as her conscious mind would reveal. Albert prayed to God there was nothing else, no other dark secrets that, in the years ahead, would come back to haunt her.

  He'd given Mark his watch, a peace offering, and asked him to pass it on to Ana. She'd mailed it to him on his sixty-fifth birthday from a faraway correo in northern Spain. She'd had it engraved somewhere – tunina, siempre. It meant more to him than any gift he'd ever received.

  If only she'd talk to him. But she had built so many fragile walls. And Albert knew better than to offend the brittle barricade of his daughter's crystal house.

  Mark and Cromwell had paired up for the ride, with Joe assigned the seat behind them. He’d felt Joe bump against his seat seconds ago, headed to the rest room or so Mark thought.

  He’d turned when he’d heard her voice, an angry whisper above the faint movie dialogue coming through the scattered earphones.

  Joe had taken the seat beside her and they were engaged in heavy discussion. It had probably been true. There had been something between them. Possibly was still. And all this time Mark acting like a boy right out of school.

  Mark picked up a magazine, trying to distract himself. But it was useless.

  Last night she had fallen into his arms in a way he could never have planned. Never would have wanted to plan. So much agony written in her eyes. He’d been there to hold her, shore her up against her tears, but hadn’t been able to offer anything in the way of consolation. What does one say to a woman whose life has just come down around her? Pick yourself up and move on?

  Mark didn’t think so. He knew too well how it felt to have outsiders tell you your time for grieving was done.

  He’d wanted so badly to carry her away, tell her how much he understood. But she never would have believed it. It would be forever, Mark realized, before Ana would believe anything any man told her again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ana took the stairs to the third floor and let herself into her modest, single room apartment. She’d asked the super for a spare key, expecting an argument. He was surly and fifty and generally reeked of gin. But he’d surprised her and given her the key without a word.

  When Ana walked into her small bathroom and checked the mirror, she saw why. Her face was a grotesque contortion, a scarred lower lip with bruises surrounding her cheekbones. She hadn’t cared to look in Santiago. Or even in Newark. In fact, she’d gone to lengths to avoid it. She had enough horrors to contend with.

  She ran the faucet, lightly splashing water on her face. The dark spots were still tender.

  She searched the medicine cabinet for her comb, realizing most of her toiletries were still in Costa Negra. She tried to do something with her hair.

  She wondered what people had thought that night she’d paraded around Santiago with Mark Neal, her face a war zone. She realized that in her mother’s hospital room she’d probably looked more like one of the patients than a visitor and decided she didn’t care.

  Her mother, thank God, was going to pull through.

  She hadn’t stayed long, just long enough to know, then had left the rest in Emi’s hands. Emi’s capable hands. Emi would see that her mother got back home, got to her doctor’s appointments. Would serve as sentinel to guard against her father’s intrusions.

  She walked to the kitchen, knowing she’d find nothing but water. Anything else would have to be stale. Except for coffee. She reached for the grounds and made it the old-fashioned way in a stovetop percolator. There was something more honest in its flavor than the electric drip kind. And Ana was in the mood to be brutally frank.

  The telephone rang and she walked to pick it up on the second ring.

  'Got a DHL package down here with your name on it.' It was the super and he sounded drunk.

  'Thanks, I’ll be right down.'

  DHL was the express courier for international deliveries. When she stepped into the lobby, her compact suitcase was waiting under the line of brass mailboxes. She grabbed its handle and hoisted it back upstairs, wondering who might have sent it.

  The coffee was ready and she poured herself a steaming cup. It wasn’t until she was seated at the table that she noticed the short envelope taped to the side of her bag. She immediately ripped open the seal. It was a simple lined sheet of yellow paper that had been folded over four times.

  The message was short and sweet: Forgive me, Joe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ana rolled over in bed and rested her chin on the back of her overlapping hands. It was September, five months since her horrific ordeal, almost a year since that first balmy October night. They’d come full circle.


  Joe was propped up against the soft feather pillows, his arms folded casually behind his head. The light from a cloud-occluded moon danced in through the window and cast shadows across his broad, hairy chest.

  The surf crashed outside.

  Joe slid himself into a reclining position beside her and rested his head on the shelf of his outstretched arm. He looked into her eyes and it hurt because she could not return what she saw there.

  'What are you thinking?' he asked, stroking her bare arm.

  'About how impossible this world is,' she said, snuggling up against him under the covers. 'Maybe if things were different. If Tarrona had never happened...'

  Her voice trailed off, mingling with the song of the water.

  'We could start this whole crazy thing over. Do it right from the start.'

  But Ana knew they couldn't go back and now her time in Costa Negra was ended. She’d closed out the project office that morning.

  'You're a good man. Some day –' She hadn't meant it to sound like a kiss-off but it had. He deserved better than that.

  He shifted so that he could bring both arms around her and pull her close.

  'I don't want some day,' he said.

  But she did. Some day and then some. Ana shut her eyes against the sting of moisture gathering there. She wished there was a way. But any way she could think of was just an illusion.

  She pushed back the sheets and pulled Joe to her.

  He eased on top of her, brushing her with his prickly warmth, pushing his fingers into the thick mass of hair at the base of her scalp.

  He cradled her head and whispered something into the darkness but she reached out to stop him with her searching kiss, knowing this would be their last time.

  Mark stepped out of the small Irish pub in Old Town onto King Street and headed east toward the river. He’d gone in for a bowl of lamb stew but had come out feeling empty.