by Dee, Bonnie
Their eyes smarting from the ash floating in the air, they continued to the front of what was left of the manor house.
Brigid gazed at the soot-coated, broken walls. The ground was covered with debris. Tattered bits of paper lay scattered like burnt leaves. Brigid knelt and smoothed out a singed page. “He owned all those beautiful books and treasures and now they’re gone.”
“They were merely trappings for him to deceive the locals into thinking he was a fine gentleman instead of a power-crazed monster.” Gabe spat as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. “There’s nothing we can do here to rectify the destruction. Let’s see what shape the car’s in.”
The dusty rental still sat where they had left it. Gabe got in and started up the engine. It turned over without a hitch.
“We’re in business! Get the gear stowed in the boot. Ethan, lie down in the back seat. Bridge, get the map from the glove compartment. The road that Nolen traveled should be to the right, away from town. It better be clear.”
“Let’s hope they’re avoiding the main roads. If they’ve got those hellhounds that Torc told us about with them, they may not drive that fast.” Ethan grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. “I wish to hell that road is in better shape than my shoulder!”
“Let’s just pray that we’re heading to the right airfield!” Brigid said. “If not, we’ll have wasted a lot of time.” She paused. “Guys, after we get away from the manor house, I want to call over to the town and find out how things are going.” Her mouth thinned. “If there hasn’t been any improvement, we’ll have to stop.”
Gabe nodded. “Agreed. Let’s get in the car and get on our way. Their lead is only increasing.”
Chapter Twelve
1st May—Morning
“There! Turn left there, Gortham.”
Nolen heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, to be that much closer to escape. The secluded airfield was just large enough for a runway able to accommodate a small, private jet. He could have selected one closer to Carrigclarseach, but its very distance suited his plans better.
He turned to Gortham. “Well, don’t sit there. Unload those crates and check the plane. I’ll speak with O’Reilly and tell him we’re here.”
Gortham watched Nolen as he took his satchel and entered the small office. He hadn’t let that bag out of his hands since they’d left the manor house. No matter. Let the old fart cling to his magical geegaws. Soon, they wouldn’t do him any good.
He didn’t have much time. He pushed the front seat all the way back, revealing a clear, glass vial in the depression underneath it. Ah, there was his ticket to freedom from Nolen. As soon as they landed in Birmingham, he’d load up the dogs in the van he’d left in long-term parking and leave the bastard dead as that bitch-in-heat, Mrs. Scathan.
He broke open the vial of poison and poured it into Nolen’s thermos. Within minutes of drinking it, he’d be stiff and cold. Now to get the dogs.
“Ah, my lads, soon, you’ll have your fill of any furry bitch you want and I’ll have my fill of any pussy.” He crooned to them as he checked the false bottoms of their crates to make sure the heroin he’d stashed was undisturbed. All was in order.
Moving quicker now, he loaded up the crates in the plane’s luggage area and secured them. He tossed in his bags and Nolen’s trunks and suitcase and battened them down.
He went through the checklist quickly and efficiently. The use of a private airfield and Nolen’s jet were the main reasons he hadn’t killed him yet. He needed Nolen’s authority one last time.
The pompous bastard never cared what he did in his off hours. He’d spent the past ten years of his free time establishing ties with the European drug trade. With his pilot’s training and immediate accessibility to the plane, he’d been able to offer the safest way out of Europe for some of the major drug lords. With Nolen completely out of the way, and the two million pounds for this last haul, he’d be set for life.
He checked his watch.
Where the hell was Nolen? Ah, there he was, taking his own sweet time as usual, then probably swearing at him if they were late.
He couldn’t wait until the swine was dead.
“Have you checked everything, Gortham? I don’t want any slip-ups now.”
Gortham didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure if he could maintain his calm if he had to look one more time at the bastard’s face.
“Aye, everything’s in order, sir. Your tea is nice and hot in your thermos just the way you like it. I left it in the galley.”
“Very good. I’ll take it to my seat to drink while you get the plane flying.”
*
Nolen shut the door between the flight cabin and the rest of the plane. With a few turns of the hand, he ensorcelled the lock. Gortham would be unable to open the door. Just to confirm his suspicions, he went to the galley and opened the thermos. To anyone without his ability, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To his trained, acute nose, the poison was clearly there.
Poor Mrs. Scathan had told him what Gortham had planned. The filthy idiot had a big mouth when he was in bed. He sighed. Mrs. Scathan had seduced that fool into thinking he was irresistible. She’d encouraged him to brag and whine about his anger at being forced to serve an old pervert and then reported back to Nolen. He knew all about the man’s extracurricular activities with drugs and the dregs of humanity he tortured.
Did Gortham really think he couldn’t discern his distaste for authority? Had he really thought that he’d pulled something over with his drug trafficking? From every deal Gortham made, a portion of the profits had gone into Nolen’s own pockets.
He’d augmented his own coffers with the drug trade for years before Gortham had come into his service. He had been one of the earliest backers of the Latin American jefes. He had learned centuries ago that it paid to diversify your earnings.
He moved quietly now to the hatch he’d left unlocked. It would show up on the instrument panel as secured. Without a modicum of regret, he exited the plane as the hatch silently closed behind him.
He moved away from the jet and the hanger housing the office and two other private aircraft.
And the dead body of the airfield’s owner.
He strolled to a small out-building and leaned against it nonchalantly. He watched impassively as the plane taxied down the runway, gaining momentum. He took note as the wheels retracted and the plane rose.
And then exploded.
Debris fell all over the field and struck the office and the fuel tank positioned next to it.
Another explosion.
Time to call his contact.
He slid open his phone and entered the number to Fleury’s private line. His French was swift and fluent as he spoke with one of his oldest European colleagues.
“M’sieur Fleury? It’s done. Your competitor’s Irish contact is no longer a problem. My money has been transferred to my account? Magnifique.” He paused. “You do know if there is any problem with the transaction … yes, I’m glad you recall the fate of your friend, Georges. My thanks for arranging to have a car ready for me. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
Nolen shut the phone and went behind the building where a silver-gray car was parked. He stowed his satchel in the boot and got behind the wheel.
And put the car into gear. Too bad that Gortham was not alive to confirm that Nolen was a better driver. Mrs. Scathan had instructed him and Macklin had come out and signed off on his license, giving him just one more secret he’d kept from that buffoon.
The GPS was set for the quickest route to the airport in Kerry. His identity as an antiques dealer was in place. The connecting flight would take him to London and thence to New York and to his new home.
And his new plan.
* * * *
“How are we doing on time, Gabe?” Ethan stretched and tried not to strain his wounded shoulder. He chafed at the inactivity forced upon him.
“We should be there soon.” Gabe caught Ethan’s eye in the rearview mirr
or. “How’s the shoulder?” He cocked his head. “And how’s the gut? Still telling you we picked the right airfield?”
Ethan snorted. “The shoulder’s better and the gut is pretty damn sure. And what good would it have done to contact the other airfields as we passed them to find out whether they’d seen anyone fitting Nolen’s description or if a flight plan out of Ireland had been logged into their books? Nolen could control their memories or actions. That son of a bitch is capable of anything.”
Brigid looked over her shoulder. “At least the people of Carrigclarseach are improving. Now that we’ve reminded them of that unblocked road, they’ll be able to get more help.” She smiled. “I’m glad Connelly accepted our story of a family emergency as to why we left so abruptly.” She looked at the milepost sign they were approaching. “Well, I hope your gut hasn’t made a mistake because the airfield should be nearby.”
The oscillating wails of an ambulance and fire truck hurtling down the narrow road brought their conversation to a screeching halt. They pulled over to let it pass and Gabe swore. “Not again, damn it! Looks like your gut was right, Ethan.”
“We can’t know where they’re going,” Brigid said. “They might not be heading to the airfield.”
“There’s bloody nothing else ahead, Bridge. Let’s see how close we can get to the field.” Gabe swiveled the wheel and turned the car back on the road.
An official garda car blocked them a little farther down the road and an officer approached the window. “Sorry, folks, this road’s blocked. If you go back about two and a half kilometers, you’ll find a road that will lead you through town and around the detour.”
“What’s going on, sir?” Gabe asked. “We need to get to the airfield.”
The officer shook his head. “Sorry, that’s where the trouble is.”
Ethan rolled down his window. “What happened?” he asked in Irish Gaelic.
As though the Irish words were a secret code, the garda’s information came pouring out in the same language. “Terrible it is. A private jet exploded and crashed into the airfield’s hanger, totally destroying it and killing the field’s manager and all on board the plane.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s rumored that there were drugs on the plane and a bomb placed on it by warring drug dealers!” The garda leaned in toward Ethan. “They’ve become more and more outrageous, these guys. Did you know they seized over seven million pounds of heroin over in Meath the other year?”
“Ask him if he knows the names of the people on the plane,” Brigid said.
Ethan nodded. “I will, but I doubt if Nolen used his real name.”
“Maybe Gortham did,” Gabe said. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Might as well.” Ethan shrugged and turned back to the garda still standing by the window as if waiting for the next question. “Sir, could you tell me the names of the people killed?”
“The field’s owner was poor Liam O’Reilly.” He lowered his voice. “Now, we have names of the men on the plane, but we’re thinking they’re false. The pilot’s name was Eddie Gortham and the passenger and owner was some fellow listed as V. Nom.” He shook his head. “Right strange that one. Sounds like the name of some rock singer.”
“Guraibh maith agat,” Ethan thanked the garda. “We’ll take that detour now.” The man gave a two-fingered salute and walked back to the police car, rejoining another officer. “Turn the car around. Nolen was here, but I think our fight’s already over.”
Gabe made a tight u-turn as they headed back down the road. “I recognized Gortham’s name,” he said. “But who was the other occupant?”
“Nolen. He used an alias—V. Nom—venom. It’s what Nimhnach means in Gaelic, or close enough to it. Something must have gone wrong with the plane.”
Brigid shook her head. “I can’t believe it. It’s too … coincidental.”
“Have they recovered all the bodies yet?” Gabe asked.
“I didn’t ask.” Ethan scratched his ear. “They probably haven’t identified the bodies, either. Right now, they only know who should have been on the plane and at the field. I think we’ll have to stay in town until they make a positive identification of the remains.”
Gabe swore long, low and luridly. “If Nolen did somehow escape the crash, then he’s heading who knows where right now and the longer we stay in Ireland the longer his lead.” He swerved the car onto the detour leading to the little town of Bothanard. “We’ve no choice. I’m going to contact KOTE even if I have to get Donovan Callahan out of the shower!”
* * * *
“We’ve the two rooms for you folks. Hope you don’t mind sharing the loo in the hall. The rooms are nice and clean, though, and the linens are fresh. You’ve time to wash up before lunch if you’d like to have a snack in the little dining room here.” The bed and breakfast owner winked. “The missus makes the best scones in Clare.”
“We’ll do that. Thanks.” Gabe picked up the old-fashioned key to his and Brigid’s room while Ethan pocketed his.
“Could you give me a hand with my harp, Mr. Cochran?” Ethan gestured to his incapacitated arm. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Ah, to be sure, ‘tis no trouble.” He tsked. “’Tis a shame you won’t be able to give us a song on it.” He eyed the lightweight jacket tossed casually over Ethan’s shoulders. The tunic had been traded in for Gabe’s jacket when they reached the road outside of Carrigclarseach. Ethan’s bare muscular chest offered the B and B’s owner a bit of a peep show as he moved about. “’Tis a shame you lost your suitcase in the accident.”
“Yes, it was,” Gabe answered and turned to Ethan. “Come on up to our room and you can borrow some clothes.”
“Thanks, Gabe.”
“No problem.”
Brigid plucked at the T-shirt she wore and wrinkled her nose. “I could use a nice, hot shower.”
“The shower’s down the hall with the loo.” Cochran added, “They don’t shut off the hot water until after twelve at night.”
“Thank you so much.” Brigid bestowed upon him one of her dazzling smiles and the man nearly tripped over his tongue as he drooled after her.
Gabe sighed in resignation.
No one was safe from her charms, it seemed.
* * * *
“May I come in?” Ethan called through the closed door to Gabe and Brigid’s room. “Everyone decent in there?”
“The door’s unlocked. Come on in.”
As soon as Ethan entered, Gabe went on the attack. “I’m surprised you asked if everyone were dressed. It’s not as if you haven’t seen Brigid naked before!” He stood by the washstand in the small room, an old-fashioned straight-edged razor in his hand, his face freshly shaved.
“What the fuck is your problem, man?” Ethan shut the door behind him with just a bit more force than necessary and moved farther into the room. “Anything between Brigid and me happened centuries ago! She’s your wife now, damn it!”
Gabe moved toward Ethan, his fingers white-knuckled holding the razor. “Yeah, she’s my wife. And don’t forget it!”
Ethan seethed. “How the bloody hell can I when you remind us every minute.” He sneered. “What are you afraid of? Give her a choice and she’d dump you in a second?”
Another step took Gabe up into Ethan’s face. They stood toe to toe, of a similar height and build, Ethan slightly more muscular than Gabe, but the two of them were evenly matched.
Gabe spoke softly. “When this is all over, you and I are going to settle this.” He looked at Ethan’s wound. “And there won’t be any excuse of an injury.”
“Aye.” Ethan’s nostrils flared. “And there won’t be any need for me not to kill you!”
They stood there, glaring, until the sound of Brigid’s knock brought them back to the here and now.
She entered the room, dressed in fresh clothes, her hair a little damp around the ends. Without any makeup, she looked like a schoolgirl.
She took in the tense atmosphere in the room. “Anything
wrong?”
Gabe looked at the open razor still clenched in his hand and folded it. Ethan gazed at the floor.
She snorted. “I see. Same old, same old.” She turned to Ethan. “Gabe has a couple of button-down shirts that should work, some underwear and socks.” She grinned suddenly. “I hope you have a toothbrush because that’s one thing I don’t think you’ll be able to share!”
Both men looked at her. Slowly, and with great reluctance, they began to smile.
She nodded. “Better. Ethan, let me take a look at your shoulder.” She turned to Gabe. “Hon, why don’t you shower while I take care of Ethan? I can use water from the sink in the room to clean the wound and I’ll enhance the water’s purity to help the healing process. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll probably be done before you’re even finished showering.”
For a very long moment Gabe stood immobile, torn between trust and fear. Trust finally won out and he gathered up a change in clothes and a towel. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He strode to the door and left without a backward glance.
*
“Sit.” Brigid pointed to the bed and Ethan awkwardly sat on the edge. She grinned. “Let me fill up the sink and do that thing that I do so well.”
Ethan laughed. “You should show some respect for your ability, my bright love.”
Brigid halted. “Please, don’t call me that.”
“Why should I not?”
“Because I’m not your bright love. Now, be quiet.” She slipped off his shirt and sling and undid the bandage holding the compress in place.
Amazing.
Ethan should have gone to the hospital. The depth of the wound, the opportunity for infection—everything indicated stitches and specialized care. Instead, the wound, after just twelve hours, was healing at a rate that put away the last doubts that Ethan was different.
She was different.