by Gennita Low
Conor listened, and couldn’t help smiling, even though any movement felt like someone was ripping the skin off his face. “I like it when you talk sexy,” he said. “So this is goodbye, huh, Kitty? I know you got to care a little to risk coming here before slipping away. If you didn’t, you’d have just disappeared.”
“Shut up! I love you. I told you I do. Our kind of life isn’t supposed to be long and boring, you know. I’m a woman who likes trouble and danger, remember? I’ll miss you.”
“Are you so sure I’m going to die? Maybe I’ll live.”
“Seamus brought back a whip last night.”
“Shit.” That didn’t sound promising.
“Conor.” There was a plea in her voice. “I can’t kill you. I don’t want you in pain, but I can’t kill you. Not like this. And I can’t watch him kill you either.”
“I understand.” What was he supposed to say? Don’t leave him here to die alone? “Kitty, you should go.”
“I have another reason to get away quickly. I’m pregnant.”
Conor blinked, not even sure he heard right. Shock wasn’t close to what he was feeling. Pregnant? “Mine?” he asked.
“I think so, but maybe not.” He could almost feel her shrug, that casual lift of the shoulder that was so Kitty. “But that’s not the point. Seamus will think it’s yours and if he thinks it is, he’ll do things to me that would make me very, very unhappy about life, and I don’t think that suits my style at all.”
“Maybe he’ll marry you,” Conor whispered, still feeling dazed.
“And would you want your child brought up by Seamus?”
“Fuck. No. Fuck. I can’t be a father. I’m not old enough!”
“Now he thinks sperm understands age and timing,” Kitty said dryly. “On his deathbed no less. Conor, I know you’re very young, but you aren’t stupid, even if Seamus might have beaten your brains to molasses. I love you and I’m keeping this baby in case it’s yours, so I have to go. Do you understand that?”
“But where will you go?” He didn’t want to die now. Kitty was pregnant. Who was going to feed the baby? The poor thing would start life like him, without a loving father. Let’s face it, Kitty wasn’t exactly loving mother material. “You’ve got to get me out of here so we can get married so the baby has a name.”
He heard her little gasp of shock, as if his words were totally unexpected. “Conor, be realistic. You’re half-dead right now. We can’t run off without getting ourselves killed the moment we step out of this room together. Daniel will be knocking on the door soon anyway. Look, I just didn’t want you to die not knowing I love you and that maybe you’re going to be a father.”
“Kitty, your brand of charm does wonders to a dying man,” he told her. In his own way, he did love this woman and wanted her to get out of this alive. In another, it pained him that she would just give up on him so easily. He was only half-dead, after all. “Well, if you must go, marry me here. We’ll just say the words with God as our witness, so the baby will grow up having a nice last name like McNeil.”
“You’re…not kidding, are you?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
That was his Kitty. Always quick with decisions. Always liking anything that bordered on crazy.
He couldn’t remember the correct wording of the marriage vows. He made most of them up, and she helped him with her version. She held his hand tightly as she repeated after him.
“Honor, obey…well, protect is out…”
“Just repeat it, Kitty love.”
“Protect,” she said. “I love you. I’ll protect our baby.”
“And now we’re man and wife till death do us part.” He was messing up the lines but the “death do us part” bit was coming soon anyway. “Where will you take our baby?”
“To live with my mother.”
“Seamus?”
“Won’t know. I’m not from Ireland, you know. And the Irish business is too busy to look in a small village in Malaysia.”
“All right. But do me a favor after you leave.”
“What?”
Could he trust Kitty? He had to take the chance. “Call a number and leave a message for me.”
“What message?”
“After the recording, just say, ‘Conor’s alive’ and the date.” It was probably too late to do what McGuy told him he must do in the event plans didn’t go smoothly. With their inside man dead, why would the CIA care about a boy like him? And how would they know where to find him? And would they even be on time? But a dying man had few choices and one chance. “Leave the location too, Kitty.”
There was a pause. “You are CIA!”
Conor lifted one shoulder. “Nah. But like you, I have contacts too. It’d be nice to think I might come out of this alive so I can find you, Kitty. I won’t—” a wracking cough interrupted him, “—abandon my child.”
She kissed him. Softly, so as not to hurt him.
“You’re a really sweet boy. And with a noble streak that’s not quite real. I can take care of myself, you know, but I’ll do this. If this is your only chance, I’ll give it to you. Knowing that I’ve tried to save you will make it less painful for me.”
“Getting romantic, are we?” Conor asked. Kitty would always be Kitty, no matter what. There wasn’t an ounce of sappiness in that lass. He whispered the number in her ear. “Did you get that?”
She repeated it back softly in his. “Right?”
“Right. Say it again.”
When she was gone, Conor stared up at the darkness. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. He was a father. For the first time in a long time, he prayed to live to see the baby.
***
The front door exploded. Everyone ran for cover.
Everyone except him, of course, because he was hung with his face flattened against the wall. He could barely turn his head to see what was happening; it hurt too much. He smelled fire and heard the gunshots and shouts all around him. Several holes punctured the wall against which he was leaning and he felt bits of plaster splattering him.
A body slammed against the wall right next to him. It was Seamus, blood gushing from a wound in his neck. His head turned and his startled eyes stared into Conor’s.
An hour ago, those eyes had been glinting with malevolent satisfaction. He had pulled Conor up by the hair so he could look into his swollen eyes before telling him, “Today, boy, I’ll see you dead.”
Conor met the wild terror of the man who had whipped him to an inch of his life. He was making gurgling noises, hand grasping at his bloody throat.
“Not if I see you dead first.” Conor forced those words out, grunting more than speaking.
And then the gunfire stopped. There were people walking about but he couldn’t see anything from his position. Maybe they thought he was dead. Maybe they were leaving without him. He forced his head to move, so he could look behind him. A horrendous groan came out of him as excruciating pain burned his whole back. He dug his nails into the wall, continuing to turn his head.
The first thing he saw must have been a hallucination. Or maybe he had died after all.
“McGuy,” Conor croaked out. The man standing behind him looked exceptionally healthy for an assassinated man. If he were dead, he should look like hell too since he was gunned down and firebombed to pieces. He added, unnecessarily, “You’re not dead.”
The man shook his head. His hands reached up to cut the ropes binding Conor to the wall. Everything went black.
Someone was moaning. He didn’t want anyone to touch his back.
All at once Conor realized that he was the one making that horrible racket. He couldn’t struggle against the strong hands hurting him, carrying him away. Everywhere they touched felt like a brand of fire.
“Son, I don’t know how you lived through this. I’m here. You’re safe. We’re going to give you a shot to put you to sleep because you’re not in any condition to travel without any drugs. Okay?”
“Kitty—”
&nb
sp; “We got the message. She’s a bright girl, is our Kitty. She’s gone and is okay.”
“Where—”
“We’ll talk later. On the plane. We’re taking you to the States.”
Conor felt the drug working and welcomed the release from the pain.
“Promise me you’ll take care of her, McGuy. She’s pregnant. I…must…find… make sure…find where…my kid…I don’t want to die…”
“Hush now.”
Conor reached out blindly and found a hand holding his own swollen one. “Promise. My child,” he mumbled. He couldn’t really form any coherent thoughts. All he knew was that he had something important to do. He must find something. Finally, he gave in to the drug. “My father hated me.”
Before he passed out, he heard McGuy say, “I promise. We’ll do all we can to find her, Conor.” A sigh. “Poor damn kid. Look at what that fucking monster did to his back.”
About the Author
Gennita Low is known as the roofer/author whose bestselling novels feature sexy spies and action-packed military espionage. She can kill six hundred different ways with a nail gun. She's been known to run a job, yell at men, throw bundles of shingles around AND edit a manuscript all at the same time. A three-time RWA Golden Heart finalist and winner of numerous writing awards, Gennita was a translator in a former life, enabling her to scold her workers in Malay, Chinese and German. She's also the beloved prisoner of her four mutant Pomeranians. Virtually Hers is her eighth published title.
Look for these titles by Gennita Low
Coming Soon:
Virtually One
Enjoy this sneak peek of the conclusion to Gennita Low’s Virtually Trilogy
Virtually One
Releasing Spring 2010
“He’s been at this for two hours now. Go talk to him,” Dr. Kirkland said.
Alex Diamond looked down from the observation center, its Plexiglas muting the sounds coming from the workout area. He watched as Jed methodically disposed of four “assailants,” using more force than necessary and not adhering to the usual protocol of a practice session. In short, he was pounding the shit out of whoever was unfortunate enough to be on the workout list for today. A number of them had been curious enough to try to take on one of the commandos in the elite “Virus” team. A few, he noted, had heard that Jed was on a rampage and were wise enough not to show up.
“You have to do something,” Dr. Kirkland continued, a note of desperation entering his voice as Alex continued his silence. “That’s his fourth group. The injury list is growing.”
“He seemed to be taking care of himself,” Alex observed, although he understood what Dr. K meant.
“I don’t want to see my medic rooms filled with unnecessary patients, Alex. He broke Carrington’s arm. He knocked Jackson out. It’s time for someone to intervene before he does someone serious injury. He won’t listen to me.”
“What makes you think he’d listen to me?” Alex murmured, not taking his eyes off his friend. “He might not be in the mood to talk, you know. Hell being in a coma and him not being allowed in there with her is the probable cause of his current state of misery.”
He was amused at the choking sound coming from Dr. Kirkland, and even though he didn’t turn his head, he could imagine the good doctor’s stare of incredulity. Jed’s current mood was the talk of Center and misery wasn’t the word used to describe it.
“Anger doesn’t solve the current crisis, and I doubt you want me to send T. to him. She’d likely just taunt him to fight her too.”
That brought Alex’s attention sharply to Dr. Kirkland. There was no way he would allow T. to fight Jed, but that was exactly what she’d do because T., being who she was, would want to take on Jed in his current vulnerable condition. And Jed was vulnerable right now, showing how much he cared for the woman lying in an induced-coma in Medic Room E.
“You haven’t asked her to go down there,” he stated, just to make sure.
Dr. Kirkland shook his head. “She’s my next choice if you refuse. You’re his closest friend, Alex. All those years you were out in the cold, he protected you and took care of your personal business, as well as making sure the Center ran smoothly enough that the Committee listened to him to give you time alone outside.”
“So you’re saying it’s time to pay him back?” Alex asked, a bit more harshly than he’d intended. His friend, after all, had finally tricked him into returning to Center by using bait in the form of a woman named T.
Dr. Kirkland shook his head again as he gave Alex a long look. “I’m saying it’s time to be a friend.”
***
Jed looked up when Alex walked into the training room, finishing off an “opponent” with a back kick. He straightened, then after a moment, lifted his hand, palm out, and wiggled his fingers, beckoning Alex in mocking challenge.
“I’ve been sent here to talk to you,” Alex said calmly. He hadn’t seen Jed in this kind of rage in a long time.
“Not going to happen. Fight me or get out.”
“We’re running out of bodies.”
“Then you ought to stay and give me a bit of a challenge. Why hesitate? You’ve wanted to since you returned.”
It was true. Jed’s manipulation these past few months had seriously tempted Alex to punch the daylights out of his friend. Or attempt to, anyway. Alex took several steps forward, gave a sideways glance at the remaining operatives in the room, and issued an order. “Get out.”
A few picked up the injured and started to leave. A few lingered, reluctant to miss out on what could be the greatest duel at COMCEN. It wasn’t every day that two of the top Viruses went all out at each other. Shahrukh and Sullivan’s swordfights were events to behold, but to have Number One against Number Nine? That was like taking picks for a game of fantasy death match.
When the door closed, Alex said, “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“And you’re an expert at not blaming yourself, of course.”
Damn him. He would bring his own past out to bait him. “Hell isn’t dead, Jed. You haven’t lost her yet.”
“I’m not mourning her,” Jed said. “Come, let’s start this. I have a dictionary to read in an hour or so. I’ll be sure to pick out the right words for you then. Mourning more befits you than me.”
His demeanor had turned bored but Alex wasn’t fooled. It was Jed at his deadliest, when he could slash open wounds with words and actions. Everything he was throwing at Alex was meant to eviscerate his good intention, not to fight him. He understood that too well—the need to hurt so he could be hurt back—and Jed was looking for someone to tell him it was his fault. Sympathy only angered him, as it had for Alex, all those years ago, when he lost his wife.
He shook his head. “I’m trying to be your friend.”
Jed’s smile was nasty. “Trying? Let’s do better than that, shall we?”
And he leapt forward for the first strike.
Blood ties run deepest—and deadliest.
Proof of Life
© 2009 Misty Evans
Super Agent Series, Book 3
No matter how many times he patches the holes in the wall, CIA Deputy Director Michael Stone can’t forget the night a terrorist took him hostage in his own home. Or the mistakes that transformed him into an overwhelming force to keep his country safe. And now that his niece, the daughter of the Republican candidate for President, has been kidnapped just days from the election, Michael vows to do whatever it takes to get her back.
Dr. Brigit Kent, a consultant for the Department of Homeland Security, knows this particular kidnapper well. Exposing him, however, will reveal her sister’s secret ties to a terrorist group. The only way to keep her sister safe is to blackmail the sexy, rock-solid deputy director. A move that puts her directly in his line of fire.
Brigit is undeniably beautiful, brilliant, cunning. But is she friend or foe? The answer to that question could break Michael’s personal code of honor—and his heart.
Warning: Bullets and blackmail, good luck and laughter. Surprises and secrets and love ever after…
Enjoy the following excerpt for Proof of Life:
Brigit’s pulse hopscotched under her skin. Not because Michael had mentioned her father or offered to take out most of her problems in one grand slam. It was the way he was holding her and looking down at her, like a kid with a secret so big, he was ready to burst.
In the hospital, he’d made the emotional walls between them fall like they were constructed of thin sticks. She’d confessed too much and now wondered if he felt the same way.
Yet, if there was any awkwardness, she couldn’t tell from the way he was hugging her against his body. His beautiful, powerful, hard body ignited a hunger inside her. All her anger, frustration and common sense dissolved like the Irish fog when it met sunlight.
As his eyes, devilish with amusement, invited her to ask about his plan, she tried to unscramble her brain. A nanosecond later, she gave up. Forget the plan. “I think I want to kiss you.”
Michael’s intensity ratcheted up a notch and Brigit had to remind herself to breathe. They stared at each other for a long moment, his gaze as intimate as the hand stroking her spine. “Now that’s the kind of thanks I was hoping for.”
She moved on him, going up on her toes and sliding her hands up his broad shoulders and solid neck to pull his face down to hers. Without resistance, he matched her boldness, taking her mouth with the same self-confidence he did everything else.
A knock made her jump back out of his arms. Conrad Flynn’s voice was muffled through the door. “We’re going to get food. You coming?”
The predatory look in Michael’s eyes made Brigit swallow hard and take another step backwards. The set of his jaw, the way he stalked toward her as he answered, continued to cause havoc with her pulse. “Bring us something back.”