by Cherry Adair
"I'm sure they are." Her eyes darkened as she searched his face before asking quietly, "Is this a suicide mission, Ash?"
"Asked and answered."
"Asking again. You're going to blow up an entire fucking mountain, and you can barely walk. How far are you going to go into the mine? How much time have you allowed yourself to get out? Or is your strategy to go in and not come out?"
"I know what I'm doing."
"That wasn't the question."
"I'm not suicidal." I'm a fatalist, and up until a few days ago, I didn't give a flying fuck if I made it out alive or not. Now, though-- "My job's dangerous. There are inherent risks."
"So you play Russian Roulette with your life every time you're in the field."
"I work with explosives, so yeah. But I'm highly skilled, and damn good at my job." None of which answered the fear and worry he saw in her eyes. "I'm going to try my damndest not to die." Knowing that was a promise he couldn't--shouldn't-—make, he curved his hand around her nape and pulled her in for a chaste kiss.
No tongue. No juicy smooch. Dry had never tasted so erotic. He kissed her again the same way, then straightened, gratified to see even that soft brush of lips left her pretty gray eyes a little glazed.
"Hundreds of our best researchers and tech people are following cyber chatter and processing it,” he told her, stroking his thumb up and down the sensitive nerves on the back of her neck, loving the way she shivered at his touch, and the way her head dropped so that her hair curtained her face. He wanted to nibble her there, at the soft slope where her neck met her shoulder, he wanted to lick the rim of her ear where a diamond glittered.
He dared not get started again.
"They'll find one clue, and then another," Daklin said, clearing the lust from his throat, and removing his hand from temptation. "Time's running out. We have eyes on Xavier twenty-four-seven. We'll take him at the last second, hoping he'll put in a call to your brother."
Relieved not to be touching her, he stepped back, his body half-turned toward the door. The exit was just yards away. Too bad his feet were still pointed at River. They didn't fucking want to go anywhere.
Thank God, Sullivan was gone. Because, as much as T-FLAC wanted Dr. Sullivan, Daklin didn't want to be the one to kill him if push came to shove. That was a mark his conscience would never recover from, right up there with killing his own brother.
"He might be on some tropical island sipping a mai-tai right about now." Or manufacturing more E-1x. Better still, he could already be in custody, hopefully spilling his guts.
"From your lips..." Putting a hand on his chest, she leaned in. "We'd better get ready to go down. One kiss before you go."
Daklin shook his head, moving out of reach so her hand dropped to her lap. "Just don't wear that fucking dress."
#
"I'm disappointed you didn't wear the dress I gifted you, my dear." Franco said, sounding more annoyed than disappointed.
River didn't give a rat's ass. No way would she have worn the revealing dress of a daughter Ash claimed Franco didn't have. Instead, she'd opted for a swingy, white dress with a cherry print, fifties-style with a scooped neck, and nice roomy pockets. It was one of her favorites and one of the few things she hadn't packed for Juanita. Tonight she'd paired it with black strappy high heels and pearls to keep the vintage-inspired look. Usually the dress and lingerie made River feel fun and flirty. Tonight, it felt like a misstep.
She should've worn black jeans and a black shirt for her escape later. "It's beautiful, but unfortunately it didn't fit. It's so exquisitely made, you should save it for a future granddaughter to wear."
"As you say."
He was pissed. Too bad, so sad. She forked up a morsel of gooey appetizer, Arepa con Carne y Queso. The melted cheese didn't help the sautéed beef, onions, and peppers go down her constricted throat. She took a sip from her water glass to wash it down, setting her fork on the side of her plate. She couldn't eat tonight. Her stomach was too tied up in knots.
She should've opted to stay in her room, but missing more time with Ash was unacceptable.
Franco’s crisp white shirt, worn open-necked with a light gray suit, dazzled in the candlelight in comparison to the other two men's somber garments. When he wasn't eating, he'd place his hand over his phone, which lay beside his plate. Every now and then, when he thought himself unobserved, he'd nervously touch the blue tooth earpiece hooked over his right ear. Clearly, he was waiting for a call. She wanted to suggest he invest in a freaking operable cell tower. She hadn't been able to get a hold of anyone since talking to her friend Carly the day she'd arrived. But that wasn’t nearly as dangerous as Ash and his men not being able to communicate.
An elderly woman removed their plates. Only Ash had cleaned his. The meal was interminable, yet Ash, wearing his full bishop regalia, appeared perfectly relaxed and engaged in the conversation between Franco and Father Marcus. He gave no indication that he wanted to race out of there. No indication that he was about to put his life in jeopardy. No indication that behind the scenes, his people were attempting to evacuate a hundred civilians from the village right under Franco's nose.
Father Marcus, wearing all black, relieved only by his crisp white clerical collar, seemed tense. River wasn't sure if Franco noticed, or if she did because she knew what was about to happen.
The serving woman returned, bearing salad plates on a big, and clearly heavy, black lacquered tray she could barely carry. Setting the tray down on a nearby table covered with framed photographs, she took two plates at a time and, head bent down, shuffled to the table to deliver them. First to Ash, then Franco, and finally, to Father Marcus and River. She shuffled out without a word.
River stared at her plate as though she'd never seen a salad before. How was she even going to pretend to eat? She stabbed a piece of avocado smothered in raspberry dressing, then slid it off her fork. She tried a slice of tomato next, attributing the tension in the room to Franco. But was she right? Was it Franco who was nervous as they ate their crisp salad? Or was it her own tension making her imagine everyone else at the table was twitchy? Whatever it was, it ratcheted up her nerves even more.
Franco couldn't possibly know that T-FLAC operatives surrounded both Los Santos and the mine by now, or that, within hours, he'd be in custody, and the mine and surrounding area would be blown to hell and gone. He couldn't know. Could he?
She shot a glance across the table at Ash, who was in the middle of a conversation she could barely hear. "—authenticated, will bring believers from all over the world to Los Santos. Something to take into serious consideration."
His head was turned to address Franco, and River had a few moments to drink in his profile. Would she ever have the opportunity to touch him again? Was this the last time she'd see him? God, what a depressing thought.
Depressing or not, that was her reality. Damn it, she missed him already and he was still within arm's reach. Still breathing.
"Whether I authenticate it or not, Franco, you are free to believe in it, even without the Church's approval, as long as the apparition contains nothing to contravene faith or morals. However, having witnessed it myself only twice, I cannot authenticate it, yet." He took several drawn out minutes to spear his salad, eating each bite with apparent relish.
Ash was holding Franco's apparition hostage, using Franco's own vanity.
"It is to be expected,” Father Marcus chimed in. “The Church never gives approval on an apparition without repeated and exhaustive investigation." A glance at his plate showed River that he hadn't touched a bite, either.
Franco watched Ash as if every word falling from his lips was sent from God, his salad ignored. "I understand, Your Excellency. But the Church surely believes there's enough evidence. They sent you."
"Yes, the Church believes there's enough evidence to warrant commitment of its resources to consider your claims. But this is just the starting point of a long investigation." Ash rubbed a finger to his temple, and gave a
small grimace. Of pain?
Having seen his injured leg, he wasn't a man who gave in to discomfort, and if he had a headache, she doubted he'd telegraph that weakness to Franco. "I have explained this." He allowed a little impatience to color his words, surprising River, who'd never seen him lose his cool. Resting her fork on her plate with the speared tomato still on it, she sat up a little straighter.
Ash bit into a carrot. Swallowed, paused. "This cannot happen overnight. I must establish that the facts of the case are error free."
"They are!"
Asher put up his hand and kept talking as if Franco hadn't interrupted. "The person receiving the message must be balanced psychologically. And of course they must be honest, moral, sincere, and respect the authority of the Church."
Franco didn't qualify for any of those, except that last little bit. River picked up her fork and bit into the tomato. Swallowed. It settled like a lump in her stomach.
"Doctrinal errors are not attributed to God, Our Lady, or a saint," Ash told him. "Theological and spiritual doctrines presented have to be error free, and moneymaking is not a motive involved in the events." He took another bite, before he glanced back at his host. "This is delicious. My compliments to the cook."
Then he continued. Beside him, Franco was enraptured. "Be aware: once this information goes public, and it will, there's no way to keep something this big a secret. You will have to prepare for thousands of people to descend into the valley. You will have to provide food and shelter because the faithful will not leave to travel across the mountain to Abad to find housing. Because the apparition is in your home, it will become a holy shrine. People will be lined up to see her, every day. Are you prepared for this, Franco?"
"If you authenticate my apparition, Your Excellency, I will, of course, welcome the faithful and make accommodations for them."
Or more likely keep it a deep, dark, freaking secret and keep it to yourself like all the other freaky stuff that happens in your home.
"Good, then we will continue on this path."
Franco's fingers tightened around the phone on the table beside him, indicating his tension. "Thank you, Your Excellency."
Did he know what was about to happen?
River wished she didn't know, quite frankly, because the knowledge was a hard knot in her throat and made eating the tangy, raspberry dressing drenched salad almost impossible.
The elderly woman took her plate and Marcus’s plate and returned them to the tray on the sideboard. Then she shuffled around the table to clear the other two plates.
"Send Juanita in with the wine. Even encinta, she moves faster than you do, old woman," Franco snapped impatiently as the woman started her return trip with the main course. His foul mood was apparent in his impatient tone, flushed face, and wild eyes. He spent the next few minutes berating her for being a sloth, and God only knew what else, in rapid-fire Spanish as she attempted to serve a steaming chicken and rice dish.
The woman returned the two plates she'd just picked up to the tray, and turned to stand stoically, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. Tears glistened in her eyes as she informed him in almost a whisper that Juanita wasn't well. She was resting.
The cords of Franco's neck distended, and his face flushed. Holy crap, was he about to have a screaming fit?
He motioned her forward to bring the food. "Get one of the men to help you serve the next course. Go. Go." Franco impatiently waved her away, and addressed Ash, sitting beside him. "I apologize, Your Excellency." He cast a cursory glance across the table. "Father, Miss Sullivan. It seems the stomach illness affecting many people in the village has afflicted my household staff as well."
"You didn't give her a chance to serve us," River said, unable to remain quiet a second longer. "I'm sure she was doing her best.”
"My presence makes her nervous," Ash inserted smoothly. "Would you like me to go and reassure her?
"Thank you, Your Excellency, that isn't necessary. She knows she's old and slow. She will try harder, and bring back one of the men to help her serve the next course."
River wanted to lunge across the table and grab the bastard by the throat. Instead, she clasped her fingers beneath the table, and kept her mouth shut. It was as though the very air was filled with invisible gasoline fumes, and one match would ignite the entire polite façade and blow everything to hell and back. She could bite her tongue for another hour.
A few minutes later, the good-looking bodyguard came into the room, and efficiently set a plate before each of them. "Thank you." She gave him a smile. He was a counterterrorist operative, not a freaking waiter.
"De nada, Miss River."
A few minutes after he left, and when she couldn’t stomach the sight of the food any longer, River dropped her napkin on the table and got to her feet. "Excuse me, I need to powder my nose."
The men rose with her. She invited them to return to their seats with a flutter of her hand. "I won't be long. I believe there's a restroom to the left of the foyer?"
"We'll hold dessert for you, my dear."
"I'll be right back." She hadn't been able to meet Ash's eyes during that bullshit with the old lady. Now she desperately wanted to look at him, to memorize his face. It took everything in her to turn around and walk from the dining room.
The bodyguard who'd just served her meal, one of Ash's men, gave her a slight smile as she passed him where he was stationed outside the door. “Thanks for jumping in—-"
"Ram Ortiz."
"Would you cover me for a few minutes? I have--I'm going to—-Just cover me, okay?"
"As long as I don't have to leave my post. Not tonight."
"I understand. Just shout or whistle or something if anyone leaves the dining room."
He smiled. "I'll do my best to alert you."
"Thanks. Oh, and if you're the one clearing the table, I'm done with my meal. This isn't the night to eat, drink, and be merry, is it?"
"It is not."
River hesitated.
He raised a brow. "Anything else?"
She wanted to say, Don't let anything happen to Ash. "No, I'm good." Walking quickly through the living room, she went into the vast entry hall and turned left. Franco's study was beyond the bathroom. Her heart beating a rapid staccato, she ran the last few yards, then slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind her.
Sixteen
Standing in Franco's study in the dark, her heart pounding, and mouth dry, River whispered, "Don't get up from the table. Don't get up from the table."
She heard a sound. Whop-whop-whop. Her heartbeat must be in overdrive. No wait. Whop-whop-whop? No! That was the faint sound of a helicopter!
Who was on it? Was it coming for her and Marcus? If so, how were they going to get out of the hacienda without Franco wanting to know where they were going? Was it big enough to carry everyone left behind? Did they even make a helicopter that size?
Or was T-FLAC sending in people to take Franco right now?
Oh, shit, she didn't know what she was supposed to do.
Breathe. Focus. Make a plan.
First, get the damn photos.
Nervous perspiration prickled her skin. Without turning on the light, she used her phone's light to guide her to the enormous desk.
The helicopter didn't sound as if it was getting closer, but neither did it sound any fainter.
River pulled open the correct drawer. She found the envelope containing the pictures in the back, where she'd last seen it. Debating whether to take the original, or use the phone to take a picture, she chose one of the redhead as an adult to show to Ash when she could.
She took a picture with her phone, then slid one photograph aside to click off a few more. Her fingers shook. It didn't help that she was in a dark room, afraid to turn on the lights, in the hacienda of a sexual predator/terrorist. Or that he was waiting for her to join him for dessert while a helicopter hovered overhead.
When she slipped the phone into her dress pocket, River felt the sharp ed
ge of another piece of paper. Taking it out, she unfolded the scrap of paper, shining the light on it.
Come to Rectory. 11:10 pm. It was signed M.
How the hell, and when, had Marcus slipped the piece of paper into her pocket? Or had Ram done that at some point? Either way, she hadn’t felt anything, which proved T-FLAC operatives, even retired ones, were resourceful.
A glance at an ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel showed it was just after ten o clock. Another hour to wait. They'd have to peel her off the freaking ceiling when the time came.
Exiting Franco's office, she nipped into the bathroom next door with a sigh of relief. River ran her fingers through her hair in lieu of a comb. The strands fell neatly back into place. Even though she'd spent an extra ten minutes doing her makeup, she still looked too pale, and her smoky eyes looked overly dramatic. Instead of giving her the hint of cool glamour that she normally accomplished, the pewter eye shadow and charcoal liner accented her wide-eyed terror.
Only because she wanted to see Ash, did she reluctantly return to the dining room. Her heart sank to see his chair empty. "Where's Bishop Daklin?" Her dinner had been replaced with a bowl of vibrant, orange-colored ice-cream.
"Unfortunately, he had a migraine and had to retire to his room," Franco told her, his tone less than sympathetic. "Luckily, he has his medication with him. I'm extremely disappointed that he won't be able to bear witness if the apparition appears tonight."
"There's always tomorrow." River avoided meeting Father Marcus's eyes. All this lying and subterfuge must weigh heavily on him. And even though he was a former operative, that was no longer what he was. Tonight he looked ten years older than he'd appeared earlier that day.
"She doesn't come every night," Franco said bitterly.
"But I'm sure she'll return. As Bishop Daklin said, you must be patient." River was pretty sure Ash hadn't said anything of the sort, but he could have. She forced a positive and upbeat note into her voice. "Are these your daughters?" she asked, pointing to a nearby buffet table massed with silver framed photographs.