Can You Forget?

by Melissa James

  He injected his leg with local anesthetic and picked up the bag of tricks left in the car for him. She slithered out of the slinky dress, kicking it away, and put her hand out. With his back turned, Flipper handed her one of the new suits they were trialing for the Nighthawks’s lab. The suits were light and fast to pull on, yet acted like lead lining, cutting out heat and light, slowing if not totally repelling bullets. She pulled on night-vision goggles and gloves that covered her last inches of exposed skin. “We’ll recon at the basement, Irish. Go,” Flipper murmured to Braveheart, and they disappeared into the night.

  “He knows who we are,” Tal mouthed into the lip piece.

  She nodded. It was obvious he must have known all along. Men were searching for them on the grounds as well as Burstall’s team outside, chasing the car.

  “You okay to finish the job?”

  She nodded again. Keep a professional distance now. “I’m trained for this, even if I haven’t done it.” Even she heard the uncertainty beneath the confident words.

  He turned to her, his eyes strange beneath the snorkel-like equipment. “This is my show, Songbird. I’ve done this a hundred times. Trust me. Stay with me and do as I tell you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she acknowledged, giving her life into his hands.

  He slung the bag with the weapons and electronic pieces they’d need. “Fit your silencer on. And be prepared to use it.”

  She fitted the silencer, praying she wouldn’t be forced to use it.

  He led the way to the next patch of cover in a night that, lit by floodlights all around the Embassy, seemed almost as bright as daylight. Crouching, they flitted from shrub to tree. She felt like an “alien” actor from a B-grade 50’s schlock movie, but—if Falcone caught her—

  “We could do ads for this,” came the whisper via the speaker in her ear. “See Outback Ken and Barbie turn into creatures from the black lagoon in seconds—only $19.95.”

  She choked on quiet laughter. The most illogical sense of calm filled her at his joke, coming from the lip mike into her mind, as though he were part of her. She needed him, and he was here. Just as he always was there for her when they were kids.

  “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  “We can’t use any toys until we reach the house. Braveheart says the scrambler’s unpredictable after five minutes, and using the laser will give us away fast.”

  She nodded, knowing what he didn’t say. Using any toys at all also warned Falcone that they’d returned to the house. Once they were inside, they had three minutes at most to rescue the hostage and get out, or— She shuddered again.

  “Are the choppers in the perimeter, Ghost?” she whispered into the lip mike. “We’ll need backup within a minute of setting the scramblers and using the laser gun.”

  “Roger that. We’re ready to land. Where are you?”

  “Halfway to target,” Tal whispered. “Going for frontal assault. They won’t expect it. Catching them napping is our best chance of getting out of here intact. Go?”

  “Permission granted,” Anson said. “Go.”

  Never had four minutes seemed so long, flitting from bush to tree, crouched over double in gray froglike suits in the over-lit shades of night. Tal helped her all the way with a guiding hand, a pointing finger and whispered encouragement. “Flashlight at ten o’clock, Songbird. Duck. Still now. Four o’clock.” Every time she did exactly what he said, melting into trees and bushes to hide from Falcone’s goons.

  “Take aim, six o’clock!”

  She whirled to find two men running at them, gun in one hand, lifting walkie-talkies to their lips with the other. She took aim with a shaking hand—

  He could have a wife and kids. Dear God, I can’t do it!

  Tal’s shot was quick and silent. The man fell, unconscious, and she knew he’d used a tranquilizer dart instead of killing the man. A shot from his real gun took out the man’s radio.

  “Songbird! Tranquilizer dart! Four o’clock!”

  As the second man took aim, she shot her tranquilizer gun at him, the dart hitting his neck, rendering him unconscious. Tal shot out the second portable.

  “Refill your dart,” Tal whispered. “If you can’t kill ’em, don’t waste time agonizing about it. Put ’em to sleep.”

  She shoved a refill dart into her gun and put the gun away, grateful he was still the same healer he’d always been.

  “Target ahead, Ghost. Two men down, sleeping only, their communications taken out. The target’s men will soon know they’re not answering. Go?”

  “Permission granted! Go! Choppers are visual.”

  Tal swore, glancing up at the approaching birds, clearly audible, visible even with their lights off. “Area seems clear. Get the choppers outside the cellar window—keep the goons off left flank. Run, Songbird—and don’t stop if the targets find us. Cover my back when I have to set the scrambler.”

  She took off running, Tal right at her back. A man appeared at the door as they reached it, his gun right at her face.

  She didn’t hesitate this time. Diving for protection, she shot him with the tranquilizer. “Help me get him out of sight.”

  “No time.” Tal took out the array of lights with the laser, and blew out the security camera. “Go left before the stairwell and into the servants’ entry.”

  They bolted through the swinging doors and right down the cramped hallway. The sneezing sounds of Tal’s gun as it took out the cameras startled the confused servants. A woman screamed. Another threw a ceramic bowl at them.

  “Thirty seconds,” Tal muttered, deflecting the clumsy shot. He pushed Mary-Anne to the cellar door, shooting out lights and cameras as he went. “Take out the lock. Laser the window bars as soon as we’re in. When the hostage is safe, get out.”

  “You’ll need me to—”

  “No. You’ve done your job. It’s you Falcone wants. You put us all in danger. If you’re out we have an even chance.”

  She nodded and pushed the door open. She had to obey him without question, to be one hundred percent a Nighthawk.

  “Songbird! Window!” Tal tossed the laser gun as he ran toward the boy slumped in a chair, bound with rope, bruises mottling his face and blood on his temple.

  She caught the lethal weapon and ran for the windows. She melted the metal in moments—one bar gone. Eleven to go—ten—

  “Hurry!”

  The choppers landed outside the windows, their high-beam lights turning half-night to day, blinding her. She groped for the next bar and melted it, smashing glass with its heat.

  “Choppers landed!”

  A crashing oath, Tal, with the foreign minister’s son slumped now fireman-lift style over one shoulder, took over. “He’s alive, just contusions and concussion. Get the lock!”

  The window was open and five bars gone by the time the first of Falcone’s men hit the locked door and started crashing against it with obvious body weight.

  “Drag the kid out the window. He’s okay physically, but drugged. He can’t help us.” Tal burst through the seventh bar, burning his glove as he pulled it in and snapped it off. “You’re small enough to get through the bars. I’ll have to burn another two bars before I can make it. Go, or this kid will die!”

  She grabbed the sill and vaulted through the window, a pair of big, capable hands pulled her safely through. She ripped off the hood of her suit and looked up at the dark, handsome face of Wildman. “Take the hostage from Irish!” was all she said.

  Seconds later the boy was out and Wildman and Braveheart lifted him onto the chopper.

  “Are you all right?” Wildman asked her quickly.

  “Fine.” She bolted back to the window. “Get out, Tal!” she cried, forgetting the Nighthawk rule about names. “Hurry—”

  “I’m afraid he can’t hurry, my lovely Verity. You see, he’s trying a new and exciting role—a human shield.” Falcone’s smooth, smiling voice came from behind Tal’s strained face, now devoid of his hood. “I do love the Catwoman look on you, m
y dear—elegant and sexual with a hint of danger. It showcases your glorious body to perfection. Just the kind of suit I admire…in private, of course.”

  Total silence descended over the noise of whirling choppers. They all knew the score. This was it. Exchange time.

  “No!” Anson whispered as she moved to the window. “Don’t do it!”

  Wildman laid a hand on her shoulder. “He wouldn’t want this.”

  Bile burned her throat, her heart’s wild pounding made her shivering and sick. She looked in Wildman’s troubled dark eyes. “If it were the person you love, would you hesitate? Would she?”

  He winced; it was answer enough. “We can find another way—”

  “Let me go,” she ordered. Slowly, Wildman’s hand fell.

  Tal, struggling against the two men holding him, knew it would happen, knew her words even before she climbed into the window. “I’m here. Let him go.”

  “No, honey! I’m not worth it,” Tal yelled, struggling harder against Falcone and his other goon, not even caring that the gun he held could go off at any second.

  She looked deep in his eyes. You are to me. And she fell through the window.

  Oh, dear, sweet Lord. He’d known, damn it…hadn’t he known all along she’d sacrifice herself for him? He should have switched her for Wildman at the gates—

  Falcone shoved him toward the window. “Go, Dr. O’Rierdan. You have thirty seconds before I shoot you.”

  “Go, Tal,” she said coolly, moving into the restraining circle of Falcone’s arm. “I don’t need you now.”

  He looked back. Her eyes spoke to him, loud and clear, the same message he’d been giving her all week. Trust me.

  She turned to Falcone with a cold, glittering smile. “So you finally stopped talking and made a move. It’s about time. I really expected better than this from a man of your reputation.”

  Falcone’s start was slight but noticeable.

  She looked at Tal. “Sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I never meant to hurt you. You’re one of the good guys. I shouldn’t have used you, or your people. But we were never going to last more than a few weeks. I’ve discovered I’ve got this weird kind of attraction to bad boys.”

  My God, what an act! If he hadn’t seen the love in her eyes bare seconds ago, even Tal would believe it. It was the perfect response, given that her work in the Nighthawks included attending black market parties.

  “That’s why you insisted on coming to this party tonight?” he croaked, knowing he couldn’t say too much.

  She nodded and spoke to Falcone, who was staring at her in half-disbelieving fascination. “Marrying Tal seemed a good way to show the world that I was ready to kick the Iceberg rep out. But the world loves it. I had to be careful, and do it right. Tal and his cute little Mission Impossible group was the easiest route to change. It was fun, playing a spy for a month or two, getting the fitness and defense training. My body looks much sleeker now, don’t you think?”

  She pirouetted in front of him, running slow, proud hands over her waist and breasts. “For years I couldn’t get a date without bad press wrecking my career. It got so frustrating, like a ghost on my back. Tal was a front-door solution. People would believe our marriage was real after the tabloid stuff about our affair.” She smiled, with a pretty shrug. “So I went to him, played the siren, and he married me within a week. Poor Tal believed every word I told him.”

  Oh, clever girl! Unobtrusively putting his hand in his sleeve, Tal used the flat pager to message Anson. Get in through the front door. He made no move to climb through the window. Falcone had forgotten all about him. “You’re a fabulous actress, aren’t you, my dear?” he drawled, but even Tal could hear the note of doubt.

  She nodded, with simple pride. “Yes, I’m a good actress—too good for poor Tal. He never had a chance. I’m even too good for you. I had you convinced I was a real spy!” Her eyes flicked to Tal. Run! “I’d love to break into movies, like Moulin Rouge.”

  Falcone blinked. His men hovered, unsure what to do with Tal without a clear word from their boss. “But you do want children, don’t you, my dear?”

  She stared at him as though he’d grown another head. “Get real. Do you know how long it took to lose those sixty extra pounds I was carrying? My mother put on seventy-five pounds having kids. If I lose my body, I lose work. I’m not getting fat again.”

  Falcone’s head looked as if it was literally spinning. “You don’t want children?”

  “Didn’t I just say that? You got cotton in your ears? I thought you were supposed to be smart.” She pulled a thoughtful face. “Maybe I’ll adopt, like the other stars do. Not yet, though. I barely have time for my dog at the moment.” She sighed and rolled her eyes with a tiny sneer. “Don’t tell me—you want me to have kids for you. Sorry, babe, not this little black duck. By the way, my hair’s dyed, in case that was another of your little turn-ons about me. It went auburn years ago. I brighten it as part of my fire-and-ice routine. Some guys hate redheads, but a lot of guys go nuts over my hair. Well, if you’re one of them, too bad,” she snapped. “My body and my voice is all mine. I don’t lip-sync—ever!”

  Falcone opened his mouth and closed it. “Of course not.”

  “At least we have that established!” She tossed her hair back. “And one more thing. I’m no man’s Playboy bunny, or the little woman in the kitchen. I don’t cook, I don’t clean, and I don’t take orders. I go where I want, do what I want. No man tells me what to do. Got it?”

  Tal felt it was time to help again, before Falcone remembered where he was, or that he still held a gun. Anson must be inside the house by now, ready to take Falcone down. “I don’t mind if that’s what you want, honey.”

  She closed her eyes and shuddered. “Tal, it’s over. I’m sorry, you’re a nice guy, you really are—but nice is boring. I got over it years ago.” She sighed. “I’ll give you fifty thousand if you’ll go away! A hundred thousand. I’ll put it in your bank tomorrow. Just leave me alone!”

  Should he push the envelope? He decided to try once more. “But you could be pregnant! We didn’t use anything—”

  She flashed him a you’re-so-stupid look. “I took care of that problem ages ago. I’m not going to risk my career for any man’s warped little-woman fantasies of me.”

  He sneered at her, hoping his watery eyes from not blinking the past minute came over right. “My God, I thought the Iceberg was just an act—but you haven’t got a heart anymore!”

  “I’m just being honest,” she said coldly. “I tried to tell you nicely. You used me all those years ago—now I’ve used you. Cest la vie. Get over it. We move in different worlds. Got the picture yet, or are you so dumb you need a color-by-numbers?”

  “Damn you,” he said, his voice shaking.

  Sudden clapping made everyone start. “Nice one, Miss West—Dr. O’Rierdan, too,” came an ironic voice from the burst-in doorway. “I haven’t seen a better act since Julia Roberts in Erin Brockovich. But time’s up, lady Nighthawk—you’ve been a spy the past three years. Don’t try any neat little self-defense maneuvers on us, or I’ll shoot your husband. And I won’t just scar him this time—I’ll bloody kill him.”

  Everyone turned to see Darren Burstall in the ruined doorway, cut and bruised, his clothes torn, standing with his feet apart and braced, an assault rifle in his hands and an ugly glint in his eyes. “Hello, Rambo.” With a handkerchief, he rubbed the makeup from Tal’s face. “I knew it was you. The voice gives you away.” He grinned. “Glad to know I did such a good job of messing up your face. Unless you want your famous wife to die right now, you’d better get me what I want.”

  The game was played out and they’d lost. Time for the truth. “I can’t get her for you,” Tal said quietly.

  With a scream, Burstall let loose, shooting upward, taking out half the ceiling. “Do it. I’ll kill your wife, I swear it.”

  “We’re in, Irish. All Falcone’s goons rounded up bar those in the room with you. One final sweep
and we’re there,” the reassuring whisper came in his earpiece.

  That could be too late. He’d diagnosed Burstall without equipment. Brilliant and unbalanced and in obvious need of medication and treatment long before his twin sister’s death, Burstall was lonely, heart-hungry—and desperate for the woman he wanted, even if it meant killing everyone in the room.

  Dare he take the risk? He had no choice. “She can’t come, Burstall. She’s in hospital giving birth.”

  Burstall snarled, “So she betrayed me. I’ll kill McCluskey. I’ll kill all you Nighthawk do-gooders, starting with you!”

  “I’ll leave you to Mr. Burstall’s tender mercies.” Falcone pulled Mary-Anne backward. “Goodbye, Dr. O’Rierdan.”

  Go! Tal flew at Burstall’s feet in a quick dive, stabbed him with a tranquilizer dart and, grabbing the rifle, rolled up and aimed the muzzle at Falcone in one movement. “Now try it, you gutless bastard,” he taunted Falcone as Burstall crumpled. “You can’t do anything on your own without a bunch of brainless goons or poor, crazy Burstall to protect you, can you? Move and I’ll drop you like the bloody rabid dog you are.”

  Falcone froze, the smile plastered to his face; then, as quick and casual as if he’d switched on a light, he shot the unconscious Burstall in the upper chest. “A life-and-death decision, Doctor,” he mocked gently. “Who do you save—the poor, crazy man dying on the floor or the lovely lady?”

  No more time. “Nighthawks!” he yelled. “Twenty-four!”

  Flipper, Braveheart and Wildman dived through the window one after the other, covering Falcone’s goons with assault rifles more deadly than any they’d ever seen.

  “Save Burstall, Tal!” Mary-Anne cried. “I can handle this jerk on my own.”

  “Please do handle me, lovely Verity,” Falcone purred, holding her from behind as protection. “I do enjoy these little power struggles with women. Having a woman on top is so exciting—and then I show her who’s in control.”

  “Oh, yeah?” With a swift, high kick she sent the gun spinning out of Falcone’s hand, her elbow landed hard and fast in his solar plexus. As he staggered and released her, she stomped on his foot, twisted and thrust the heel of her palm upward on his nose, then kicked into his chest, pushing him to the ground, holding him down with her foot. She grinned down at him. “I’m on top. Are you enjoying yourself yet?”