by Gayle Wilson
Not the time or the place for that, he told himself. First things first. And the first thing was an answer to her question. Is that safe?
“Not for him,” he promised softly.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” Elizabeth whispered.
Neither could he, despite what he’d been hoping as they’d made their way here. His cabin seemed untouched by the conflagration that had swept down Sinclair Mountain, in spite of the direction in which it had been headed when they’d veered off to flee downhill.
Of course, it was always possible that if they had tried to come here, they wouldn’t have been able to reach the clearing before they’d been cut off by the flames. They had survived by going down the mountain, as grueling as the journey had been. In any case, second-guessing the decision he’d made then was counterproductive now.
“The topography protected it,” he guessed.
After all, the small log house had stood in this same spot for more than a century and a half. This was certainly not the only wildfire that had occurred on the ridge during that time.
“Stay here,” he ordered, starting to rise from the crouch he’d assumed when they’d hidden in the underbrush to observe the clearing.
Elizabeth put her hand on his arm, checking the motion. Surprised, he turned to look at her.
“I haven’t done anything to deserve that,” she said.
That. Being left behind while he went to find Jorgensen.
And she was right. He couldn’t fault any of her actions to this point. Other than the one she had taken by coming here. If he were honest, he would have to admit he’d have done the same thing had their situations been reversed.
He would also resent like hell any implication that he wasn’t capable of handling himself, no matter what situation he found at the cabin. And after all, he was the one operating under a disability.
As much as he hated the word, he acknowledged that what had happened back at the creek had put them both in danger. Only the sound of Elizabeth’s voice had kept him anchored to the present.
Given the recent frequency of the flashbacks, he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t have another. That had always been the problem. He could guarantee nothing about his condition. Or when it would come into play. He couldn’t argue that having Elizabeth as backup wouldn’t increase the odds of success for this mission. It would, however, put her into danger.
And he had already made this decision back at Griff’s. It was another one that didn’t need second-guessing.
“You saw what happened back there,” he said.
“All the more reason—”
“All the more reason for you not to be depending on me. It should be obvious, even to you, that isn’t a healthy pastime.”
She said nothing for a heartbeat, but her hand didn’t release its hold. He thought about shaking it off, but the feel of those warm, steady fingers was more than comforting. It was nearly sensual.
He had held her hand through part of their headlong descent. He had not had time then to be aware of any sexual aspect of that contact. Now, incredibly, he was.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I didn’t go into any of this thinking it was going to be particularly healthy. Or thinking of it as a pastime.”
This. The CIA. Covert ops. The External Security Team. Even the hunt for a terrorist who had made her a target from the start.
“I never know what will trigger it,” he said, trying to keep his face expressionless. He hated talking about the flashbacks. Hated everything associated with his so-called disorder. “It can be anything. Something totally unexpected.”
“I understand that,” she said.
Her eyes hadn’t changed. They remained on his, reflecting none of the emotions he had been terrified he would see within them.
Which doesn’t mean she won’t eventually feel them.
He had known all along that she would believe this couldn’t make any difference to her feelings about him. He, on the other hand, had lived with this a long time. He knew all the subtle, and the not-so-subtle, ways in which it had changed him. Ways she couldn’t possibly imagine.
“What kind of person would you be if all you’ve seen and done and experienced didn’t affect you?” she asked softly.
He shook his head, but for some reason his throat closed, tight and aching at what was in her voice.
“That’s the person I wouldn’t want to love,” she went on. “Thank God he doesn’t exist.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice low.
“Give me a chance, Rafe. You’ve never given me a chance.”
“Elizabeth.” It was clearly protest, but it didn’t have the desired effect. He should have known it wouldn’t.
“Just like you aren’t giving me a chance on this,” she went on. “We’ve worked together. I’ve never let you down. What makes you think—”
“I’m not worried about you letting me down.” It was as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Or didn’t want to hear it.
“And I’m not worried about you letting me down,” she said. “I am worried about whatever Jorgensen is doing while we waste time arguing.”
She was right, of course. They didn’t have time to settle this now. And she wasn’t about to let him dictate what she could and couldn’t do. Besides, deep in his gut he knew she was right and he was wrong.
He had told Hawk he wouldn’t let her be used as bait. He wouldn’t. That was a different proposition from the one she was making now.
Elizabeth was a former operative, and a good one. She had the training, the experience and the intelligence to bring the terrorist down—even if something happened to him. In that case, getting Jorgensen had to take precedence over Rafe’s desire to protect her. He didn’t have the moral right to refuse her help.
Trying to hide that struggle to balance his feelings for her and his responsibilities to the mission, he turned to look up at the cabin again. Nothing about the scene there had changed.
It was always possible he was wrong in believing Jorgensen was waiting for him. The clearing might really be as peaceful as it appeared.
“See the line of trees that runs along the right side of the rise all the way to the house?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the cabin.
“White oaks and poplars,” she said, her voice as calm as her face had been while she’d awaited his instructions at the creek. As ready now to do what he asked of her as she had been then.
“Use them to work your way up to the cabin. From there secure the front entrance. Don’t let anyone in that way. And don’t come in yourself unless I call for you.”
“What if he’s inside?”
“Then what you hear won’t be me calling you.”
“I hear somebody firing, and I’m in,” she warned.
“Just use the front door,” he cautioned. “I have to know where you are at all times.”
He began to rise, preparing to make his way up the hill. Her fingers tightened over his arm. This time he turned his wrist, breaking her hold.
There was nothing else he was going to talk about. Not now. He had given her what she wanted. If they got through today…
Whatever else needed to be resolved between them would have to wait until after the mission had been completed. And if it didn’t end in the way all of them hoped it would be, there would be no need for that discussion.
A DOZEN SCENARIOS played out in his head as he made his way up the rise. He climbed, choosing his cover automatically. He was not even thinking about the physical aspects of what he was doing. He knew this terrain better than he knew the contours of his own face, and he had participated in a dozen assaults like this during his days with the agency.
Jorgensen might hold the high ground, but other than that, the advantages here were all his. And they were pretty impressive.
Not only was this his home turf, but he had long ago prepared for someone trying to invade it. To some people, those precautions might merit his being labeled
paranoid. Given his background, Rafe had considered them highly rational.
What kind of person would you be if all you’ve seen and done and experienced didn’t affect you? Not the kind who worried about someone invading his property.
As isolated as this place was, however, there would be only one reason for someone to seek it out. The reason Jorgensen had come.
At the top of the rise, Rafe settled into the observation position he’d decided on during the way up. Shielded from the house by one of those glacier-deposited stones, he forced his eyes to examine every branch and bush and blade of grass that surrounded the cabin before he did the same to the windows and door.
Everything was exactly as he had left it. Not a leaf seemed out of place. None of the entrances appeared to have been opened or tampered with. And yet he knew, as surely as he had known anything in his life, Jorgensen was here.
He could feel him on some instinctive, almost primitive level. He couldn’t have articulated a single proof that made him believe the terrorist was waiting for him, but still he knew it. And with as much certainty as he had felt that day in Paris after he’d pulled the trigger.
An eye for an eye. That’s what it came down to. Both the political and the personal. This was all about vengeance, righteous or otherwise.
And no matter how this turned out today, he didn’t regret what he’d done five years ago. There were plenty of things he did regret. Such as refusing to explain to Elizabeth why he’d left.
His eyes considered the stand of trees where she should be hiding. Then, tearing his gaze away from them, he shoved the Glock into the waistband of his jeans, the butt toward his right hand. Quicker to access it there than in a holster.
He melted back into the forest, slowly working his way toward the left side of the cabin where, by design, the woods had been allowed to encroach on the clearing. The branches of one massive oak angled over the roofline. Using as footholds several narrow, ladder-like strips of wood he had nailed into its trunk years ago, he climbed it.
Once he was standing on the lowest branch, which was as thick as his waist, he hesitated, back pressed against the tree. There were no sounds from inside the house, although the chimney would have been a natural conduit for them.
He stepped out on the limb, holding on to the one above with his left hand as he walked across. As soon as he was above the house, he stooped and, balancing carefully, lowered himself to the roof.
One step carried him to the rock chimney. Placing one hand on it, he squatted on the peak, leaning forward to lift a door that had been cut into the decking. The hand-hewn cedar shakes had been refitted so that they hid the opening when it was closed.
He paused to listen before he lowered himself into the attic. He walked across the ceiling joists to the interior access panel. With the same caution he’d employed since he stepped off the branch, he stooped again, easing it open.
The room below was a utility hallway that connected the cabin to his workshop. Its only furnishings were a stackable washer and dryer and a wooden clothes hamper. As he’d expected, there was no one in the room.
He lowered himself until he was standing on top of the hamper. His eyes swept the narrow space as he completed his descent. Both doors, the one that led into the house as well as the one that led to the workshop, were standing open. And he hadn’t left them that way.
He took the Glock from his waistband and climbed down off the hamper. His weapon in firing position, left hand supporting the right, he edged sideways toward the inside door, his eyes moving back and forth between it and the one leading out into the workshop.
The big central room of the cabin was empty. As soon as he had verified that, he began to ease back along the hallway, still throwing the occasional glance back at the interior door. Despite the continued silence, his instincts were all telling him that he wasn’t in the house alone.
Still, perhaps because of the quality of that deep silence, he was totally unprepared for the scream. Clearly feminine and as clearly agonized, it echoed and then reechoed within the enclosed space of the workshop.
Elizabeth.
The thought like a knife in his heart, he was already charging at the door that would take him inside the shop when he felt the disconnect begin.
He was powerless to prevent it. The scream went on and on, catapulting him back to the day he had touched the woman in the embassy. The noise she had made had been exactly like this. Prolonged and hysterical.
And this time he not only saw her face, he heard the sounds she had made as he tried desperately to free her from the rubble. Because of the nearness of the fire, he knew that if he couldn’t get to her…
He stumbled through the doorway, surrounded again by heat and smoke and flame. Something, perhaps a thing as simple as sunlight coming through the windows of the shop or the mundane familiarity of his surroundings, snapped the thread that had drawn him back to what had happened in Amsterdam.
As the scene from the past faded, his eyes focused on the tape recorder sitting on his workbench. There was a second or two to understand why it was there before the back of his head seemed to explode. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
The stillness was eerie, Elizabeth thought, leaning back against the oak where she’d taken cover. So complete it seemed unnatural. Not a bird sang. There was no hum of insects. Holding her breath as she listened, she realized there was no sound at all in the small clearing.
Maybe the silence could be explained by the proximity of the fire. Although it hadn’t reached this far, a pall of thin white smoke hung in the tops of the nearby trees.
Her shoulders still pressed against the trunk of the tree, she had eased far enough forward to be able to see the front door of the cabin. Her gaze lifted from the house to the woods beyond, searching for some sign that Rafe was also in place.
Even if he were, she knew she wouldn’t be able to see him. He knew the land, and the opportunities for concealment it offered. She wondered if he had been able to track her progress up the slope and then put the thought from her mind. As long as Jorgensen hadn’t, she didn’t care. She wasn’t hiding from Rafe.
Her eyes again surveyed the clearing around the Sinclair homestead. Nothing moved. Nothing seemed out of place. It was all as peaceful as a baby’s nap.
Just as she decided that, she heard a single gunshot, and then two more in rapid succession. And she would have sworn they had all come from inside the cabin. Jorgensen shooting at Rafe on the other side of the clearing?
Which might mean that he didn’t know she was on this side. While he was concentrating on Rafe, that would give her an opportunity to get in behind him. After all, that’s why she was here. To provide backup.
She put both hands around the grip of the Beretta. When she had taken it out of the pocket of her still-damp slacks, she had felt a momentary frisson of anxiety. Too many old movies. Getting the powder wet wasn’t a problem with modern weapons.
She looked across what now seemed the vast expanse between her position and the front door of the cabin. One step at a time, she told herself, estimating the distance to a small utility shed that stood midway between before she stepped out of the woods.
THE SOUND of the first shot woke him. His cheek was pressed against the floor where he’d fallen, but while he’d been unconscious his hands had been tied behind his back. Whatever had been used was tight enough that the pain in his wrists competed with that at the back of his skull.
He opened his eyes to a field of vision limited by the fact that he was lying on his stomach. He lifted his head, setting off a new chorus of agony right above his neck. It made the pain in his hands fade from consideration.
Almost immediately a foot was placed against the side of his head, pushing it down. The pressure wasn’t brutal, but it was definitely controlling.
“Just lie still, Sinclair. It won’t be much longer now.”
The accent was the same one that had haunted his night
mares during the year of his search. The same one he had heard on Elizabeth’s answering machine.
The man behind him, who he assumed was Adler Jorgensen, fired his gun again. And then once more. Fragments of wood rained down on Rafe’s face.
The bastard was shooting into the ceiling. And as soon as Rafe realized that, he knew why.
I hear firing, and I’m there.
Adler Jorgensen wasn’t going to bother seeking Elizabeth out. He knew she would come to him.
Lying here helpless, Rafe knew it, too.
He also knew there was no use appealing to the terrorist for her life. He had come here with the express intent of killing Elizabeth. More specifically he had come here to make Rafe watch as she died.
The controlling foot was removed, allowing him to move. He turned his head to the side as far as he could, straining until he could glimpse the face of the man standing behind him.
The first thing he noted was that the grip Jorgensen had on the Walther he held was completely professional. The second that its muzzle was pointed at his forehead.
When his gaze reached the terrorist’s face, the familial connection to Gunther was obvious. A younger version, of course. Different haircut and clothing, both less sophisticated than the older man had favored.
The coldly murderous eyes, however, seemed exactly the same. Of course, he had never been forced to witness triumph mingled with the hatred in Gunther’s. Both were evident in these.
A fuzz of pale whiskers covered his cheeks, and the equally fair hair on his head had been cut very short and brushed upward. He looked like the average European teenager, even to the black U2 T-shirt he wore.
It was hard to equate this boy with the deaths of more than three hundred innocent people. And despite the year he’d devoted to hunting down the older Jorgensen, Rafe found that he couldn’t even remember the cause either of them espoused.
It didn’t matter. Contrary to the popular sociological theories of cause and effect, he had always believed terrorists were born, not made. Like serial killers, they took their experiences, the same ones shared by thousands of people who didn’t kill, and used them as excuses to justify what they did.