“No need.” Esme met his gaze, her blue eyes as calm and mysterious as the water spread before them. “I’ve been researching. Bernabeu in Spain has an eighty-two percent live birth ratio. I’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment.”
“Spain.” He’d expected the top fertility clinics to be in France or the States, even the UK. But Spain? He shook his head.
“Is there a problem, darling?” Esme lifted a perfectly contoured eyebrow.
“Of course not. I’m just rather surprised the clinic is in Spain.”
Her laugh this time was louder. “Careful, darling, some might call such surprise prejudice. There are top clinics throughout the world, but the Bernabeu has the best live birth rate, and since that is our ultimate goal . . .”
“Of course.” Before he had a chance to continue, his cell phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and scowled. The number belonged to David Coulson—the NRO council member who’d been charged with reverse engineering Dr. Benton and Faith Ansell’s clean energy generator. Of the nine members on the council, Coulson was the only one he truly despised. The American was an uncouth barbarian who preferred the bloodiest, most violent path to success.
The council had been conceived as a true democracy. Equal authority to all its members. It had worked for dozens of years—the power of democracy at its finest. Active operations were decided by majority rule. Everyone worked seamlessly, hand in hand, toward their ultimate goal, although that objective had changed through the years. And then David Coulson had wedged his way onto the council and immediately set about trying to take it over.
Somehow the bloody sod had managed to collect crucial and incriminating evidence concerning the NRO, the council members, and various operations. He’d used this evidence to force his way onto the board and protect himself from a complete family cleansing.
The only reason the damn American hadn’t bulldozed his way to the head of the council was because of the incriminating evidence they’d collected against him. They’d documented several examples of Coulson’s scorch-and-murder approach to business practices.
They had each other over the proverbial barrel, which meant he had to work with the man.
“Oh dear.” She sighed. “Our American colleague certainly knows how to ruin a moment, doesn’t he?”
“He does indeed,” Eric agreed dryly. He hit the Talk button and lifted the cell to his ear. “David.”
“Purcell is dead,” a harsh voice said without preamble.
“What?” Eric straightened sharply. “When? How?”
“Early this morning. He was shot. A hit.”
“A hit,” Eric repeated, only to freeze. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”
The American had been lobbying to take out Purcell for weeks. Claiming the man had used up his effectiveness.
“He was of no use to us any longer. Nor could we trust him to keep his fucking mouth shut. He was a liability.”
Eric stiffened. The arrogance of the man. “We discussed this at length during our last meeting. We needed him to remain in position to run interference with the FBI. The council agreed—”
“Fuck the council,” Coulson growled. “He was a Goddamn liability. It’s a damn good thing I moved on him when I did. Guess who he was entertaining when my man put a bullet through his head? Your SEALs.”
“Mackenzie?” Eric frowned. That damn navy frog had a habit of popping up in the worst places at the worst times.
“You have any other SEALs riding your ass?” Coulson asked dryly.
Eric scowled at the dig but let it pass. “Did your guy take them out?”
He suspected not; otherwise Coulson would have led with that news.
“Unfortunately, my assassin lacked initiative. He took out his paycheck but left the other five standing.” A combination of disgust and anger rumbled through the speaker.
“Five?” If you excluded Mackenzie, there were only three other SEALs on his team.
“From the description it sounds like the extra was a woman. Purcell’s sister, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Eric repeated slowly. “You said Purcell was entertaining them? They were talking?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t sound like the conversation was friendly. One of Mackenzie’s guys pulled a syringe. That’s when my guy took his shot.”
“A syringe?” The news caught Eric by surprise. Amy Chastain had been okay with them drugging her brother? Everything he’d read about the woman indicated she was loyal to Purcell. “If they were going for a syringe, Purcell didn’t give anything up.”
“Purcell didn’t know jackshit anyway.” Coulson’s voice grew faint, as though he’d turned his head away. “The good news is we can swing this hit toward Mackenzie. If we can get video of them in the area, they can take the fall for Purcell’s murder.”
“That would work only if we had a man inside the FBI to implicate them,” Eric snapped, his earlier irritation rising.
“Which won’t be a problem,” Coulson said, smugness rounding the syllables.
Interesting . . . “You have someone inside?”
Coulson’s silence neither confirmed nor denied that possibility. It wouldn’t surprise him, though. God knew the man had his hands in everything—the dirtier and more violent, the better.
“What about these SEALs and those damn Indians? Any luck running them down?” Coulson asked.
“We know they are in Alaska. Near Denali National Park.”
Coulson snorted. “That’s not fucking news. We knew that over a week ago. What the fuck are you waiting for? An invitation to visit?”
“I have men working on it.” Although Eric’s voice remained bland, his fingers cramped around his phone.
“Tell them to work faster,” Coulson said. “We’re hitting critical mass. We can’t afford any interference.”
“Production of Eden is on schedule?” Eric asked, adrenaline spiking. They were so close to reaching their goal. Something he’d only recently begun to believe was possible.
“If production levels continue at their current rate. We’ll hit completion closer to the three-, then six-month marks.”
“That soon?” Surprise echoed in the question.
A sharp laugh traveled through the speaker. “We promised the production team some pretty impressive bonuses, plus quadruple time, if they completed the run in half the estimated time. It’s too bad none of them will live long enough to enjoy the fruits of their labor.”
Eric scowled. The damn man sounded far too disgustingly pleased by the prospect of all those deaths. “Murdering an entire production line of people is bound to raise questions.”
Another laugh, only this time the derision was directed at Eric. “There will be a hell of a lot more questions after the bombs go off and take out most of the earth’s population, don’t you think?”
Good point.
Eric turned to look out over the bay. He should save one of the devices for Cannes.
This place would be even more peaceful once they’d washed away most of humanity. Hell, maybe he should hold off on making an offer on this place.
He could probably pick it up for a penny on the million in four months’ time.
Chapter Six
AMY’S PACE SLOWED to a crawl as she walked to the apartment she shared with the boys. It had taken seven endless hours to fly back to Shadow Mountain on the Jayhawk. Seven hours of replaying the events at Clay’s house over and over in her mind.
She’d hit him. Not once, not twice, but four times.
In her last exchange with him, she’d hit him. And then he’d died.
As she’d done for the entirety of the long trip home, she waited for the shame to rise, for the grief to swallow her. But neither emotion stirred. His betrayal, what he’d done to her sons, had burned away whatever feelings she’d had for him.
All she had left were questions. When had he turned into a monster? How could she not have noticed? For God’s sake, her eleven-ye
ar-old son had recognized the monster in Clay. Mac, who’d met him—what? Once? Twice? He’d recognized the rot as well.
Yet she hadn’t seen it until it was too late.
Trying to relax, she kept walking. It was 10:00 a.m. Benji and Brendan would be up, full of breakfast, awaiting her arrival.
Her head started to throb. A chaotic jumble of panic, anger, and helplessness pressed against her chest.
What are you going to tell them?
Benji would hammer her with his rapid-fire questions and a full-blown account of everything that had happened that morning.
Her steps slowed even further.
Marion would question her with grave eyes and carefully nuanced conversation in an interrogation every bit as effective as the techniques used in the FBI.
Her breathing started to hitch.
And Brendan . . . Her feet fell still. Her oldest wouldn’t ask anything. No, he’d simply watch her instead with those ancient, dark eyes. Which, of the three reactions, was by far the worst.
How could she tell them that she’d failed in her quest? That Clay had died and taken to the grave with him the key to neutralizing the isotope?
She couldn’t. At least not yet.
She needed a few moments of quiet. A silent haven to process what had happened, to come to terms with Clay’s betrayal and death, and to accept her total failure at saving her sons. She needed a safe harbor.
Her feet started moving again but not toward her apartment. When Mac’s door appeared in her line of sight, she wasn’t surprised. Her subconscious had known what she needed long before her rational mind.
He already knew what had happened, so he wouldn’t ask questions. And after that oh-so-awkward attempt at comforting her in the car, he’d avoid that land mine too. Although . . . there had been something sweet about his bumbling attempt to soothe her.
The man constantly surprised her.
When she reached Mac’s door, she squared her shoulders and gave it a good rap. It opened immediately. His short hair was wet and tufted, and there were damp patches on his olive T-shirt, as though he’d just stepped out of the shower and dressed without drying off.
“Am I interrupting?”
He scanned her face and shrugged. “I’m headed out to grab some grub.”
Something must have registered on her face because he suddenly frowned. “Or—” He stepped back, pulling the door open in a silent invitation to enter. “I can fry up some bacon and a couple of eggs.”
He turned and headed for the counter in the far corner of the room, with its hot plate and coffeepot.
“Where did you get bacon and eggs?” She followed him into the room and shut the door behind her.
Instantly the chaos inside her stilled. Her breathing eased. The tension floated away.
“The cafeteria.” He bent to open the minifridge tucked beneath the counter and removed a carton of eggs and a bundle wrapped in white butcher paper. “If you want something, just ask them.”
Amy cocked her head thoughtfully. She suspected that was his motto. If you want something, demand it.
As he unearthed a frying pan, she made her way to the couch and settled against the corner cushion. The minute she sat down, the pressure in her chest faded. Her muscles went soft and pliable. With a silent sigh, she drew her knees to her chest and relaxed against the cushion, absently watching Mac line the pan with strips of bacon.
Her stomach rumbled as the rich scent of frying bacon saturated the air. She inhaled deeply. “According to every nutritionist out there, bacon is terribly unhealthy.”
Such a pity.
He shrugged, expertly turning over the strips. “We all got to check out sometime.”
Which reminded her of Clay, who’d avoided bacon, red meat, and anything linked to health risks and early death. Clay, who’d maintained the healthiest diet and lifestyle of anyone she knew. Clay, who’d checked out at forty-two thanks to a bullet to his brain.
A breath escaped her. A quick huff as disbelief hit again.
“Ah hell.” Mac turned to face her, self-derision on his face. “I’m an ass. Forget I opened my damn mouth.”
There he went, being all sweet again.
Amy smiled up at him. “I’m okay. Really. But you better be careful. I might forget you don’t have a heart.”
He scanned her face intently and then turned back to the hot plate with a rigid cast to his shoulders.
“Believe it or not, I get what you’re going through,” he said quietly as he ripped off a couple of paper towels and covered a plate with them. “I lost a brother too.”
The news caught Amy by surprise. Lifting her head, she stared at him. “You did? How?”
“He was hit by a car.” His shoulders tensed. He stood there for a long time, staring down at the hot plate, before shaking himself. “Happened a long time ago.”
He scooped the bacon onto the plate, drained some of the grease from the pan into an empty coffee mug, and moved on to the carton of eggs.
“How many eggs can you handle?” he asked as he started cracking eggs and dropping them into the skillet.
“Three,” she said, watching him.
He regretted bringing up his brother; she could sense it. But he’d aroused her curiosity. She knew next to nothing about the man, which shouldn’t matter, yet it did.
“How old were you when he died?”
The tightness in his shoulders migrated through the rest of his body. The silence stretched on so long she didn’t think he was going to answer. When he finally did, it was in a flat, measured voice devoid of emotion.
“Ten. Davey was six.”
So young . . . so young to experience such a profound loss. Amy’s heart ached for him. “That must have been rough.”
His shoulders rolled, not quite a shrug but close enough. “I survived.”
Survived? Maybe. But he obviously hadn’t flourished.
“How did your parents handle your brother’s death? If something like that were to happen to Benji or Brendan—God.” Her arms tightened around her knees.
“It won’t, because, unlike my mother, you never put your own pleasure above your children’s welfare.” A grim, lethal fury vibrated through each word.
She froze at the raw ferocity in his voice. Obviously she’d opened an ugly can of worms and stumbled onto the root of his misogyny. Although . . . a true misogynist wouldn’t treat her the way he did. Would he?
Mac slid three surprisingly fluffy eggs onto a clean plate.
Backing away from the tension and bad memories inherent in their conversation, she turned to a new, more innocuous subject. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He avoided her eyes as he transferred the remaining three eggs to a second plate. “I’ve been cooking since I was a kid. Bacon and eggs were a main staple.”
Amy mulled that over. What had he been like as a kid? Serious? Grim? When had the cynicism that rode him like a protective skin taken shape? Had Davey’s death hardened him into the skeptic he was today?
Information he’d not part with easily . . . if at all. Mac was about as closed off as a person could be. Maybe that was the attraction. He was such an enigma—a dynamic combination of tenderness and rage.
“Don’t forget the bacon,” Amy said.
“That’s my girl.” He shot her a forced grin and split the bacon between the two plates. After adding a fork, he handed one to Amy.
His girl.
She mulled over her surprisingly amenable reaction to that turn of phrase.
They ate in companionable silence and then washed the plates and skillet in perfect step. Once the dishes were air-drying on the towels she’d laid out, Amy retreated to the couch. She was full, plus exhaustion was settling in, but she wasn’t ready to go home. Wasn’t ready to look into Brendan’s eyes and admit she’d failed him. Twice. It had been her job to protect him from monsters—both real and imaginary—but the worst monster of all had had free access to her home, to her children.
How had she not realized what Clay had become?
“I was five when Mom married Dad. Clay was seven. He was small for his age; so was I. We both had red hair. We looked so much alike we could have been siblings. Mom said it was a sign, proof we were meant to be a family.”
Mac frowned, an uneasy expression crossing his face. As though he could sense the turbulence in her measured words and wasn’t sure how to calm the waters.
“He was a quiet kid. Eager. Always trying to please. But nothing he did was good enough for Dad. If Clay hit a double, he got, ‘Why wasn’t it a home run?’ If he got a B on a test, it was, ‘Why wasn’t it an A?’ Life for Clay was a constant stream of ‘You gotta try harder, son. You gotta give more.’ Eventually he simply stopped trying. He gave up sports. Only did what he had to in school.” She caught his flat expression and blew out an exasperated breath. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m still making excuses for him . . . I’m not, honestly. I’m just—” She broke off.
Just what? Explaining? Justifying? Trying to pinpoint how her brother had turned into a monster without her noticing?
“Was he like that with you? Your dad?” Mac asked, leaning a hip against the counter and crossing his arms across his chest. He looked like a man who was super uncomfortable but determined not to show it.
“No. That was part of the problem, I think. I was good at sports. Good at school. Everything came easy to me. Dad would hold me up as this shining example of success while Clay always came up short.”
Maybe that’s why Clay had hated her. When had the frustration and hurt in Clay’s eyes turned to something darker? When had her brother shifted from a demoralized child to a cold-blooded monster? How could she have missed that ugly metamorphosis?
Scowling, Mac pushed himself away from the counter. “What Purcell did, what he became, was not your fault. He chose his path. He’s responsible for that choice, where it took him, and what it turned him into.”
She laughed, a tight ironic chuckle without humor. “You sound like Dad. He’s big on personal responsibility too.”
The two men had other things in common as well. Like intense loyalty to their small circle of family and friends. Like a core of impenetrable honor. Their inclination to do the right thing, no matter what it cost them. Their sheer stubbornness. No matter how often they got knocked down, they’d come back up swinging. They didn’t know how to give up.
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