In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  A mountain cabin? As in cowboy Dave feels? Is that why you’re so happy? Have you gone for a ride?

  “Oh, Janie! I have the most awesome news to tell you.”

  Fuckety, fuck, fuck. This was about Wentworth and she couldn’t bear to hear it. This was her doing! Oh, damn. Her tears came full force, more out of guilt for even suggesting an uncomplicated hook-up in the first place and for the lie she was about to tell, than for her own pity-party emotions.

  “Lizzy. I need you to come home.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m leaving Charlie.”

  She could hear the air go out of Liz’s lungs. Like a “here we go again” moment. Jane is bolting, yet again.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. What happened?”

  “We’re just not happy anymore.”

  “Don’t you want to work it out? He’s worth it, Jane. He’s a keeper, not like any of the other guys you’ve dumped.”

  “No …” this is the part that killed her but she just had to lie and throw Charlie under the bus. “He’s having an affair.”

  “Are you sure? I know he’s been distant but it’s because he’s still hurting from Fitzwilliam’s death, I’m sure. It’s his one month anniversary tomorrow, and Charlie’s not thinking straight.”

  “We are all still grieving, but … I have to go … and … and we bought these tickets for a romantic trip to Venice and Prague and I just don’t give a damn anymore. I’m going anyway, without him! Come with me. It’ll be good for you.” She let out a big nose blow, then came a rush of blubbering tears, because, in truth, she’d be devastated if Charlie had been cheating. They’d gone that road of suspecting the other last year, and she was very upset.

  “Europe? I can’t go, Jane. I have plans and they’re important for me to see through to the end.”

  “But I need you, and I know I’m a shit for asking and for bailing on you when you needed me all those years ago, but I can’t do this alone. I need my sister.”

  Liz grew silent. Ten seconds (and she counted them) seemed like forever until her sister finally spoke. “You were there when I needed you most and that’s what matters.”

  “You’re amazing. How could you forgive me so easily?”

  “Because I love you and in the end love and family is what’s most important in life.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I can’t go to Europe; I don’t have a passport.”

  “Just come home and I’ll take care of the rest. I’m a full-fledged Obsidian girl now. I can make just about anything happen. I have contacts, you know.” She nodded proudly.

  “Can I get back to you? I’m not sure. It’s not that I don’t want to be there for you, but I’m not through with my memorial bike ride. This is really, really important to me for a million reasons.”

  “I understand, really, but please, please, please consider it. I leave the day after tomorrow outta Dulles.”

  “Ugh. The last time I was at Dulles was when I left for Paris. If it wasn’t for you then my marriage might have gone to shit before it really went to shit.”

  What’s that word Lizzy uses? Ironic? Yeah.

  ***

  Europe? Venice?

  Clicking off the call to her sister, Liz’s heart tugged as she sat cross legged beside the waterfall and pond then reflectively returned to sketching the ducks. Birdsong filled the air, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle filled her lungs. Her joyful news would have to wait until it was confirmed with a pee test. Not that she needed confirmation—she knew, but she’d wait until her sister’s situation was ironed out before announcing her pregnancy.

  Sighing, she considered if she could be a party to Jane’s bailing out on Charlie and the people she loved most? Did he really deserve this kind of dumping? Not that cheating deserved any absolution, but was he really cheating or was it a convenient, maybe imaginative, excuse for her sister to leave? Hadn’t she done the same with Uni-brow when he proposed? And thank goodness for that! But still, Jane had been afraid of commitment and Pothead had loved her fiercely. Maybe it all stemmed from their mother.

  Closing the near-full sketchbook on two pencils, she looked out at the waterfall. “Should I go, babe?” she asked believing Fitzwilliam sat beside her. “And if I do, will you be there? Oh, that we could have done this together. See Venice … kiss under the Bridge of Sighs.”

  Her gaze settled on the cascading fall and her mind traveled, once again, for the umpteenth time, to the money. “I could stop in Geneva and go to the bank using my birth certificate as identification, but I really should be going to Panama or England instead . All that money you moved … why?”

  Following Operation Macarena, they had spent a few days relaxing and recuperating in Santorini. She recalled a special conversation they had had on their last night and now the memory of it was like a cloud dissipating from her mind. It seemed so long ago, yet only a few months had passed. At times, memories of their adventures came back with clarity, but other things, like conversations in the dreamy afterglow of lovemaking, were forgotten. But at the mention of Panama, his words came rushing back:

  “Liz, humor me for a minute,” Fitzwilliam lazily propositioned. They’d just made passionate love, so sure they were going to conceive the night before they left for home. His fingers caressed down her arm in gentle strokes.

  “Okay, shoot …”

  “What would you say if I said, run away with me? Let’s leave everything behind, change our names, and disappear to some exotic island before our baby is born? Or we could come back here after Georgiana’s wedding, find ourselves a small Greek island and live among the locals. I can become a fisherman or something.”

  “You’re being silly. We can’t do that. We have responsibilities: the horses, Pemberley, our friends at Obsidian. And my sister would never survive without me,” she laughed.

  “Sure we can. I’ll set up a couple of offshore accounts with enough money to last ten lifetimes and the world will think we disappeared in some deep-sea boating accident or Jet Ski crash.” He snuggled into her, pulling her closer to his nude body and kissed her neck, murmuring, “We’ll become nudists and make babies all day.”

  She laughed. “Ew, nudist on an island? Won’t sand and flies be an issue?”

  “Not on our island. We’ll try the nudist lifestyle when we get to Big Pine Key in October.”

  “Walk around naked all day?” She snorted. “Iceman goes nudist? Yeah, right. And why would we want to fake our death? And what would we tell Rick and your sister?”

  “Eventually, we’ll let our family visit us—just not my aunt—and definitely with clothes on.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. Think about it. The threat of criminals like Morales will disappear and you and our children will be safe.”

  “Safe, but nude … and you’d have nowhere to carry your Baretta.”

  “I wouldn’t need one, and you’d have an island full of orchids and a great tan.”

  They laughed and the jokes continued about riding horses literally bareback on the white sand beach, and birthing their babies in a hut.

  “You know, they’ll always try to find us, but not if we’re dead. Consider it, Liz,” he said, the tone in his voice changed, but she was sure he was still playing with her.

  “If I thought for a second that you were serious—and since I’m feeling so euphoric at the moment—I would be a little more disagreeable over the idea, but since you’re toying with me, I’ll just state that I’d much rather be naked in Pemberley than anywhere else in the world. Pemberley is our heart. It’s where I feel the most at peace and happy with you beside me. And I’ll birth my babies in a hospital—thankyouverymuch.”

  But, Pemberley was now gone. Technically, if he was alive, they’d have to start over anyway. Like a lightning rod to her memory, Dixon’s face and words shocked her straight:

  “So … a damned good Frogman, expertly trained in underwater explos
ives, got killed in a covert diving accident while setting underwater explosives?”

  “Yeah. I love irony, but not that kind.”

  “Ironic? I’m not sayin’ this to upset you or drudge up the past but, something came to mind this morning when I stopped at the farmhouse. After we hid you away up there in Black Mountain, leading this Morales to think you died at Pemberley, Mr. D said to me, ‘Dixon, the best defense is masked in the warrior’s death thus concealing the greatest offense against his enemy. But when the phoenix rises from the ashes, he’s the grim reaper.

  Her stomach roiled and she broke into a cold sweat. But this was different than pregnancy nausea, this was something else. This was her gut talking. What if it wasn’t a what-if? The ‘hero of the bride’ has always felt-duty bound to protect you, but would he be that insane to do what you’re thinking?

  “Oh, stop being delusional, Liz. It’s just wishful thinking. There’s an empty grave to prove he’s dead.” An empty grave.

  “Besides, there is no way he’d leave you open to attack for any amount of time.” But you weren’t left unprotected, were you? Dixon. Did he know for certain?

  Her hand caressed her tummy. “But if the Iceman did fake his death, there’s only one of two reasons he would. You said it yourself: to ensure our future, to protect me … or to go live that exciting life he loved so much with someone else.”

  Ugh. Why was she feeling so insecure about his love? Why would she even consider that he left her in such a crazy way? Was this hormonal or, like Dave had said, the effect of mourning? There was only one way to find out what was fact or fiction.

  She fumbled for the phone and with trembling fingers, nervously tapped in her sister’s number. The ringing felt like forever and her heart slammed against her chest wall.

  “Hey. Can we stop in Geneva when we go?”

  “Um … yeah. I guess. Why?”

  “Because I need to see a banker about some wire transfers to England, Panama, and West Virginia.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Does this have to do with Fitzwilliam?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okie Dokie.”

  She’d explain everything on the long flight over, even her insane paranoia, feeling further queasy at the thought of it. Paranoia is the height of awareness. She recalled everyone saying that as though it confirmation of either her craziness or … or was it something else? Then the sour tuna melt started to rumble in her stomach followed by a tiny bit of burning acid reflux rising up her esophagus. “I gotta go. Talk to you later.”

  At breakneck speed, she bolted through the woods and just made it to the nasty outhouse.

  This was morning—in the afternoon—sickness.

  21

  Ninja Lifeline

  Paraguay

  Camouflaged in the dense landscape between the San Rafael and the Cordillera mountain ranges near Caazapá in Eastern Paraguay, Darcy lay masked by the ghillie suit left for him by yet another asset. Hale had proved an accurate weatherman judging by the storm front from Patagonia pummeling his back and the water-slogged forest bed covered with rotted oranges and mud. The wind whipped around his hide site, but this wasn’t his first rodeo of uncomfortable environs. At dusk this time of year, the temperature was dropping to extremes, but that was also expected. Such had been the nature of sniping and the SEALs had trained him well to adapt to all conditions. The only thing unfamiliar to him was the supplied weapon: an armor-piercing Russian Dragonov incendiary tracer, sniper rifle. The gun enthusiast in him couldn’t help but delight in the opportunity to employ this fine semi-automatic, but, as he often lamented since starting this mission, employing his own rifle would have been best (but a hassle to travel with), having formed a bond of intimate understanding to its workings. Such was the nature of sniping, ballistics, and weaponry. He also knew well enough that to execute this op on so many moving targets—through hundreds of swaying trees—with this type of wind velocity coming from the south west, while using an unfamiliar weapon—lost seconds between shots wouldn’t be his friend. There were too many obstacles in his way to successfully leaving this hide alive. He’d be skating on the edge of both discovery and retaliatory gunfire before he could re-position, lock in on his targets, and dial in for wind and distance before getting off another round. Here was the ideal situation for the need of a second man: a spotter to help with overwatch. Namely, Charlie—the best of the best.

  From the helicopter in Peru’s Huallaga River Valley only seven hours earlier, the minute details of accurate firing hadn’t mattered. They weren’t sexy shots but damn it was a blast. The firepower from just one rocket propelled grenade (RPG) launcher managed to take out a small airfield used for trafficking, two cargo transport planes, and three La Muerta Mundial illicit coca crops. Now that weapon delivered uncomplicated justice for Rick’s kidnapping and probably cost Morales close to $12 billion. All delivered in perfect accompaniment to AC/DC’s “Black Ice.” He even got a free ride to Paraguay from the Peruvian National Police asset flying the chopper.

  An incoming call from Bennet caused his hand to slowly ascend to his ear and he listened carefully to his father-in-law’s instructions following a tap to the Bluetooth.

  “I’m patching in coordinates of the caravan to your GPS. The satellite reveals six, two and half-ton army trucks and three commercial vehicles, two leading the caravan the other at the rear. They are eight miles to your west and coming over the ridge onto the mountain pass. Oh, and we have a change of travel plans between Venice and Prague, nothing to worry about but airport security is on heightened alert. I’ve booked train travel under your 2nd alias: Edward Ferrars. Contact me when you’re in the clear.”

  Damn. The last train he’d been on was with Liz from Monte Carlo to Seville. Yeah, he could get lost in that daydream of what she did to him in the lavatory. Those luscious lips—that tongue—and how she left him with blue balls. He wanted to laugh, maybe even indulge his drifting thoughts but his targets were only 12 klicks out from his position. Focus man and pray this rifle doesn’t jam—one second off and an unanticipated wind band and you’re fucked. Then you’ll never get home to those lips. He gave his word to her, dammit, and would not even consider the untenable position of failure in this mission.

  What was Liz doing now? Was she with him, shacking up with cowboy in a run-down double-wide in Tennessee? He felt the anger burn under his skin at the thought and groaned, missing her as much. His blood boiled in revenge toward Morales and jealousy over Wentworth. His hate had grown exponentially over the last week.

  Although his father-in-law had assured him of her well-being, he still couldn’t stop worrying about her, but he knew that no matter what, she’d remain in Dixon’s sights, no matter where or with whom she was with. There was no doubt in his mind that of all his security team, that man would see through the fog of deception and know he was alive.

  “Get ready, Diablo, because I’m coming for you. I’m going to destroy everything you hold dear,” he said under his breath.

  In the steadily increasing darkness of the storm and dusk, he patiently passed nine minutes by controlling his breathing, willing his heart rate to lower, and relaxing his diaphragm. Again, he checked the wind, which had increased and, no doubt, was fiercer on the open dirt bypass 200 yards away as it whipped through the forest clearing. He watched through his scope’s magnification how the torrential rain beat up the road, muddying the thick earth and pooling in its many uneven depressions.

  Below him—even at his distance from the target—he could feel the swampy ground rumble from the weight of 15 tons of steel loaded with their precious cargo on their way through the barely-wide-enough mountain pass leading to the Parana River and then Brazil. They weren’t counting on him and the firepower of his new Russian pal, Dragonov.

  Within the rifle scope’s peripheral, he could see a black SUV, which most likely held the protection detail, known as sombrillas, crest the hill with ominous clouds at its back
, but a zipper-like noise—loud enough to pierce through the beat of the rain—competed with the heavy drone of the deuce and a halfs. Out of nowhere, a dirt bike burst from the forest, barreling down beside the commercial vehicles at full throttle, kicking up sprays of mud and water from the tires in its effort to get ahead of the convoy.

  The rider, perhaps one of their falcons, crouched low when he cut in front of the first vehicle. The old military trucks were now all lined in a nice neat row ready for him to pick off one at a time as they came into his crosshair, but the 65 mph gusts directed the freezing rain sideways. For the fourth time, he had to adjust his mil-dot calculations. Lost seconds, yet again, as they continued to drive faster through the downpour.

  If the SUV pressed the horn, he couldn’t hear it, but the dirt bike pushed on until its unexpected spin-out in a blaze of circling mud around it. The jackass was riding too fast for both the weather and roadway conditions. The wheels slid out from under the rider and toppled the motorcycle right in his crosshair in the middle of the narrow road some 50 yards ahead of the convoy.

  This was an interesting and fortuitous situation. Yes, a definite open window when the two SUVs leading the caravan abruptly stopped, hence, trapping the fleet of drug-laden trucks that slammed their brakes behind their security escorts.

  The rider lay inert under the bike.

  The driver and passenger from the front vehicle exited into the rain to check on—or most likely—move the bike and body now impinging their progress. Cautiously, they approached with rifles ready to mow the biker down just in case.

  The driver and passenger from the second SUV followed suit and walking behind their comrades, they readied their AK-47s as back-up.

  A crack of lightning lit the sky followed by an immediate boom of thunder that he felt in his veins.

  It all happened in a millisecond; through his scope, he watched the biker effortlessly shove the motorcycle from atop her and rise with the grace of a firebird ready for destruction. Leggy and slender, she wore red and black leather. She, because no man would have a figure like that, was fearless against La Muerta Mundial and, with the rain attacking her, she bent clutching her side with one gloved hand; perhaps she’s wounded.