Red with rage, Diablo demanded, “Say it—you’re real name. You are Darcy.”
Narrowing his eyes, he spoke gravely. “Alive and in the flesh—a calculating, ruthless, and focused enemy who doesn’t like when someone fucks with his family.”
“How did you do this?”
Smirking, he quoted the Count of Monte Cristo. “How did I escape the blast in Bermuda? With difficulty. How did I plan this moment? With absolute pleasure. You wanted this, Morales. You begged for it when you went after my wife in my ancestral home.”
“Impressive, but you will finally meet your demise today.”
“I don’t think so. You should have listened to me when I said come alone. You have five men less than when you arrived, you lack leverage and you are devoid of a skilled shooter to take me out. You’ve already lost, Morales.” He watched as the sniper red dot emitted from high up on the castle roof appeared on Morales’s forehead.
“Oh, but I do have leverage!” Morales proclaimed with renewed cockiness.
“A 9mm is not leverage and will not stop me. Right now there are two semi-automatic sniper rifles dialed in on the center of your forehead.”
“Ah … but I have something infinitely more valuable to you than witnessing my death.”
From the forest, two soldiers assisted and pushed two shuffling, lithe women to the pathway. Their heads were covered; their wrists bound together at their abdomen. They ambled as though drugged. Darcy knew that shapely body and motorcycle riding boots. Fuck!
His heart dropped to his stomach. No! No! No! His fist tightened at his side, opening and closing as his mind worked.
“I should like to kill you all at once and be done with it, but I would very much enjoy watching you squirm, El Negro. Carlos is very talented at gutting dogs.”
“You—and he—will not leave this park alive, Morales; you can count on that.”
“Perhaps not, but I will depart this world with the satisfaction of having destroyed you in the end.”
Ten feet from him and his enemy, the soldiers stopped and pulled the black hoods from their captives’ heads.
Immediately, Liz’s sedated, sleepy eyes met his and he was proud to see defiance and strength in them despite whatever drug had incapacitated her struggle. Her sister, however, was a zombie—devoid of fight or flight. There was fear in her eyes.
“So now you see …” Morales said, walking to Liz, “I have what you want.” He held the pistol to her temple. “Who shall you choose to die first? Your beloved or her sister?” His hand grabbed Liz’s breast. “Maybe I will take her right here in front of you.”
The rain began in a steady fall, matching the pounding pulse in Darcy’s temple. His pumping blood raged inside like a wild animal ready to shred his prey’s flesh, but he held his cool on the outside. His eyes had not once left Liz’s. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Diablo,” he said menacingly, his head twisting, his fist clenching to the point of white-knuckled fury.
Morales lowered his hand and the pistol, but it was replaced by Liz’s captor’s jagged-edged knife pressed against her throat. The greasy-looking goon must be Carlos. He remembered the name as Julia Bertram’s kidnapper and via a phone call Luis made yesterday through the paired cell.
Liz’s wide-eyed gaze, now tinged with fear, held to his.
With a confident swagger Morales walked to Jane, promptly placing the barrel to her temple, then dragging it down her cheek. Jane whimpered. “Perhaps she will die first and I will take Señora Darcy with me in place of Maria, Nadya, Pilar, and my father’s empire.”
Any second, Charlie’s bullet would no doubt take out her captor. He must be going ballistic out there, watching this through his rifle scope.
With palms up, Darcy held out his arms, taking several measured steps closer to Morales. “Let them go and do what you will with me.”
His hands were primed for destruction … his body about to rush at Morales. He just needed to grab and twist the pistol, break his hand and then snap his neck.
“Stop there and instruct your men to lower their rifles.”
Offering momentary appeasement, he raised his right arm high and the one red dot disappeared. Don’t fail me now, kid.
A quick glance and nod to Liz precipitated her surreptitious wink and, before he knew her plan, her bound, fisted hands had somehow fingered the blade from her buckle. She thrust it upward over her shoulder into her captive’s eye.
At the same time, a damn impressive shot from the basilica took out the back of Jane’s captor’s head, dropping him in a heap and pulling her down with him. The poor girl was covered with matter, but the rain washed it from her in red streams.
Liz barely took two running steps to him before Morales turned the pistol on her.
Darcy dove straight into the gunshot between his wife and the bullet, taking it in the left shoulder at close range.
Fuck! Three inches to the right and it would have hit the vest!
The red dot reappeared from the castle and, a second later, Diablo fell dead with a single shot to the center of his forehead, delivered by a hired gun in Iceman’s signature glory. The evil son had met the same fate as the father, only Iceman hadn’t pulled the trigger. It was the best two million dollars he’d ever spent. The not-so stupid kid from West Virginia had come through.
“Fitzwilliam! Oh my God!” Liz cried, cutting her restraints. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fell to her knees, cradling his head on her lap. Unsure of what to do about his shoulder, her hand trembled over his saturated shirt. There was blood everywhere around her, filling concrete potholes with red in the rain.
“What should I do? You’re shot!”
“Forget about me. Did they hurt you?” Did they hurt you!” he demanded, capturing her hand in his, heart breaking at the bruises on her wrists.
“No. I’m okay. I’m fine; I promise.”
He grimaced as his hand pressed hard to his wound but he forcefully instructed Liz. “Focus, babe. I’m all right, but we have to get out of here. Get the ear comms from that guy near the wall.” He wasn’t all right but he’d worry about that after they got to safety. Thank God it didn’t hit an artery and the bullet had gone clean through. The last thing he wanted to do was to dig a slug out from what might be a shattered shoulder.
“Liz!” Jane cried.
“It’s okay, Jane. Everything is going to be okay,” she called out after her.
Liz’s wobbly legs ran across the walkway to the wall and Darcy got up from the ground.
At his feet, Diablo’s lifeless eyes stared at him. Darcy’s lip curled, and then he spit on him.
“Jane. Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes still focused on his enemy.
“No,” she replied in a daze.
He turned to face her and through the downpour, he could see Crash behind her running full speed darting between trees. “Stay right here; Charlie is on his way. Do exactly as he tells you.”
And with that, he ran to Liz—his sole focus—took the receiver from her fingers, and plugged her ear with it. Grabbing her hand, he tugged her along the length of the wall to the very end closest to the castle ruins.
“Do you trust me?” he asked with a forced smile, but damn his shoulder was killing him.
“Always.”
A tug to the black strap of his gear bag pulled it from the thick bramble beside them and he diagonally draped it across his back.
“We’re going over the wall but I need your help.” He removed his tactical gloves from his pockets and handed one to her. “Put this on.”
She helped him over the perimeter and together they grabbed the rope he’d already secured—he with his right arm and she with her left—taking the weight of his wounded side onto her as she wrapped her right arm around his waist. They half-walked and half-slid down to the top of a tunnel hulled out in the rock then continued their descent to the street running between hill and river.
As soon as their feet touched concrete he grabbed her hand again,
leading her into the tunnel where a motorcycle, thankfully, still awaited their getaway. He removed the gear bag from his back, then his jacket, followed by the agonizing removal of his shirt over his head, and standing before her in the bullet proof vest, he noted her changing expression. She was about to cry when she saw the bloody gunshot wound only inches away from his bullet protection.
“Shit happens. I’ll be okay, Liz,” he assured before removing the military clotting syringe from his bag, tore the sterile sealed pack open and handed it to her. “After I get out of this vest, quickly insert the plunger into the tube, take off the blue tip, and insert the applicator into my wound.”
“What? What is this?”
“Hemostatic granules that will clot the blood and eventually stop it.”
She moved to his back and gasped at how large the hole was compared to the front.
“Exit wound,” he simply said, trying not to groan when she inserted the applicator.
“O … kay, now what?” she asked handing him the emptied tube over his shoulder.
“Press this antibacterial gauze to the wound and hold tight to stop the bleeding.”
He could tell she was nervous, afraid to mess up when she stated, “I’m sorry, I’m just not any good at this.”
“Sure you are. Come over here,” he softly ordered, taking her hand to bring her in front of him. With a kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I’m going to be fine.”
“Of course you are … it’s just … I only just found you, again.”
She helped him dress and he straddled the bike, tossing the Kevlar vest on the ground. “You ride,” he finally commanded.
“Just like Moscow?”
“Just like Moscow, only don’t let up on the throttle until you get to the railway station.” He tapped the receiver and said, “Your dad will tell you how to get there.”
Smiling from his heart, he brushed her cheek with his finger. Expediency was suddenly halted by his intake of breath as their gaze held the other’s steadfast. She was an incredibly brave woman and he’d die a thousand times just to keep her safe. “You were awesome back there.”
“So were you, my hero.”
Her two hands cupped his cheeks and she kissed him languidly causing his lips to tingle.
Seconds later, she straddled the bike and shoved the helmet over her head. He squeezed his thighs around her backside to anchor himself and leaned against her back for support, bracing himself for a crazy ride through Prague. His good hand continued to apply pressure to the dressing, but it did nothing to stop his slowly ebbing strength or the pain. He silently prayed that he wouldn’t pass out.
Like the bad ass rider he knew she had become, she effortlessly kicked the motorcycle to life and promptly burned rubber, leaving a skid mark, smoke, and the remnants of Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Iceman, and Obsidian behind them.
30
Pack Clouds Away
Prague Main Train Station
The hustle and bustle of train travelers gave Liz and Fitzwilliam cover as they made their way under the dome and stained glass windows through the crowds. Overhead announcements competed with the sound of her thundering heart, which had not resumed any semblance of a normal cadence since getting off the motorcycle in what was literally a ride for their life—specifically Fitzwilliam’s. They needed to clean the wound and re-apply the dressings. With gear bag now slung over her shoulder, she listened intently to her redeemed father as he viewed a map of the station, hurriedly directing her: “turn right at the café, make a left near the elevator” until they found the “family” restroom.
She looked up at her husband’s wane face before turning the knob and entering.
Little had she known that he carried a medic field kit within the bag. “Like I said, shit happens. I like to be prepared,” he groaned, emptying a bottle of pills into his palm then shoved them into his mouth.
“Please, honey, we need to go to the hospital,” she begged, helping him to remove his clothing once again.
“Not a good idea. We need to get on that train.”
Gingerly, she removed the gauze from his torn flesh and was surprised to see that very little blood seeped from the wound.
Each item that he handed her from the bag came with his explicit instructions as though he’d done this a thousand times but, again, this was part of his mysterious SEAL world that had been locked away in the Icebox for so many years. Who knew they taught those warriors combat trauma medicine? She didn’t.
She cleaned the outside of the bigger hole at his back and then watched—mouth agape and grimacing for him—as he stitched the entry hole closed without even a grunt. A fresh set of anti-bacterial gauze temporarily patched him up. Finally, the last item he removed from the bag was a gray polo shirt, but before she helped him into it, she kissed his shoulder. “To help you heal.”
Fitzwilliam smiled softly and slid his arm around her waist. “That’s all I need.” He raised his right hand to her hair, toying with the short, messy strands. “I was so scared back there … when I saw you approach with that hood on.”
“You? Scared?”
“Yes. Me, scared.”
“It was Jane – she led them to me in Pemberley and at the apartment.”
“I had a feeling. She wasn’t aware of it.”
“I know, but still … anyway, you saved me back there, and now look at you!”
“And you saved me on June 24th at 11:05 in the morning. Yes, now look at me. I might be shot, but I’m damn happy.”
She furrowed her brow. “June 24?”
“Operation Virginia Reel—the first time I saw your beautiful face,” he whispered, lowering his lips to hers.
***
This Orient Express train boarding was entirely different than when Liz departed Venice only two days ago. Sure, the carriage and Salvatore’s cheerful smile greeting passengers were the same, the excitement of embarking travelers and the platform announcements in a foreign language were similar. Even the weather was reminiscent of that fateful afternoon when she stepped on board alone believing herself a widow. While she’d waited for boarding in the Prague station beside her resurrected husband, the rain had stopped, giving way to what promised to be a glorious departure, and she wouldn’t miss a single moment by sleeping it away, no matter how exhausted she was.
But what was entirely different was that in the short span of 48 hours her life had changed, yet again. She squeezed Fitzwilliam’s hand and looked up at him with a smile as they walked toward their Pullman car. Everything was different now, especially her.
Gorgeous white rays streamed through the remaining few clouds, eliciting her happy goose pimples. “It appears that the clouds have packed away just in time for our travel,” she said.
“I’ll feel better when the train leaves the station and we’re headed home.”
“And I’ll feel entirely better when you get to a doctor.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll be in England in 24 hours.”
“Tell me again what it’s called.”
“Helstone Manor in Northern Derbyshire.”
“Is there a greenhouse?”
“Not yet, but there will be … and a nursery.”
Her grin matched his, reaching her eyes. Yes, she considered that the sudden sunshine signified a brilliant new beginning for John and Margaret Thornton’s new life. She might even learn to like the name or settle on a nickname. Maggie? Meg? Margie? Peggy? Only one fit: Lakmé.
“It’s a shame I had to leave my sketchbook back in that apartment.”
“Good-bye and good riddance, I say. The next one I buy for you, you can fill with happy things, unlike the last.”
“The last few pages before I left for Venice were very happy. They were sketched at the cabin when I realized we were going to have a baby.”
He gazed down at her, smiling wistfully. “One day, we’ll go back there with our child; I promise.”
“I hope—hey …, is that who I think it is at the end of
the platform?” she asked, gaze narrowing to make out a familiar couple waiting beside the row of train porters: Rick and Sarah.
Some 40 feet away Sarah’s golden blonde hair shone in the sunlight and, spotting their approach, gave a wide wave. She wore a fashionable, maroon sheath dress and a stunning smile to match. Although sour-faced, Rick looked as sharp as always wearing a navy suit.
“That jackass,” Fitzwilliam said with a chuckle and a head shake.
“I love him,” she replied with a definitive laugh. “And you have no right to complain. Remember this is your mess.”
He grunted then laughed.
They walked in humored silence toward the couple and with each glance up she noted the relief on her husband’s face. He was ready for the fallout from his actions, but he’d get it over and done with before arriving to their new home.
“Heard you ran into a bit of a cluster fuck,” Rick greeted with a smile. “Good thing this particular Marine with medical know-how was already on his way to the train station.”
“Hey, my attentive nurse and Special Ops kit did just fine. I don’t need any stinkin’ Marine to patch me together.”
“It’s better than an Army dude,” Rick laughed. “But if you ask me—it would serve you right.” He cocked an eyebrow. That admonishment followed an immediate hug—not a punch, not a set down—and not a mention made of lying, dying, or rising from the dead.
“Good to see you, man,” Fitzwilliam said, clearly choked up.
“Yeah. Why don’t we get on board and I’ll take a look at Liz’s nursing skills. You look like crap, Mr. Thornton.”
“My back needs a few stitches. How good are you with a suture?”
“For you? Terrible!” Rick laughed.
He hugged Liz hello, and goodness it felt warm and strong, and completely reassuring that reinforcements had arrived.
“Hi, Sarah,” Fitzwilliam greeted and she laughed. “I want you to know that I gave them all bloody hell when they were crucifying you.”
In Good Conscience Page 37