In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  In an instant, she withdrew two shuriken stars from her belt and flung them simultaneously with both hands into the first two thugs’ chests. They fell dead without having had a chance to fire a shot at her.

  Rat-a-tat-tat AK-47 machine gun fire rang out from the two remaining sombrillas, but she ducked, twisted, and flipped narrowly missing bullet contact. As she did so, she released two more stars from her hands, flinging them in an impressive take down.

  Four dead bodies lay on their back staring up at the pummeling sky. With the convoy now halted behind the immobile SUVs, the lethal woman had given him the perfect set-up. It all happened so fast—within only a fraction of a second—that he barely had time to hold his breath to take his shots before the truckers could respond with directed gunfire.

  One after the other, three SUVs and six deuces, each carrying tons of narcotics, exploded in under five and a half seconds.

  The woman ran to the bike and throttled full tilt, disappearing down the mountain-pass in the heavy rain. She was gone before he could assess the situation or speculate who she was, but she had skills—Caroline–type of skills.

  He rose, muddied and cold, leaving the rifle and ghillie where he found them, then bolted through the trees, warming to the five-mile run south in the rain where his own motorbike awaited to take him to safety. “Next … stop … Cadiz,” he panted.

  ***

  It took every ounce of restraint not to give Iceman the middle finger before getting back on the dirt bike. Oh, yes, he would have seen it through his riflescope. If she hadn’t promised everyone else to keep her identity secret, she certainly would have made sure that ass knew exactly who she was. Affronted by his deceit—not to mention that she hated ops in the rain—Caroline cursed him with every four-letter word she could think of as she barreled through the torrential weather. Lightning and thunder were nothing compared to the anger boiling below her surface, devastating her equilibrium. If it weren’t for the circumstances, she might have otherwise enjoyed this mission. The thrill of staring down and defeating four locked and loaded AK-47s should be making her feel invincible not vulnerable. Further, she couldn’t deny that—on this particular mission—she would have given her life, gladly. And that pissed her off.

  There was no doubt he was alive, and during the massive fire power reigning down upon the truck convoy, she screamed, “He’s fucking alive!” She sped like hell through the mud, splattering it upward onto her helmet. “You fooled everyone!”

  But how could she not admire the ultimate chess move made to his enemy—a man who tried to kill Iceman’s wife? How could she not admire his single-handedness in bringing down such a villain as Juan Sanchez-Morales? She’d always known he was the best, the most tenacious, and someone not to be trifled with. But she’d never known him to pursue vengeance on this grand scale—and that broke her heart.

  A surge of emotions supplanted her anger, coming strong like a tidal wave, so much so that she couldn’t continue onward. Slowing the bike, she rode it into a break in the trees for shelter.

  Here, alone in the middle of nowhere where not a soul was in distance of the fearsome Kunoichi warrior, she stopped and removed her helmet. Cutting the engine she sat straddling the bike, giving in to the massive weight of repressed feelings.

  Lightning cracked overhead followed by its angry partner in a thunderous boom.

  Lifting her face to the canopy, she let the rain pummel her hair and flesh, and finally released the dammed-up fat tears she’d held in for so long. Concealed by and comingling with the rain, they rolled down her cheeks, unfettered, unrestrained. Tears that should have been shed years ago when Iceman broke it off between them, suppressed tears that kept her bitterness toward him alive, tears that would have helped her move on from loving him.

  Yes. After many endeavors to purge him from her blood, she still loved him. Loved him as much as he loved his wife.

  Sobbing forward onto the handlebars, she asked “Why?” Why she was this irate over his duplicity and the answer came resoundingly clear with her scream. “Because he died for her! Not you!”

  She knew that the bond he had with the little woman was a rare, unbreakable and unshakeable thing, and she’d never have it—not with him, at least. No matter how hard she had lied to herself about moving on, she never was able to, was never able to admit to herself that she didn’t have “it,” whatever that “it” was to make him love her as violently as he loved Liz.

  Weeping, she conceded to her emotions; she was finally, ready to release him from her heart—for good this time.

  22

  She Devil, He Devil

  September 5

  Venice

  The last time Liz had flown without her husband was on the flight to Paris from Dulles to save him from the clutches of Caroline’s home-wrecking, manipulative hands. Although her persona had been severely altered, she’d at least traveled as Elizabeth Bennet, sporting a blonde wig and a cheesy, fake southern accent. She’d worn skinny blue jeans and a T-shirt that read “I Have Mad Ninja Skills.” No, she hadn’t had Caroline-like ninja skills, but she could throw a few knives with dead-on accuracy.

  Now standing in the ornate, ancient lobby of the Hotel Danieli on St. Mark’s Basin in Venice, waiting for her sister to wrap up check-in, she wore short hair and an equally short skirt supplied by her sister. Also borrowed from Jane, her T-shirt read “Fight Like a Girl.” She felt out of place in such opulence and her accent was barely-British, try as she might to mimic Sarah. Further, her name was Margaret Thornton. And, while not angry, she was getting there with each passing minute; everything was ticking her off. Four weeks and one day had passed and here she was in the romantic city of Venice in a six-hundred year old building that her husband would have absolutely adored.

  The interminable nine-hour flight obsessing over everything Fitzwilliam had said and done before his departure to Bermuda and the horrific circumstances of his death, left her even more sullen than before. If he … if there was even … if my suspicions are correct … death would most definitely come to Fitzwilliam Darcy! But it can’t be true …

  Oh, and the bumpy flight, the claustrophobia!—the sickness —made her outright belligerent. Simply put, she felt like a she-devil and Jane astutely was keeping her cautious distance, whether because she didn’t want to be at the receiving end or because she was keeping a secret. Her sister’s laissez faire reply, “Lizzy, it’s been a long day for you. You’re just tired,” felt like the supreme blow-off. A master at deflection, Jane had employed almost every tactic on the plane: incessantly talking about Charlie’s supposed affair, (which she wasn’t buying); her parents’ reunion, (which she’d not dwelled on in 48 hours); and the latest lecture series at the Spy Museum, (which she could give a crap about) so that she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. And dammit, her sister may have even faked sleep—and tears!—just to not discuss this wife’s paranoia over the remote possibility that everyone was wrong, even her, regarding Fitzwilliam’s death. Or maybe it was all just a delusion of wishful thinking now that she suspected that she was pregnant. But still, it deserved at least a conversation. Well, at least her sister left her stupid jokes at the boarding gate in Dulles.

  Surrounded by stunning marble and opulent Venetian gothic architecture, she dispelled her grumpiness with a long sigh, feeling a little more lighthearted when her thoughts clung to the word: Pregnant.

  Amid a myriad of foreigners in the lobby, she recalled that time in Monaco when waiting for her luggage with Knightley eyeing her up at her back behind cool shades. Goodness, Iceman was soooo jealous. She couldn’t help but to chuckle aloud at the recollection of his stone-cold expression. He was an untouchable, god-like enigma to her with that brooding scowl and bad boy persona, which had turned debonair in a heartbeat and a red Ferrari. My how he had changed after they arrived in Seville and he sat in the hotel bar staring and flirting with her over the phone. It must have been that lavatory tryst that broke him.

  She flexed her hand—
open, close.

  The thing is … we were made for each other, and no matter what this trip reveals—be it another family or a faked death, or both—he’ll always own my heart no matter how broken it is. I’ll always be his, always love him, understand him, forgive him, sacrifice for him, and fight for him, again and again and again—after I beat the shit out of him if he’s alive, of course. But, if my trip to the bank in Geneva reveals nothing at all beyond the fact that I’m a crazy, paranoid bitch with whacked out hormones, then I’ll go on with my life with our child, a manifestation of our intense love. His memory will give me strength.

  The week before he left, he’d shared a line from the book he was reading: “Pure love and suspicion cannot dwell together: at the door where the latter enters, the former makes its exit.” Was this his way of saying when the time comes, her heart would decide?

  At the reception counter, Jane glanced over her shoulder, obviously checking to see if her attitude had improved. Her sister’s glossy pink lips spread in a gleeful smile and then she held up two fingers, followed by a fist pump, meaning they got two rooms instead of just the one Charlie had reserved for their intended romantic getaway. Yes, her sister needed her on this trip, and she’d do her very best to focus on her happiness as she secretly sought her own answers. Jane was her priority. And sleep. And peeing on a stick. She smiled back and waved.

  Venice … the floating city known for romance; any normal person would be excited about it especially after the water taxi and seeing all those gondolas, but her arrival felt empty, just as she knew it would. Her gaze panned the old-world lobby and the concierge desk, settling on the framed tourism advertisements; one in particular drew her toward it: The gala premiere of Madama Butterfly at the renowned Gran Teatro La Fenice di Venezia opera house.

  “See something you’d like to do?” Jane inquired coming beside her with their shared wheeled suitcase.

  She simply sighed. “Fitzwilliam and I loved opera. In fact, this particular one had significant meaning for me last year when he left for Peru to rescue Rick. Like Bermuda … I was so afraid he wouldn’t return, and he didn’t. Of course, our marriage and his intentions weren’t a sham and a scam like the Naval Officer’s in the opera.”

  “Hmmm,” her sisterly sarcastically replied.

  Testily she snapped. “What? You don’t think going to save his cousin in the Amazon was noble?”

  “No! I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what I meant!”

  “I admit my life does feel like I’m living in an opera … and almost all of them end badly.”

  “Do any end good?”

  “Turandot. Fitzwilliam’s favorite.”

  “Well there you go! Do you want to check it out?”

  “Madama Butterfly? This is your trip, Jane. You don’t like this kind of music.”

  “It’s your trip, too. I think, after all you’ve been through, a special night out might help to get your mojo back. You’d certainly look better, maybe finally get around to tweezing your eyebrows. You have to admit, you sort of let yourself go a little.”

  “What?”

  “I’m joking. Look, it’s cool. I’ll try the opera for you. I mean, it’s not Taylor Swift but maybe I’ll like it.”

  How wonderful it would be for their baby to experience Puccini as it grows, and for her to dress up in something Fitzwilliam would have liked. She toyed with the necklace that hadn’t left her collar bone since after the funeral. “I doubt we can get tickets so late.”

  “Don’t be so negative.”

  “I have nothing to wear,” she offered as another excuse.

  “Whatever, moneybags. We can go shopping, you know—and maybe you can get a better bra because, baby girl, that one you’ve got on is making all these Italian dudes go ga-ga.”

  At least I didn’t pay for mine. Okay that was too mean. Stop it, Liz!

  Her sister leaned in and whispered behind her hand. “You’d think since you lost so much weight your boobs would be smaller. Isn’t your back hurting?”

  She rolled her eyes. If you only knew why my boobs are killing me. “I suppose I could shop, but I don’t think on such short notice—”

  “Hey … I got you the passport, didn’t I? Trust me. I’m an Obsidian girl; there’s nothing I can’t get done, especially for my sister. I may not be Caroline, but I have my own skills.”

  “Yes you do, and I love every one of them,” she hugged her sister, passive aggressively adding, “And so does Charlie.”

  “Pfft. I meant I know how to schmooze an Italian concierge. We’re in Venice now, so to hell with Charlie. I want to party, party, party!”

  “You mean you want to find his replacement, Pussy Galore.”

  Behind tinted sunglasses, her sister’s eyes narrowed. “Ha, ha. That wasn’t very nice. I’m wounded that you think me so shallow. I’ll have you know, I’m grieving. Sex with a Venetian is not a priority on this trip, even if I’ve never had one before.”

  Grieving? Not very convincingly.

  She gazed out the window then scanned the lobby. It still seemed so unreal to be here in Italy without Fitzwilliam. The next ten days were going to be very interesting. “I’m sorry, Janie. I’m just bitchy and tired and I have to pee. And … I can’t help the feeling that we’re being watched.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m an Obsidian girl—I’ll protect you if trouble comes.”

  “So you keep saying, but who’s going to protect you?”

  “You, silly!”

  ***

  Prague

  Morales couldn’t control the rage when it came to the surface. His world was literally burning around him—and most of his money had disappeared into thin air from his accounts. The cool persona that came with the confidence of being a very dangerous and powerful man had snapped under the weight of his enemy’s winning. El Negro should be called El Fantasma. Every falcon, sicario, los capos, and soldados; every regionales barrone, narcotraficantes, and—AND—the Junta Directiva themselves (the group of various worldwide drug kingpins!) had heard of and feared this El Negro supposedly based out of Argentina, yet none had met its jefe.

  The second-story of the Sanchez-Morales family townhouse overlooked the Vltava River, but he was oblivious to the beauty before him. He stared out a window and swore aloud, uncaring if the children heard. His hands balled into tight fists, digging the tips of his fingers into his palm in frustration. Every tense nerve had snapped in his ability to retaliate for his losses: property, men (including the disappearance of Claudia), and now his finances beginning with the hacking of all his legitimate (laundering) enterprises bank accounts. Even his comercializador located in London was found murdered, floating in Bristol’s River Frome with his neck sliced open.

  Feeling utterly helpless to control the bleeding destruction of his late-father’s empire, swear words flew from his mouth. La Muerta Mundial’s operations in Bermuda, Panama, Peru, Bolivia, London, and Paraguay had been destroyed by a nameless, faceless enemy who wanted absolute control of the business.

  “Argghh!!” he yelled, violently running his hands through his hair, almost pulling at the roots.

  “Juan, your language influences the children!” Maria foolishly disciplined from the doorway.

  “To hell!” he barked.

  “Can you please—”

  He picked up the vase closest to him beside the window and threw it against the wall directly behind her, narrowly missing her head. Crystal shattered into tiny pieces in a cascade of ice. “Do not tell me what to do!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, charging to her.

  She backed against the wall, terrified of him, but that was nothing new.

  Pinning her there with his grip against her shoulders, he yelled again and she tightly shut her eyes.

  “If you dare, question me again …” He raised his hand to her then slapped hard. “There will be more of this!”

  ***

  September 6 – Early Morning

  Cádiz

&n
bsp; Unlike Darcy’s many well-placed assets along his warpath, Knightley only had one: the second richest man in the world, his former employer. Far from honest, closer to dirty, the Arab owned a share in just about everything, except drugs, weapons, and human trafficking. Ruthless and shrewd as he was, he drew hard lines on running operations in those three. Further, he was a generous man by repaying loyalty, which ensured continued loyalty. He also owned three of the six shipping lines into Reina Sofia Quay at the Port of Cádiz Bay, one of which La Muerta Mundial chartered. That was what made him dirty by proxy.

  As Operation Vienna Waltz’s diamond despot grew colder, having died by brass constipation on the toilet with a bullet to the chest, Knightley had grabbed a taxi to the airport and was on the first plane out of Austria.

  Five hours later, having ditched his tuxedo following the murderous International Diamond Conference gala, he leaned against an inert crane blending into the blackness of inactivity on the pre-dawn dock. It would be another two hours before the port’s labor union (the one supplied by Morales’s Cadiz connection) went to work on unloading the uninspected 23 containers.

  Behind the Ray-Ban night vision sunglasses Bennet customized for him, he made out Morales’s thugs along the ship’s perimeter, Uzi’s draped over their shoulders, trails of green-tinted cigarette smoke rising into the midnight sky. Security was tight; he should know. He was acting sentry for the port, one sent by his former employer, the owner of the Transmediterranea Shipping line. At this hour, no one else was allowed on the quay. No Uzi for him, just a suppressed Glock 9mm, work clothes, which included a black wool hat, an identification badge, and the shipping manifest—all had been left for him at the Inspection Station. Of course, all of it was on the off-chance he got made, which he had no intention.