Caroline pressed her thumb to a biometric pad and the door slid open.
“Yes. I imagine being locked within for such a long time as your home burned above you, was less than stellar.” She withdrew her phone from her purse, then made a call, speaking low to her as the call rang on the other end. “I’ll have Rick come up here. His cave is … chilly.”
“Good morning to you, too. You have a visitor … Liz … Obviously she’s in DC, not in the mountains … Are you sure? … Okay and, please, I’m in no mood today for your little lap dog. Keep her far from me; I have work to do before my first student at noon.”
She tapped the Blackberry and smiled. “He wants you to go down to the freezer.”
“The freezer?”
“You’ll see,” she replied with an eye roll as she walked to the supply closet. “Through this door and down these steps you’ll travel a narrow passage. It’s dark, so watch your footing for broken steps. It will lead you directly to his office.” Caroline slid a cashmere sweater from its hanger and handed it to her. “You will definitely need this.”
Unnerved, her pulse increased with the first step and then, when the door closed, the rushing blood in her veins throbbed in her temples. Her heart hammered. She braced her advance with palms pressed against the confining walls and almost immediately broke into a cold sweat. But, taking small steps, she pushed forward. So did her waking nightmares the deeper she descended into the unknown abyss before her. In the darkness of this tunnel, filled with a dim green hue, her mind was back in Pemberley’s bunker on July 22nd.
The 1st movement of Haydn’s trumpet concerto allegro filled the bunker to the rapid beating of the speed bag.
Suddenly, the walls and ceiling shook around her from what sounded like a sonic boom outside, but she couldn’t be sure, continuing to focus like a laser on keeping good time, and connecting fists to bag with a steady cadence. The concerto’s exhilarating trumpet pushed her onward.
Again, everything violently shook in accompaniment to an even louder boom. This time there was no mistaking it as an earth-rocking explosion on the estate. The heavy bag dislodged from the ceiling and several standing bags toppled over. Panicked, she watched as a rolling cabinet crashed into the floor mats. Her feet stumbled below her, trying to keep from falling, and she grabbed onto the side of the rifle safe bolted into the steel wall and the concrete foundation.
Cracks were forming and spreading in the ceiling.
Plaster and concrete fell from above her head.
The room was going to cave.
Only seconds, which felt like an eternity, passed and she ran to the exit, but everything suddenly went silent: the lights blacked out, the music stopped, and the biometric scanner locked the door. In the darkness, she furiously panicked, tugging on the metal door—but the security bolts were firmly in place. “Please, God! Start the generator! Start the generator!!” She labored, fruitlessly pulling on a handle in wild terror.
And then she remembered: the steel panic room at the back of the bunker. Fight and flight kicked in and she ran balls out toward the far end of the room, jumping over fallen objects, jelly legs barreling over the workout mat, barely tripping over ceiling debris in her desperation for shelter and survival.
As she pulled the door closed, another explosion blasted in a thunderous roar—this time, she saw the entire bunker burst into a white hot fireball through the remaining last aperture before it slammed shut with her safely sealed inside the pitch black panic room.
She backed away from the door to the far corner where she knew the small air shaft was; it led out to the old unexcavated escape route used during the Civil War. Frozen in the corner below it, she internally shook, taking deep breaths, terrified that the fire would consume her oxygen supply or burn her alive.
Heat! Oh the heat!!
“Liz?” she heard Rick call out to her, his faint voice growing louder as it pulled her from her nightmare. “Liz, are you there?”
Feeling lightheaded and nauseous, she pressed her forehead against the cool plaster wall to keep from passing out. Everything spun but a sudden hand came to her rescue, clasping her bicep to keep her from going down.
“Liz! My God! What happened? Are you okay?”
“I … oh Rick!” She fell into his arms and the dam broke, sobbing for the very first time about that day. Now that Fitzwilliam was gone, it was safe to let the tears and emotions flow out of her.
Both of his arms encircled her, but he said nothing as she bawled. “It’s everything. I never told Fitzwilliam about that day at Pemberley. It was bad … really bad, and still haunts me. Now … he’s gone. I can’t do this without him.”
“What can’t you do?”
“Life.”
He sighed regretfully. “I know it’s hard, but I’m here for you; we all are. You can tell me everything, Liz, even about your experience in the bunker. I’ll pretend I’m him and I promise, I’ll answer just as he would; I’ll even growl.”
She couldn’t help but to chuckle into his chest.
“C’mon, let’s go talk about it over an Italian espresso or a cup of joe in my office.”
“I hate coffee now.”
“Okay. I’ll have Sarah get us some tea on her way in.”
“Nothing for me, thank you.” She sniffled with an embarrassing snort of mucous and wiped his suit lapel. “I’m sorry. That day came back so vividly. I cry all the time.”
Rick smoothed the hair from her face and smiled thoughtfully. In barely a whisper he said, “So do I.”
She swallowed the knot in her throat. “How selfish of me.”
“You’re not selfish; you’re grieving. Saying good-bye to someone you love is the hardest thing to do. It’s only natural to focus on yourself and what was and struggle to think of what will be. Never apologize for self-reflection at this time.”
His hand never left hers as he slowly led her down the hall until they stood at a metal door and another fingerprint scanner.
“Where are we?”
“This is no man’s land. We’re between here and there.”
“Sort of like me.”
“For obvious reasons, we otherwise refer to it as ‘the freezer.’ ” With a press to his finger a pocket door slid open and she was met with a brightly lit space—the snap of cold air hit her face and bare legs, quelling the clammy flush to her chest and cheeks. To the left of the room was a sleek-styled sofa with blankets stacked upon a pillow.
With furrowed brow, she examined the inert monitors affixed where antique-tiled ceiling met wall. It seemed odd that they weren’t busy doing something—anything—related to the many ongoing sanctioned Black Ops. Several newspapers lay strewn on his desk, but overall there was no sign of Obsidian business.
Turning to face him, she was finally able to get a good look at her cousin in the light. Dark circles under his eyes and ginger whiskers indicated his uncharacteristic disregard of his normal fastidiousness. “Are you living here, Rick?”
“I guess you can call it that.”
“But what about Sarah?”
“She understands my being selfish.”
“Ah.” She nodded, taking a seat on the blue sofa, eyes zeroing in on the filled tack board. “Have the police found the man who tried to kill me?”
Rick cleared his throat and uneasily walked to her. “Unfortunately, it’s a dead end. The ballistic evidence, the spent incendiary shells found in the forest, was stolen from the Leesburg police department on the 30th, their servers wiped clean of any reports.”
“I see.”
“It’s most likely the cartel cleaning their footprint.”
“And what about the explosion at the safehouse?”
“Nothing. Another dead end. The DC police said it was a faulty air conditioning unit that triggered a gas line explosion.”
Again, she scanned the cold interior and wrapped her arms around herself. “Did Fitzwilliam come to this place?”
“He did.” Sitting in the chair on the oppo
site side of the coffee table, Rick clasped his hands between his knees and leaned forward. “We briefed here before the guys left for Bermuda.”
“I couldn’t tell him about Pemberley,” she blurted.
“You should have. He of all people understood trauma—he could have helped you through it.”
“I just … I don’t know … didn’t want to worry him further. He was already wound so tight about protecting me from Diablo that I just knew if I shared my experience in the panic room, he’d not have waited for Bermuda and maybe have done something drastic, probably even foolish without a plan.” She flexed her hand again then abruptly stopped, instead rubbing her stomach, which roiled from nervous anxiety. “Ironic isn’t it? He was killed anyway, even after waiting and planning.”
“In the end he succeeded, Liz. I’m sure his death puts an end to this. All he wanted was your safety, and he rests in peace knowing that now.”
“It’s a heavy load to carry. How do I not feel guiltier than I already do?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I ask the same question every day. How do I not feel guilty about sending him to his death?”
“I know John feels terrible. We talked at length about grief and how he survived. I can’t imagine the guilt he felt after accidentally shooting his son.”
“The circumstances were horrible to begin with, but Knightley is a survivor—as are you. It’s good that Knightley has gone back to work, taking one of the few ops on Obsidian’s docket.”
“Is that why I haven’t heard from him in the last few days? He’d been texting and calling at least five times a day to check on me, but now … nothing.”
“He finally agreed to go out in the field—since you kept blowing him off every time he reached out.”
He raised a pointed eyebrow and she felt bad. John had been there for her from the beginning, but she had to get on with her life on her own.
“I’m sorry. I’ll give him a call.”
“You can’t now; he’s off the grid in Austria for the next ten days, finishing a job that he started last year in Sierra Leone.”
“And I suppose Charlie feels guilty, too?”
“Sure. Operation Gombey was his mission. He skated the edge of losing it when we couldn’t find Darcy.”
She leaned back and examined Rick’s face. “But you did.”
“Not the way we would have preferred; the bay was loaded with sharks almost immediately, and that’s something that still puzzles me. My only guess is that Morales kept the bay bait-friendly to keep away curious divers and tourists.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t go there and just let the words die in the air as she switched gears. “Is … I mean … do I still need to worry about Morales coming after me? Not that it really matters, but as dear as Dixon is to me, I think I’d rather be alone right now, and I feel bad that he has to hang around.”
“There is always a chance of anything—but it’s unlikely. I was just reading this morning that authorities in Bolivia are gearing up for a drug war between two cartels. La Muerta Mundial has other things to focus on besides the unnecessary assassination of a grieving widow. Darcy’s death is what Morales wanted and that’s what he got.”
“Right.” She stretched her arms out in front of her and said, “I’m, uh, thinking of getting out of here. I really don’t want to move in with Jane, so I think to clear my head and maybe find some direction for the future, I’ll go to some of the places Fitzwilliam and I dreamed about visiting together.”
“I know you’re probably feeling liberated, no longer at the end of La Muerta Mundial’s barrel, but are you sure that’s wise right now?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I do. After I visit my family, I’ll be taking off.”
“So, you’ll let Dixon go?”
“I’m good—it’s time for him to have a real life. He has to feel released from his guilt over the explosions at Pemberley.”
“I don’t think he’ll see it that way. The man’s devoted to you.”
“Please don’t make me feel guilty about him, too.”
“Sorry … Well, then do you want Darcy’s bike for your trip?”
“Black Ice?”
“My Italian friends who own the grocer on the block over have been minding it in their back courtyard until I got up the nerve to tell you it was here.”
Wow. She hadn’t expected that. A cross-country bike tour? “Definitely. The bike he bought me, I left in North Carolina and … I’d really like to ride.”
“In addition to the keys, do you want his belongings from Bermuda?”
She looked away from his gaze and a shadow fell on her thoughts. “Not yet, so please keep them for me.”
“I will. Now … if you’d like, please tell me about that day at Pemberley. It could help you.”
“I’ll be okay, really, I will. I’ve been journaling about it, so maybe that will help. I think the dark confines of the access hall just set me off.” She sighed in resignation. “I think it’s best if I just put it behind me. All that matters is that I survived it to have more time with him. We made some incredible memories at a very special place outside Asheville, and if I must live on—then I have that and every day before July 22nd. That whole remembering the past as it gives me pleasure thing.”
“I think that’s wise, but I’m always here for you, Liz. You know that, right?”
“Sure. Same here. We’re still cousins.” Smoothing her hand over the quilt folded beside her, she asked. “Well, enough about pitiful me. Do you want to talk about it?”
He simply chuckled.
“I’m sure you have Sarah’s good advice, but I’m a good listener.”
“I haven’t told her yet, but I’m … I’m gonna shut down Obsidian at the end of the year.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re all my closest family, and, like Darcy, I now have greater clarity that if something else happens to any of you—even to Caroline—it would destroy me. He was light years ahead of us in his decision to leave, and I couldn’t understand it. Falling in love with you showed him the way out. And after his death, it occurred to me that each one of us in this business is broken in a way and existing in isolation, getting empty thrills from the emotive high when we successfully bring down the evil and corrupt. But each of us have lost sight that we’re still harbingers of death, no matter how noble the mission. My own neck I have no problem putting on the line, but to direct the others to do so … I don’t want that responsibility any longer. The cost is too great; my cousin’s death crushed every one of us.”
“And there’s Sarah’s welfare to consider, isn’t there?”
“Very astute, as always.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“I knew you did.” She smiled as best she could. “Do the others know about you shutting down?”
“Not yet, but I’ll talk with Caroline when the time is right. Given that she thinks this is all one big game and gets off on pain, she’ll gladly take over.” With a sly smirk, he looked down at his hands. “She’ll probably rename it something ridiculous like bakemonojutsu. It means, ghost arts.”
It was funny, but she didn’t laugh. “I’d say I was sorry, but that would be a lie. I feel torn because without Obsidian I never would have met the man of my dreams, but because of the work he did for Obsidian, he’s dead. I know you don’t need the money, and I’m sure there are a ton of other things you can do to defeat evil.”
“There are. Like you, I’m between here and there. So why are you here today? Certainly, not to see me.”
“I love you … of course, I want to see you, but you’re right. I’m here because I noticed something strange in Fitzwilliam’s Geneva bank account and thought you might be able to shed some light on it.”
“Sure. I hope I can help.”
“I had forgotten all about his Obsidian payment account, and then when I met with the lawyer the other day, he gave me the list of holdings, account numbers, passcodes, etc. Of cours
e, I logged in when I got back to the hotel and a few things struck me as odd. The first being a two million dollar wire transfer on July 30 to a bank in Morgantown, West Virginia.”
“I’d say that’s odd.”
“Then, he liquidated almost all his personal stocks and holdings, purchased a ton of cryptocurrency and the other thing was that he transferred six million dollars to an account in Panama on the day he left for Bermuda. It wasn’t his first wire transfer into it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. About two months ago, he’d liquidated a bunch of stock and transferred about 12 million to that same account. And I’m almost embarrassed to tell you how much he transferred to a bank in England.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-two million.”
“Whoa. I knew my uncle was extremely wealthy, but … that’s a lot of dough.”
“Should I be worried? I mean … do you know if he knew someone in Panama City or in England? I know I’m gonna sound paranoid, but you don’t think I have anything to worry about do you? I mean, I trust him, but … you hear about these things—people living secret dual lives, another wife and family. Maybe my husband never had intentions of returning to me.”
“You listen too much to opera. Real life isn’t always Madama Butterfly.”
“No, it’s a friggin’ James Bond movie. You know what I meant. It’s just that in this miserable fog I’m under, my imagination is running wild. Don’t listen to me; I’m not thinking straight.”
“Paranoia is the height of awareness,” he stated.
“Fitzwilliam once said those very words to me.”
“He stole it from me,” he joked with a wink. “I assure you, you don’t have anything to worry about, Liz. The only dual lives Darcy vacillated between were life and death, nothing more. There was only you. I don’t know anything about England or West Virginia, but just before leaving for Bermuda, Sarah had received a tip that Morales had another compound in Panama. It was the plan that Darcy would parachute in following execution in Paget. I agree it’s odd and that’s a lot of cash, but I suppose he wanted it at ready hand. I don’t know; perhaps his last transfer was just in case a sticky situation presented itself—like what he encountered in Peru in needing chopper transport to rescue me.”
In Good Conscience Page 14