In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  Replacing the image of Infierno on the monitor, the newscast popped up. A blonde reporter stood below the corner street sign of U Street & 12th Street NW, speaking into a microphone. “Witnesses in the tattoo parlor and the pizza shop across the street from the residence say the explosion happened around 2:15 this afternoon. Authorities suspect it may have been a faulty gas line, but the bomb squad is already here given that magnitude of the explosion. Right now, there are no confirmed casualties, but the residence in question has been obliterated. Peter, it’s going to take some time before the fire marshal and the Metro police can get in there with bomb sniffing dogs to assess the cause of the explosion.”

  “Do they suspect home grown terror, something along the lines of the Chelsea bombing in New York City last year?”

  “It’s too early in the investigation to say what caused the blast but sources have indicated that the FBI will be brought in on this. Witnesses say it shook the ground, and as you can see behind me, the glass in the pizza shop was completely blown out ...”

  The camera zoomed out from the reporter to the street view: the fire engines, bomb truck, the pizza shop—the burning remnants of the building in question—a building he knew all too well. Their safehouse.

  “Ho … ly shit,” Rick said into the phone, stunned. “Were you there?”

  “I was a half a block away. I had just left through the alley after getting my dance gear. Man, thank God I dodged that bullet. The place leveled and I would have been all over U Street.”

  “Blimey, that’s …” Sarah said, mouth dropping open.

  “Yes it is,” he replied over his shoulder.

  Yeah. This was a double code black situation. Diablo blew the safehouse … and since when did Mr. Clean give a crap whether he lived or died?

  “Effective immediately, we’re terminating your lessons in the merengue and switching your syllabus to the gombey.”

  “I thought you didn’t think I was ready for the gombey.”

  “Well, our semi-retired master instructor had specifically suggested your suitability, but I’ve just reconsidered my reservations. I think, given your talent, the gombey may be right up your alley.”

  “I sorta liked the moves of the merengue.”

  “I understand, but our upcoming dance showcase is going to be an explosive hit and we need all our talented students. I’ll contact the instructor and let him know that his program is a go, so please come to the studio tomorrow afternoon at your usual appointment to learn the initial moves.”

  Tapping off the call, he turned to Sarah. “I’m sorry, Sarah, I have to call Darcy and send him these images from Bermuda and apprise him of what happened in Dupont. Please excuse me.”

  “Sure. Will you be coming home for supper?”

  He smiled. Home. “You’re a good sport, just going with the flow from the safehouse to my house in Maryland and now, for safety, my aunt’s guest house in Virginia, but I promise to make it all up to you, love.”

  “So, you’ll be the chef tonight?”

  “Yeah. I’ll cook.”

  She turned to the door and he called after her. “Hey, that friend of yours with the Times. I don’t need to know what he was to you, but—”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  His lip twitched as he walked to her. Standing only inches apart, their eyes read the other’s. Yes he trusted her. She smiled softly before his lips met hers.

  2

  Haunted

  Late, July 31

  North Carolina

  Lifting the rocks glass filled with Jack Daniels to his lips, Darcy’s stare fixed to the licking flames in the stone fireplace as the wind outside the restored farmhouse howled with ferocity. Such was North Carolina’s Black Mountain Range—the nighttime temperature was unpredictable even in the summer. Tonight, felt like fall had come early. Under other circumstances, he might enjoy being back in the home where he had lived with his sister before marrying Liz, but things were different now. Being here was only a matter of necessity.

  In the amber-infused darkness, he sat in his much-missed leather club chair, fighting dark thoughts as they drifted down into the abyss of his soul. They’d haunted every second of every hour since July 22. He had died that day and only after seven heart-gutting hours of absolute despair, his heart had begun to beat again. He shuddered at the recollection of what had caused him to cry. No, not cry—sob.

  Like every night since, he’d replayed the morning of the explosions over and again in his mind, taunting him, destroying him. The memory of it was part of his blood now—the pain something he held onto as it created a monster straddling love and hate, trapped in perpetual battle as the need for revenge consumed him.

  “Stay the course,” his cousin had cautioned. “Do not, I repeat, do not go after him yet. We need to be smart about this. I know you’re hurting, but leave it to Obsidian to get you solid—clean—intel. I’ve got both Sarah and Charlie working on it as we speak. So be ready to go when I green light the op.”

  “To hell with that,” was the impulsive, emotional reply the first time Rick told him to stand down on the day after the explosion, but the expert tactician was right. Beating Diablo at his own game was essential: “He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight” was tantamount in the Art of War, a warfare stratagem his cousin had recently begun to study. Haste would only cause him to fail, just as they all had in Operation Macarena. If the SEALs had taught him anything it was not to run to his death. Further, his cousin was unbendable in his own planning of the op.

  “I want Knightley on this, too,” Darcy had insisted

  “No. He’s on another mission. Charlie has your back as we originally planned.”

  After today’s call from Rick,he was finally given the go order: Bermuda. So tonight, his focus pinpointed like a laser on the diabolical plan formed months ago but was now taken to an entirely new level over the last sleepless ten nights. Like The Count of Monte Cristo, he’d planned his revenge right down to the smallest detail. It wouldn’t be long now before Diablo was stripped of all he held dear right before his eyes—destroyed one after the other—until meeting his demise.

  Silently, he wondered if his “at the ready” sentry was causing him to lose his mind. The only other time he’d functioned and survived on so little sleep was during SEAL training, but he was a decade younger, conditioned for mental and physical depravity. With Obsidian, he routinely endured sleep deprivation for a few days at a time, not a dozen. But breaking down was essential to getting to Iceman—the Black Op stone-cold sniper turned assassin. Admittedly, this descent into darkness was a transformation that, like a snake shedding its skin, needed to take place. He was in dire need of a haircut and a shave, but that was for civilized men. He was well on his way to becoming uncivilized.

  Each day, he functioned only on two hours of light sleep even though the house near Asheville could not be any more secure. But he’d believed that of Pemberley, too. Only this secluded refuge was entirely structured for under-the-radar/off-the-grid living, perfect for the life of an assassin, and barely inconvenient for any “connected” occupant. Georgiana and Justin vacated it for Southern California after they married; they wanted to live in the world, not isolated from it. Of course, when they learned of his purported “CIA career” they understood why seclusion was necessary for him.

  Here there was no footprint in anything: no cable, no trackable mobile phones, no internet access via traditional means, and definitely no social media. “Clouds” were in the sky, and “Smart” was something he needed to be when going after his enemy. All communications were non-GPS satellite fed. Deep in the mountains, the house had every creature comfort needed, including a store house of food and an old root cellar stocked to last well over a year. Water was spring fed into a deep well and an old-fashioned water tower was used for non-potable. Cash was king for anything essential that they didn’t have, but the most important part, in his opinion, was that the house was ostensibly invisible from th
e air. Thanks to the revolutionary mirrored rooftop solar panels that reflected the forest, it still generated enough electricity for 3,000 square feet.

  He fought the closing pull of his eyes by taking another deep drink. Maybe this one would erase the film from playing before his mind’s eye. With crystal clarity, he could still see himself receiving the phone call on speaker in the Ferrari from Dixon back at Pemberley and the man’s cries on the other end. God, how they had filled the car. He’d been unable to say anything beyond, “Get back now! Immediately!”

  That command had scared the shit out of him; he had no idea what he’d be coming back to but as the Spider sped closer to Pemberley … he could see the once-blue sky growing black as tar above the tree line in the distance. His heart seized; he left the H2 in the dust, but even 120 mph felt like slow motion in his panic. He fought the fear with each passing mile, through back roads and winding turns. Liz was all he could think about, and he beat himself up for leaving her this morning, for inviting her into his dangerous life that came with deadly baggage in the first place … and lastly, for waiting so long to go after Morales!

  Fisting his left hand, he gazed down at the liquor in his right, hypnotically swirling the remnant of melted ice within, and like clockwork, his heart raced when he was unable to stop the horror movie from playing in his mind’s eye …

  His blood froze when he drove through the open gate to Pemberley. For as far as the eye could see, red flashing emergency vehicle lights cut through the charcoal smoke, which filled the morning air. Night had fallen like his heart into his stomach. At least six ambulances, a dozen police cars, four fire trucks and three county animal control vehicles lined the drive.

  “We’re sorry, sir, but you can’t go in,” a deputy sheriff commanded, waving his arms.

  “This is my home! I need to get to my wife! I—”

  “I’m sorry, it’s not safe. You’ll have to stay here and let fire and rescue attend to survivors and control the blazes.”

  He didn’t wait to inquire about there being more than one blaze. The blood turned to ice in his veins and he clenched his jaw, not replying, just shifting the Ferrari into gear. He gassed the engine with a sharp turn to the wheel then smashed through the east field horse fence. Wood splintered and soared clearing his way to the green pasture. The UVA horses bolted and ran.

  Fast wasn’t fast enough across that grassy field. He’d never—ever—been so terrified in his entire life.

  “No. Please God. No!” he repeated like a mantra over and again.

  And then he saw the horse stable, blazing to the point that nothing would salvage.

  Gripping the wheel, his knuckles turned white, his breath labored; he broke into a cold sweat like his blood poured from him. “She’s safe. She wasn’t in the barn. She wasn’t in the house. I know it. I just know it. Please. This can’t be happening.”

  And there it was: a screaming inferno. Pemberley. Hell.

  As the car sped closer, his stare riveted on the orange tongues raging from every window. The back of the house was gone, replaced by thick flames. Plumes of furnace-black smoke rolled upward from the missing roof. Scattered on scorched pasture and driveway were remnants of their home—and his childhood: shards of debris and burning wood, which had exploded. Two fire engines attempted to put the blaze out, but it was fruitless; it raged like his panic.

  He braked hard, threw the car into park and flung open the door, bolting into a run the second his feet hit the ground. Jumping the horse barricade fence, he screamed “Liiiiz!” before his shoes even touched dirt.

  His feet did not stop charging until someone grabbed him from behind. He didn’t know who because pain and fear blinded him to anything other than finding her.

  “My wife! Where’s my wife? Let go of me! … Liz!!” he shouted, struggling to break free while his gaze remained fixed on the house. It looked and sounded alive, consuming its sustenance with rage, unaffected by the torrent of two fire hoses.

  “It’s too late, sir. The house is gone,” the guy tried to reason. “They can’t control the blaze.”

  “Get the fuck off me! My wife needs me!” He fought wildly, overcoming the vice grip and turned, cold-clocking the man out in one maniacal punch.

  Running to the circular drive, he roared, “Liz!” at the top of his lungs, swallowing the acrid smoke.

  Both cops and EMTs charged at him when he attempted to go to the missing front door. Three times he broke from their restraint trying in desperation to enter—three times he failed in despondency—the flames were too hot, too overwhelming. She was in there!

  The scorching heat emanating from within felt like a thousand degrees, burning his eyes and flesh just from proximity, but that didn’t deter him from bolting below the jet stream to the back of the house, searching for any way in—all reason was lost—just his need to save her remained.

  Again, the men fought him, holding him back. “If you go in there, there’s no coming out, Mr. Darcy!” one of them shouted. “It’s too far gone.”

  “I don’t care about the house! She’s in there … my wife is in there! Liiiiz!”

  His lungs seared.

  It was hopeless.

  He was defeated.

  Coughing wildly, he dropped to his knees … and cried. “Liz!” He gave into sobs that wracked his body and softly blubbered … “Lakmé … baby …”

  Barely coherent himself, Dixon came up behind him. “Mr. Darcy. I’m so sorry.”

  Blankly, he looked up at the beaten battle-hardened warrior standing beside him with tear tracks down the soot and burns on his face. Darcy could hardly comprehend the next words the man choked out.

  “We … I … couldn’t get to her in time …”

  As though a light bulb went off in his head, he abruptly stood, desperately insisting, “She’s in the greenhouse! The greenhouse!”

  “That’s blown, too, sir.” The man’s hands grasped his shoulders. “Liz is gone, Mr. Darcy.”

  Yes. He had died that day. July 22 was his personal Pearl Harbor and 9/11, and the day he declared war on his enemy—not the foolhardy hired-gun who’d blown Pemberley, but the man who did the hiring.

  At the end, three good men on their security team had perished in the blasts: one in the guardhouse piloting the drone, the other two entering the house to safeguard Liz. All that remained of their home was burned stone and ash; the stable where his father destroyed their family was scorched to the ground, along with three Harley Davidson motorcycles. His mother and Liz’s cherished greenhouse became just a bittersweet memory that horrible day. And Liz …

  One hand tightly fisted, his other raised the rocks glass to his lips before he abruptly rose, pushing the images of all the burning effigies of his entire life and his immense guilt over Liz down into the black void, then vacated the master bedroom, glass still in hand.

  A nod to Dixon taking a much-needed break from duty in the great room preceded a quick grab of his jacket and he was out the front door. Illuminated by the pale moon, his boots crunched over the gravel driveway leading down the hill as the wind tore at his face. He welcomed the snap of air, hoping it would refresh him even if his nightmare and pistol accompanied him to the small horse stable.

  Higgins, just back from a quick trip to West Virginia, emerged from the shadow when he turned the corner toward the dirt path. “Everything okay, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Everything’s fine. I just needed some air. Did everything go as planned in West Virginia?”

  “No problems at all. Money and a good beat down were great motivators. The poor kid nearly shit his pants.”

  “As much as it kills me in this case, I still believe that everyone deserves a second chance to hit the reset button. Fear is a great motivator.”

  “Well, he doesn’t know where Morales is but he’s accepted the conditions as I presented them. I hope for his sake, he takes this chance you gave him.”

  “And if he doesn’t then I’ll put a bullet in his head. Thanks for everythi
ng. I owe you.”

  Sure, he should have killed the bastard, but Sun Tzu was right: some enemies could be useful assets down the road—just as some long lost friends could be. If there was one thing he counted on to help him in his battle against Morales, it was that almost everyone owed him in one form or another. The visit Higgins paid to West Virginia was not only for information or for the delivery of mercy and redemption but one to insure he’d have a marker to call upon one day.

  And just like that, his trusted confidant faded into the dark, unseen even by any interloper should they arrive.

  The silhouette of the barn, backdropped by the starry midnight sky, welcomed him. Here, amidst the hay and the mixed smells of cedar and a crisp night, he found the sanctuary that he’d been seeking since arriving in the mountains after the funerals. He switched the barn light on and walked to Salaam’s stall.

  “Hey, fella,” he said when the stallion came to the gate followed by a nudge of his nose at the window bars. “Yes, I know.”

  Darcy pulled back the box door and entered. Rubbing the horses neck, he said, “No, buddy. I don’t have anything for you.”

  As he often did when growing up, he rested his head against his warm companion, soaking up the silence, the trust. Salaam asked nothing of him beyond honesty. His pets to the horse’s shoulder were greatly appreciated, and they remained like this—both beasts—corralled and needing something unattainable: their idyllic life with Liz before July 22nd.

  “I’ll take you out tomorrow. We’ll go for a good run. I promise,” he mollified with a rub to the horse’s face.

  “Sure … promise Salaam, but not me,” Liz’s saucy voice rang out behind him.

  He jumped, startled that the woman of his thoughts had awoken. He’d left her in such a deep sleep beside the fire.

  “I’m just as cooped up as the horses,” she added.

  Dressed in a white satin chemise and draped in a cream-colored blanket, she looked like an angel right down to her bare legs and untied hiking boots. For the thousandth time, he silently thanked God that she wasn’t a real heavenly spirit. He’d never even imagined that that fireproof panic room under his office would ever be put to use, but for the first time she’d listened to him, and it had saved her life.