Chapter Five
MAC TWISTED IN the bucket seat on their ride to the airport, watching Amy. She sat with her body curved toward the door, forehead pressed against the passenger window. She hadn’t said a word since leaving Purcell’s place.
He shifted uneasily, the fabric backrest of his seat making a shushing sound. Which was so fucking applicable, since platitudes hovered on the tip of his tongue. Nothing he said would help. He knew that. So yeah . . . shush . . . shush . . . Excellent advice, even if it came from a seat cushion.
Except . . . there was something isolated and lonely about her rigid figure staring out the passenger window. Something lost.
Defeated, even.
To watch her brother die . . . that had to be hard enough. But to lose him essentially twice in the span of minutes—hell, that had to be much worse. To find out he’d betrayed her, betrayed her kids, only to watch him die before she could get any answers. Before she could find out how to save her children.
Jesus.
The urge to lean over and wrap her in his arms was a constant burning itch. To provide the comfort and support she so clearly needed. Prove to her that she wasn’t alone. That the battle to save her children sat on all their shoulders, not just hers. She had people in her corner, people who cared about her. Who cared about her kids.
The only thing that saved him from acting on the impulse and looking the fool was the empty space between their seats and the three pairs of watchful eyes studying him from their various corners.
“I need to call Mom and Dad,” Amy suddenly said, her voice low but steady.
Mac winced. “You’ll have to wait until news of his murder goes public. You can’t afford to announce he’s dead before his body is discovered.”
When she lapsed back into silence, Mac grimaced. Hell, the last thing she needed right now was the king of common sense. The voice of reason. Cold practicality against her pain. Regardless of what Purcell had done, he’d still been her brother, and human emotions took longer than half an hour to switch off. She had to be hurting, for a multitude of reasons. None of which he could ease for her.
Damn it.
“I’m sorry about your brother.” The words stumbled from him with no thought, no preparation. He coughed to clear his throat and tried for a supportive, reassuring tone. “I know this wasn’t the end you were hoping for—” Hell, he sounded like a fucked-up Hallmark card. He soldiered on, growing brusquer and more uncomfortable with each word that tripped out of his lame-ass mouth. “But don’t you worry about your boys. We still have options. We’ll find the antidote. You aren’t alone. Okay.”
Christ. Could he have mangled that any worse?
A round of muttered agreement came from the front and back seats.
To his surprise, Amy straightened, drew back her shoulders, and turned to face him. He wanted to lay claim to her renewed confidence, but the woman had proven she was molded from sturdy stuff. Unbreakable stuff. She’d probably needed only a few minutes to regroup before dusting off her hands and squaring up again.
“With Clay gone”—her voice caught—“our best chance of finding out what they injected in the boys is with James Link.”
Relieved that the conversation had turned to strategy, Mac nodded. “Agreed. Link’s our best bet.”
Pachico’s revelations aside, the isotope was exactly the kind of scientific breakthrough Dynamic Solutions was known for. Hell, even if Link wasn’t involved with the NRO, as Pachico had claimed, he should still know who had created the tracking compound.
But the relief quickly turned to frustration. Agreeing that Link was their most viable target didn’t do them a lick of good. They didn’t know where the damn man was. Hell, even if they located him, they didn’t have the manpower or resources to mount an effective interception.
He scowled. Damn it to hell. He could sense another round of favor-asking in his future.
“As the acting CEO of a multibillion-dollar company, Link will be tricky to get to.” Zane turned to look at them from the passenger seat up front, his calm gaze shifting between Amy and Mac.
“Grabbing him will be damn near impossible,” Cosky agreed as he merged onto I-5. “A guy like that? He’s bound to have a state-of-the-art fortress. Bodyguards. We’ll be lucky if we get within a hundred feet of him.”
True. Mac frowned. “None of which makes him invulnerable. We’ll have to get creative. Grab him while he’s on the move.”
“If Link is involved in the New Ruling Order, as Shadow Mountain intel suggests, they have a vested interest in grabbing him too,” Amy said slowly, staring at the back of Zane’s seat. “We can probably count on them for help.”
Mac nodded, biting back another scowl. Fuck, he hated like hell groveling before Wolf, even if Shadow Mountain was after the NRO themselves. Lately it seemed like all he did was beg for favors.
“We won’t be able to move on Link immediately. Wolf doesn’t have a team available,” Mac said, resignation setting in.
They’d have to wait until Shadow Mountain could assist. They needed more men, more support, and more intel. They needed Shadow Mountain’s resources. It would be worth it, though. Link was their best bet, both to save Amy’s kids and to track down the men responsible for the past six months of death and betrayal.
He just had to convince Wolf of that.
“A few days will give us time to do some investigatin’, track down Link’s movements, check his protection detail,” Rawls said from the back seat.
Amy nodded, turning to the window. She went back to her silent staring, her profile hazy in the shadowy interior of the car. She looked more fragile than Mac had ever seen her.
His gaze tracked the vulnerable curve of her neck and spine. It was the darkness, he realized. It blurred her strength, masked the expression on her face and the acuity of her eyes. He’d never realized how the calm control of her face and the sharp intelligence in her gaze had combined to give her that impression of capability.
Which was the real Amy? This indistinct, fragile woman—or the one who radiated confidence and ability?
Maybe neither. Maybe both. Or maybe there was an Amy in between.
The urge to reach for her hit again. To fold her in his arms and anchor her against his chest. To just hold her, protect her, support her until she was ready to face the world again. Although how much of the urge was altruistic and how much was based on the primeval impulse to feel her against him again was open to question.
She’d felt so good back there on the patio. Perfect. Firm and feminine. Her curves pressing against him in all the right places. Even with the bullets flying and death surrounding them, he’d been intimately aware of the woman pinned beneath him.
He’d been wondering for weeks how they’d fit together. Would she be firm and strong, or soft and pliable? Would her body give beneath his, or wrestle for dominance?
Well, he had the answers to those questions now, along with a new memory to taunt him. He’d been far too focused on the perfection of her body pressed to his. He’d wanted to lie there on top of her, soak her in. Fuck, if he was going to die, this was the way to do it. Except his death meant hers too. And there was no fucking way he would let that happen.
Still, it had taken every ounce of determination he possessed to roll off her. How insane was that? They’d been under fire, for Christ’s sake. In the midst of a battle.
The very last place to give in to carnal obsession.
Which just went to prove that the woman was pure poison to him.
Dangerous to the nth degree.
“What say you, darling? Should we put in an offer? Yea? Or nay?” Eric Manheim asked his wife as he stretched back in the patio lounge chair and linked his fingers behind his head. “I must admit, the view is unparalleled.”
On the other side of the wrought-iron railing, Cannes Bay stretched before them, the azure canopy dotted with dozens of brilliant-white yachts. The boats sparkled in the summer sun like fallen stars bobbing amid a liquid bed of blue. A beautiful sight from above the water. Below the surface was another matter.
The fuel, oil, and garbage those boats had dumped into the water through the years was part of the reason the ocean was dying. The Global Ocean Commission had proposed an eight-point program to rescue the ocean before it became irreparably damaged. Not that anyone had paid attention. Not that anyone had taken steps to correct the ongoing damage. Not that anyone had shown the slightest hint of concern for the bleak future the report presented.
But then the human race’s gluttony and shortsightedness didn’t just threaten the oceans—Earth itself was at the mercy of humanity’s greedy appetite. If this planet was to continue to shelter his children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, something needed to be done now, before it was too late to reverse the current course toward annihilation.
Thank God the New Ruling Order had the resources and the courage to make the necessary corrections to ensure Earth’s survival.
“How much are they asking?” his wife, Esme, asked from her poolside seat. She trailed her fingers through the water of the Olympic-size pool and kicked her feet, creating mild turbulence in the calmness.
“Fifty-four. It just hit the market today.” Eric turned an appreciative eye toward the villa. The house really was a work of art. Built of sleek steel and glass, it sat high on a bluff east of Cannes, with unobstructed views from all but a few of its windows.
Esme peered between the railings and sighed. “It’s certainly beautiful.” She sighed again, her fingers playing with the water. “It’s close enough to Cannes to take advantage of the nightlife but far enough to avoid the crowds and stargazers.”
Eric nodded in agreement. “I’ll have Thomas put in an offer.”
“It seems awfully extravagant, don’t you think?” Esme smiled at him, her hair flashing platinum beneath the sunlight. “The Esme is perfectly fine for the amount of time we spend in Cannes.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled back. “But a house would be safer for children. It will give them more room to run and play, to work off that endless energy children seem to possess.”
“We’ll have to childproof this place, as well.” Esme’s gaze shifted to the gap between the railings. Pulling her feet from the water, she stood. “But there is plenty of time for that. And I quite like this place.”
Eric nodded in agreement. It would be nice to have a home base in the area. A place to entertain and relax.
“So we agree then?” Eric asked quietly, and he wasn’t just referring to the house. They’d been discussing the possibility of parenthood for months now.
She stared out over the bay for a moment, a pensive look on her face, then turned and walked toward him. “I believe we do.”
As she settled into the recliner beside him, Eric reached out and twined his fingers with hers. He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a gentle kiss across her knuckles. “You will make the most amazing mother.”
Her laugh was barely a whisper on the warm breeze. “You realize everything will change now, yes? Everything.”
“For the better, I am told.” He brushed her knuckles with his lips again. “I’ll have Stevens look into clinics.”
They’d been trying to conceive naturally for years, in no hurry, willing to let nature take its course. But nature wasn’t cooperating. It was time to find out why and rectify the problem.
“No need.” Esme met his gaze, her blue eyes as calm and mysterious as the water spread before them. “I’ve been researching. Bernabeu in Spain has an eighty-two percent live birth ratio. I’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment.”
“Spain.” He’d expected the top fertility clinics to be in France or the States, even the UK. But Spain? He shook his head.
“Is there a problem, darling?” Esme lifted a perfectly contoured eyebrow.
“Of course not. I’m just rather surprised the clinic is in Spain.”
Her laugh this time was louder. “Careful, darling, some might call such surprise prejudice. There are top clinics throughout the world, but the Bernabeu has the best live birth rate, and since that is our ultimate goal . . .”
“Of course.” Before he had a chance to continue, his cell phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and scowled. The number belonged to David Coulson—the NRO council member who’d been charged with reverse engineering Dr. Benton and Faith Ansell’s clean energy generator. Of the nine members on the council, Coulson was the only one he truly despised. The American was an uncouth barbarian who preferred the bloodiest, most violent path to success.
The council had been conceived as a true democracy. Equal authority to all its members. It had worked for dozens of years—the power of democracy at its finest. Active operations were decided by majority rule. Everyone worked seamlessly, hand in hand, toward their ultimate goal, although that objective had changed through the years. And then David Coulson had wedged his way onto the council and immediately set about trying to take it over.
Somehow the bloody sod had managed to collect crucial and incriminating evidence concerning the NRO, the council members, and various operations. He’d used this evidence to force his way onto the board and protect himself from a complete family cleansing.
The only reason the damn American hadn’t bulldozed his way to the head of the council was because of the incriminating evidence they’d collected against him. They’d documented several examples of Coulson’s scorch-and-murder approach to business practices.
They had each other over the proverbial barrel, which meant he had to work with the man.
“Oh dear.” She sighed. “Our American colleague certainly knows how to ruin a moment, doesn’t he?”
“He does indeed,” Eric agreed dryly. He hit the Talk button and lifted the cell to his ear. “David.”
“Purcell is dead,” a harsh voice said without preamble.
“What?” Eric straightened sharply. “When? How?”
“Early this morning. He was shot. A hit.”
“A hit,” Eric repeated, only to freeze. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”
The American had been lobbying to take out Purcell for weeks. Claiming the man had used up his effectiveness.
“He was of no use to us any longer. Nor could we trust him to keep his fucking mouth shut. He was a liability.”
Eric stiffened. The arrogance of the man. “We discussed this at length during our last meeting. We needed him to remain in position to run interference with the FBI. The council agreed—”
“Fuck the council,” Coulson growled. “He was a Goddamn liability. It’s a damn good thing I moved on him when I did. Guess who he was entertaining when my man put a bullet through his head? Your SEALs.”
“Mackenzie?” Eric frowned. That damn navy frog had a habit of popping up in the worst places at the worst times.
“You have any other SEALs riding your ass?” Coulson asked dryly.
Eric scowled at the dig but let it pass. “Did your guy take them out?”
He suspected not; otherwise Coulson would have led with that news.
“Unfortunately, my assassin lacked initiative. He took out his paycheck but left the other five standing.” A combination of disgust and anger rumbled through the speaker.
“Five?” If you excluded Mackenzie, there were only three other SEALs on his team.
“From the description it sounds like the extra was a woman. Purcell’s sister, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Eric repeated slowly. “You said Purcell was entertaining them? They were talking?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t sound like the conversation was friendly. One of Mackenzie’s guys pulled a syringe. That’s when my guy took his shot.”
“A syringe?” The news caught Eric by surprise. Amy Chastain had been okay with them drugging her brother? Everything he’d read about the woman indicated she was loyal to Purcell. “If they were going for a syringe, Purcell didn’t give anything up.”
“Purcell didn’t know jackshit anyway.” Coulson’s voice grew faint, as though he’d turned his head away. “The good news is we can swing this hit toward Mackenzie. If we can get video of them in the area, they can take the fall for Purcell’s murder.”
“That would work only if we had a man inside the FBI to implicate them,” Eric snapped, his earlier irritation rising.
“Which won’t be a problem,” Coulson said, smugness rounding the syllables.
Interesting . . . “You have someone inside?”
Coulson’s silence neither confirmed nor denied that possibility. It wouldn’t surprise him, though. God knew the man had his hands in everything—the dirtier and more violent, the better.
“What about these SEALs and those damn Indians? Any luck running them down?” Coulson asked.
“We know they are in Alaska. Near Denali National Park.”
Coulson snorted. “That’s not fucking news. We knew that over a week ago. What the fuck are you waiting for? An invitation to visit?”
“I have men working on it.” Although Eric’s voice remained bland, his fingers cramped around his phone.
“Tell them to work faster,” Coulson said. “We’re hitting critical mass. We can’t afford any interference.”
“Production of Eden is on schedule?” Eric asked, adrenaline spiking. They were so close to reaching their goal. Something he’d only recently begun to believe was possible.
“If production levels continue at their current rate. We’ll hit completion closer to the three-, then six-month marks.”
“That soon?” Surprise echoed in the question.
A sharp laugh traveled through the speaker. “We promised the production team some pretty impressive bonuses, plus quadruple time, if they completed the run in half the estimated time. It’s too bad none of them will live long enough to enjoy the fruits of their labor.”
Eric scowled. The damn man sounded far too disgustingly pleased by the prospect of all those deaths. “Murdering an entire production line of people is bound to raise questions.”
Another laugh, only this time the derision was directed at Eric. “There will be a hell of a lot more questions after the bombs go off and take out most of the earth’s population, don’t you think?”
Good point.
Eric turned to look out over the bay. He should save one of the devices for Cannes.
This place would be even more peaceful once they’d washed away most of humanity. Hell, maybe he should hold off on making an offer on this place.
He could probably pick it up for a penny on the million in four months’ time.