Gabe shut down the engines and shoved open the cockpit door.
When the woman saw him, she clapped her hands in delight and started running toward him.
When she reached him, she threw her arms around him, pressing all of her perfect pristine beauty against his grubby combat gear. And she didn’t seem to mind at all.
His arms linked around her waist as she leaned back, bracketed his face with her hands and studied him. Like he was the world and she’d been lost without him.
“Hum,” Jenna said and Amy couldn’t help but notice that one syllable had an air of grumpiness to it.
Interesting.
But more interesting was the woman’s reaction when Gave hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the plane.
The woman released him immediately and hurried toward them.
“You have a wounded man,” she said in perfect but beautifully accented English. “I’m Juliana Flores. I’m a doctor.” She gave Amy a reassuring smile. “Come. We need to get him inside.”
“Some digs.” Carrying one of the briefcases, Jenna wandered out to a covered patio with a breathtaking view of the ocean.
Amy turned away from the intricately designed cement rail when she heard her. “And then some.”
It had been at least three hours since they’d landed. The late afternoon sun had dropped behind the huge monolith of a house, leaving the patio in the shade and the sea breeze to cool them.
“How’s Dallas?”
“Sleeping,” Amy said, and joined Jenna where she’d dropped down at a marble patio table in the shade. “But I think it’s only because she gave him a sedative with his antibiotics.”
“Slipped him a Mickey, huh?”
Amy grinned. “Seemed like the only way he was going to stay down. So…how are you doing?”
Jenna made a humph of a sound. “Fine and dandy.”
Yeah. As fine and dandy as a person could be who had just survived a bloodbath.
Amy looked back toward the ocean. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Solace, maybe. A little peace. A lot of perspective.
Edward Walker was dead.
She could no longer think of him as her grandfather. Or bemoan the fact that Dallas had been the one to end his reign of terror.
Much of the last year of her life had been searching for him. Her whole purpose in life had been to confront him and make him atone for the sins he’d committed. Yet somewhere deep inside, she understood that she had harbored some small kernel of hope that she’d been wrong. That he hadn’t done what he’d done. That it was all a horrible, horrible mistake.
No mistake.
Edward Walker—Aldrick Reimers—was a monster.
A cruel and twisted man.
And now he was dead.
Yet instead of triumphant, she felt hollow. Instead of victorious, all she felt was empty.
“Do you think they’re lovers?”
It took a moment for Jenna’s question to register, then to detach from her own thoughts.
Amy breathed deep of the clean sea air. “Haven’t decided. There’s a lot of affection there. Almost seems maternal on her part, though.”
Juliana Flores did indeed hold a great deal of affection for Gabriel Jones. And he for her. When he looked at her, more than fondness filled his eyes. There was sadness. And he seemed almost hesitant to accept the attention she lavished on him. Like he wasn’t deserving.
Interesting.
But then, Juliana Flores, Amy had discovered, lavished attention on everyone. She and Jenna had been shown to private suites, each with their own sitting room and bathroom. Once Amy was certain Dallas had the medical attention he needed and he wasn’t going to lose an arm or a leg or have permanent damage—and Juliana had proven to be an efficient and knowledgeable physician—Amy had succumbed to the lure of the huge marble bathtub. Shampoos, soaps, lotions…anything she needed had been provided in sumptuous and extravagant amounts.
And when she’d finally dragged her limp body out of the tub, fresh fruit, cheeses and sweet breads had been waiting for her. Along with new clothes: a soft butter-yellow peasant blouse, a colorful flowing skirt. Slip-on sandals.
“Do you think these are hers?” Jenna asked, lifting a fold of the skirt she wore. Her peasant blouse was green. Her skirt a brilliant floral print.
Amy lifted a shoulder. “Maybe she keeps things on hand for drop-in guests.”
“Makes you wonder how often Jones ‘drops’ in unannounced.”
Yeah, it made a person wonder. And wonder about Jones. Juliana Flores most definitely brought out a different side of the man.
He was softer around her. Almost gentle.
“She’s older than I’d first thought,” Jenna mused aloud as she opened up one of the briefcases they’d found in the downed chopper. “Older than she looks, I’ll bet. Maybe very late forties. Early fifties. Jones might be one of those men who have a thing for older women.”
“You know what’s interesting?”
Jenna glanced her way as she dragged a sheath of papers from the leather case. “What?”
“That you seem to have developed an interest in Jones’ love life.”
Jenna grunted—a “get real” sound.
“You’ve got a thing for him, don’t you?”
Jenna looked at her like she’d grown another head.
“Oh, come on. Admit it,” Amy said. “You’re attracted to him.”
“You get hit on the head this morning? Have a mini-stroke on takeoff? Because you’re not thinking straight,” Jenna insisted. “He’s a bully and a bore. He’s crude and rude and suffers from the biggest lord-and-master complex I’ve ever seen.”
Yeah, Amy thought, Jenna definitely had a thing for Jones.
She sat there several moments longer, needing a little time to simply decompress before she went to check on Dallas. Jenna was quiet too as she rifled through the contents of the briefcase.
Instead of decompressing, however, she found herself reliving the horror at the compound, alternately thinking about her mother. Wishing, always wishing things could have been different.
Wondering what would happen between her and Dallas when they returned to the States. He had feelings for her, she knew that. He couldn’t have made love to her the way he had if he didn’t. And he’d been so tender, so tuned in to her needs in those few hours before they’d staged the assault.
Since then, it had been all tension and danger and concern. They hadn’t talked. There hadn’t been any opportunity. Maybe now there would be.
“I think I’ll go check on Dallas,” she said abruptly, suddenly needing to see him.
Jenna mumbled an absent “okay,” her nose buried in the papers.
Amy hadn’t made it ten feet into the house when Jenna’s voice stopped her.
“Shit! Holy, holy shit.” Jenna flew out of the patio chair, gathered the papers and shoved them back into the case. Her eyes were wild with urgency as she hustled into the house. “Where’s Jones? He’s got to see this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jenna and Amy rushed into Dallas’ room, damn near blowing the door of its hinges.
“Where’s Jones?”
Startled, Juliana rose from the side of the bed, where she’d been taking Dallas’ blood pressure. “He’s in my study.”
Dallas glanced at Amy, who shook her head, indicating she didn’t know what was up.
“I need to talk to him,” Jenna said, her voice filled with urgency. “He needs to see this right away.”
“I’ll go get him.” Juliana hurried out of the room, reacting to Jenna’s agitation.
“What’s happening?” Dallas asked as Jenna scurried over to a Queen Anne table that sat near the window.
She dropped the briefcase on the table, selected some of the papers and held them out to him. “Read this.”
The bed dipped slightly as Amy sat down beside him and started reading over his shoulder.
“Oh, my God,” Amy said after several minut
es. She looked up at Jenna, who paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.
Jones and Juliana walked in just then. Jones scanned the grim faces in the room and scowled. “What?”
“The compound. It was just the tip of the iceberg.” Amy handed the pages to Jones. “Look at this. It’s like MC6’s mission statement or doctrine or something.”
Jones read in silence while Jenna practically bounced off the walls.
“In a nutshell,” Jenna preempted impatiently as Jones continued to scan the documents, “it says that MC6 cells have infiltrated every democratic nation in the world, that the network is wide and invincible—their words,” she added when Jones scowled at her.
“We’re aware of that,” Jones said.
“Fine, fine. Look at the second page.”
Again, Jenna paraphrased for everyone while Jones came up to speed. “Adler, Walker and the witch doctor—they were merely regional heads. They answered to bigger fish. Fish so big they aren’t named, only alluded to.”
“And?”
“Read the fourth page,” Dallas said. “In addition to using their ‘programmed’ victims as assassins, this says they’ve programmed several others to use as mules to transport drugs.”
Gabe nodded. “We’ve known for a long time that they’ve been running high-dollar heroin and cocaine traffic.”
Jenna reached for the papers, searched until she found what she was looking for. “It points to facilities in the Philippines and Malaysia where they broker the bulk of the weaponry that finds its way into the hands of the jihadists.”
Jones snagged the paper from her hand. Scanned it. “Can’t believe they wrote this down. We’ve been trying to pinpoint these facilities for years. We’ve known for a long time that MC6 has been a major supplier.”
“More radicals, more guns—more money for MC6.” Dallas looked weary.
“And of course, an ultimate long-term goal of resurrecting a new Nazi regime from the ashes of the war between democracy and jihad,” Jenna said, paraphrasing again. “God, these people are delusional.”
“Dangerously so. This is what you need to see,” Dallas said, handing Jones another sheet. “They have a plan in the works. Involves the deployment of twenty programmed assassins. Several respected Muslim religious leaders in the Middle East are targeted. Guess who’s going to get the blame for their assassinations?”
Jones lifted his head. “The U.S. and its allies. That’s a given.”
“For what reason?” A worried frown creased Amy’s brow.
“To circumvent and undermine and progress on ongoing peace efforts,” Jones concluded. “If they pull this off, there will be an upsurge of radical terrorist acts that’ll make anything they’ve done to date pale in comparison.”
“An escalated ‘holy’ war.” Dallas looked grave.
“And the motive?” Amy asked.
Gabe grunted. “What’s always the motive? Money. Power.”
Dallas stroked his chin. “So they figure that once we kill each other off or the superpowers have been so depleted by the devastation and economic costs of warfare—”
“They’ll have easy pickings,” Jones finished.
Amy shook her head. “This is insane.”
“Of course it’s insane,” Jenna agreed. “But they don’t think so. And the God’s honest truth is, even if they fail, if they aren’t brought under control, and soon, they’re still going to create some major havoc.”
“Twenty assassins.” Dallas glanced at Jones. “And we found the bodies of how many victims at the compound? Fifteen?”
Jones nodded. “Many of them children.”
“Which means,” Dallas said, “they must have moved the assassins out before we got there. Presumably to set the plan in motion.”
“I’ve got to make some calls.” Gabe glanced at Juliana.
“There’s a secure line in my office.”
“Who’s he going to call?” Jenna asked as both Jones and Juliana hurried out of the room.
“My guess? The State Department,” Dallas said. “Someone he trusts, in any event.”
“You mean someone who won’t dismiss what he has to say as the ravings of a rogue agent?” Jenna speculated.
“Someone,” Dallas said, “who can get some very big balls rolling. Someone who can make certain that within the next few hours an international man-hunt for twenty programmed assassins will be on the ground and on the trail.”
You could have had your dinner in bed, you know.”
“That wasn’t a dinner. That was a feast,” Dallas said, hobbling into his room with Amy at his side.
Juliana had said they needed a celebration. Of life. Of the good they’d done. And in thanks for Gabe’s contact in the State Department, who mobilized on the information Gabe had given him without hesitation.
The baton had been passed. Someone else would be dealing with the fallout. Who that someone was, Dallas didn’t know. Most likely, no one ever would. The MC6 problem would be quietly handled. Like most terrorist threats were quietly handled. He seriously doubted there would ever be so much as a newspaper headline about the foiled plot.
Dallas still wasn’t certain where Jones fell in the chain for national security. But he was fairly certain Jones was no longer working in an “official” capacity for the CIA. The Company stretched the limits on their covert activities, but what they’d done at El Bolson was reaching, even for them.
Private contractor, he guessed. Part of an organization that was a law unto themselves, paid by the U.S. government, who would disavow their existence if their cover was ever blown.
These men did the dirtiest of the dirty jobs. Took the biggest risks. Like Gabe, many of them were ex-CIA, or ex–special ops. Seals, Delta, Force Recon, Rangers and Special Forces. Men used to violence, who lived for adrenaline, but deep down, were patriots.
Juliana Flores…Dallas didn’t know where she fit in to the mix. A humanitarian, certainly. A covert operative? Or merely a sympathizer? Only one thing was certain. She and Jones had a bond that went beyond the normal working relationship.
He caught a crutch on the edge of a lush rug covering the cool marble floor, swore when he stumbled.
“This is what I’m talking about,” Amy said, fussing. “You’re not ready to be out of bed yet.”
Dallas wrestled with the crutches and eased down on the side of the mattress. “The day I can’t sit up at a table and eat is the day I pack it in.”
God, he hated this. His arm was more of a pain the ass than a real pain. It burned and ached, but it wasn’t really slowing him down. His leg was the problem. He still couldn’t put any weight on it. And, according to Juliana, he needed to stay on the crutches for at least a month, or he’d tear the repairs she’d made and then he’d be looking at surgery.
He eased back onto the pillow, got pissed all over again when he saw the guilt on Amy’s face.
“No.” He held a hand out for her. “Don’t even go there.”
But it was too late. Had been too late the moment he’d gone down in the compound. She blamed herself. And he couldn’t bear that weight of her guilt anymore.
“Come here.” At his urging, she climbed up on the bed, folded herself against his shoulder. Stretched out beside him.
And said nothing.
She didn’t have to. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
He cupped her head in his hand, loved the feel of her sleek, silky hair beneath his fingers. The slender warmth of her body against his. And knew he could get used to it.
Strike that. He could not get used to it. But he could set her straight.
“Amy, listen to me. What I do. The choices I make. They’re mine. Only mine. The consequences of those decisions—mine.
“Mine,” he repeated when she sighed heavily. “No one else’s.”
Silence. Only the warm wetness of her tears dampening his shirt.
It broke his heart. He hugged her hard. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.
You’ve been shot. You could have died. You can spin it any way you want, but if it weren’t for me—”
“If it weren’t for you,” Dallas interrupted, “some very bad men with some very bad plans would still be doing very bad things to innocent people.
“If it weren’t for you,” he repeated, whispering into her hair, “no one would have known what was in the works at MC6. If it weren’t for you,” he said again for emphasis, “several Muslim clerics would be sitting ducks right now instead of alerted to the threat and there would be no one on the hunt for the assassins.
“Amy…do you think—do you actually think I could have lived with myself if I’d turned my back and let you come here by yourself? If I’d missed an opportunity to be a part of something that made a difference? We made a difference. How many people can say that?”
She was silent for a long moment. Sniffed. “I didn’t come here with any great humanitarian mission in mind. I came here for retribution.”
“You came here to right a wrong. You did that. And so much more.”
She lifted her head, gazed at him through lashes heavy with tears. Her next words confirmed that her anguish went far beyond her misguided sense of responsibility for his injuries.
“He should…he should have protected her. Should have…loved her.”
She broke down then, let the tears fall in earnest. Tears she needed to shed, tears she’d held for too long.
“He should have…loved…me.”
“Yes,” he whispered as he drew her close against him and held her while she finally gave herself permission to fall apart. “He should have.”
In that moment Dallas wished he could kill the bastard, Walker, all over again. He’d make it take longer this time. He’d make him suffer for the hell he’d put Amy through.
Yeah. Walker should have loved her.
And Dallas couldn’t.
If he’d learned nothing else, he’d learned that he couldn’t love Amy Walker.
She deserved more.
She deserved someone who could bring light into her life. All he could offer her was more darkness. Action, exhaustion, adrenaline—they’d all acted as buffers against the flashbacks during the past forty-eight hours. But they’d be back. They’d be back with a vengeance, and with them the black holes that could suck him in for days on end.
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