CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“No fucking way,” Jordan hissed. “That’s who you are?”

Eric lifted his head from the pillow; surprised he’d dozed off, but positive of the cuss word from beyond the guest room. Easing his aching body out from beneath his sleeping wife, he rolled her onto her side. The poor thing didn’t budge. He tucked Shea into bed before he joined the warriors gathered in Murphy’s living room.

“What’s up?” Eric asked quietly, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

“Them,” Jordan said from where he sat beside Elsa on the sofa, his arm behind her, his gaze fixed on the men sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Eric took a good, hard look at Elsa’s team with their short haircuts and straight postures. The same dark trousers. Same button-up shirts. All sported a golden winged angel pinned to their collars. That seemingly insignificant detail explained Jordan’s F-bomb. Elsa and these men were not just Ireland’s version of Army Rangers. They were military intelligence, the infamous G2. In person.

And that angel depicted on the pins? None other than God’s right-hand man himself, Gabriel, the bringer of tidings of great joy as well as the bearer of dire consequences. Gabriel was the archangel with Daniel in the lion’s den during ancient times. He’d protected God’s prophet while, at the same time, he’d foretold the downfall of wicked Persia and Greece. Yeah. That guy. “Military Intelligence, huh?” Eric asked.

The nearest man climbed to his feet and stuck out a hand to Eric. Discerning blue eyes twinkled. “Agent Sean Denning at your service, Agent Reynolds. You’ve a bit of the old sod in ye, do ye nah?”

“Both of my parents,” Eric said as he returned the strong grip, “and my wife.”

“Aye, the Powers hail from County Kilkenny as I’m sure ye know, the Reynolds from County Dublin. What took yer ancestors to America? ’Twas the famine?”

“One of them,” Eric admitted. “Thanks for having our backs out there. I’m glad none of you were hurt.”

By then, the others were on their feet. “’Twas our pleasure,” one of them said. “I’m Gary Dunne and this lad here’s Brian O’Macken. ’Tis a good day when we get to save an American’s arse.”

“And this American is damned glad you did,” Eric returned. “Come visit me the next time you’re stateside. I’ll show you around.”

“I’ll bloody well take you up on that, mate,” Gary said. “Me wife’s family lives in Boston. You might be seeing me sooner than ye think.”

“While you’ve been tending to your wife, the rest of us dealt with the authorities,” Elsa piped up, her palm comfortable on Jordan’s thigh. “The coroner and his technicians are still gathering the bodies, and the constable wants to speak with Shea and you. I told him that wouldn’t be possible, that you need to leave Ireland by nightfall.”

That was considerate. “And...?” Eric waited, his mind racing over what he thought he knew. Could leaving this country be that easy?

Elsa winked. “Get your wife ready to travel. A private helicopter is standing by to fly you to Shannon Airport. Once there, you’ll transfer to Aer Lingus. You’re booked first class. You should be able to sleep and do it in comfort.”

Eric raked his fingers over his head. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. “We’re taking the laptop with us.”

“As you should,” Elsa said without batting an eye. Lifting her left wrist, she checked her watch. “We leave in thirty minutes. Can Shea be ready by then?”

“You bet.”

“I’ll get the laptop that caused all this trouble,” Murphy said, pushing up from his easy chair. Elsa’s three men followed him out.

“Come sit, man,” Elsa declared once the room cleared, chin nodding at the chair beside her. “What else do I need to know before you leave?”

While Jordan settled back with his eyes on Elsa, Eric took the chair to Elsa’s left and he divulged what Shea had shared. The ghost files on Carlson’s computer. The clear-cut evidence of the first Mrs. Carlson’s assassination. The fraud known as the Carlson Chip.

“But nothing about the dynamic energy displacement model, eh?” Elsa pressed, one brow lifted. By then her elbows were on her knees and her hands were clasped. It was obvious she had her eye on the prize as well. God bless Murphy for not divulging that bit of intel to his niece. It would’ve been easy enough, as close as they were.

“I have no idea,” Eric hedged. He didn’t know for certain and Shea had never said, but he suspected the DED was on Phoenix’s laptop. It was good to know that the guy had put his life in danger trying to do—at the end—what was right. With Carlson’s millions waved under his nose, what twenty-some kid wouldn’t have been tempted?

Mental note to self: Ask that courageous woman of mine where she transferred Carlson’s money. That would be nice to know.

“Your wife is very good with a computer,” Elsa stated the obvious. “NCSC would like to speak with her. Sooner than later.” Another blatant hint.

Eric nodded, but Ireland’s National Cyber Security Centre could take a number. The FBI folks at Quantico would be speaking with Shea first. Possibly last.

“We’re all in this together.” Elsa softened her tone. “All of us who stand on the side of freedom, that is. Fe Mhoid Bheith Saor. Sworn to be free—or die, remember?”

“You don’t have to tell me, but Shea’s not cut out for this job. She’s lost enough.”

“Then let’s get her to that land of liberty you’re so proud of.” With her palms to her knees, Elsa pushed to her feet, a genuine smile on her face. “You look ten sheets to the wind.”

No kidding. In the last week, he’d survived a rollover and a beating. He’d been shot and possibly suffered a minor concussion. Not to mention all those damned airline flights he’d taken while he’d tracked Finn. Jordan didn’t look a whole lot better, but what worried him at the moment? “Can you take care of my cat?”

A big, shitty grin cracked Jordan’s mug, but Elsa winked. “Aye, I can do that for you. Uncle Murphy told me about yer Aishling. ‘Tis the perfect name for her, don’t ye think?”

Eric cocked his head. “Excuse me?” She’s just a cat. A clever cat, but still…

“You didn’t know? Aishling is Gaelic for dream, Eric.”

Was that supposed to mean something? He had to ask, “Does she seem odd to you? As if she knows what you’re thinking?” As if she does walk in dreams?

Elsa winked. “I would nah be surprised. The cats of Ireland have always been linked to the magic of the Fae. Why else would she be here if she had nah known you needed her?”

“I needed her?” Not likely, but now that he had time to think about it, Aishling was a most curious animal. And those crystal blue eyes… He brushed the Fae explanation aside as nonsense akin to the Irish folklore of leprechauns and elves. “You’ll keep her until I can send for her then?”

“You know I will. Uncle Murphy’s going back to America with you, so I’ll transport her back to Dublin when I leave here. I’ll keep her safe until you call for her to join you.”

Eric offered his hand. “We wouldn’t have survived this without your assist. I hope you know that.”

Elsa came forward, her handshake as firm as a man’s. “Aye, you would, so don’t go thanking me just yet. ’Twas Jordan who set the perimeter charges before Grover showed up with his feckin’ five-ton. All we did was finish the job.”

Eric hadn’t known that. “You did?”

There sat Jordan, as humble as ever. “I let you down once, brother. I wasn’t doing it again. I owed you. No one, and I mean, no one, was getting your woman again.”

That binding word again. Brother. Civilians who hadn’t served would never know that it was enough to make a grown man cry.

Eric had Shea dressed and on her feet in ten minutes, groggy, but mobile. “And you,” he murmured to Aishling, who was stretched out on the bed, soaking up what was left of Shea’s body warmth. “I’ll come back for you, so don’t go getting your lovely self lost.”

Damned if the silly cat didn’t wink. Uncanny is what she is. Damned uncanny. Dream, huh? Eric closed Aishling inside the bedroom, so she wouldn’t sneak out and get lost, not that he thought a door would stop her.

Elsa’s promised helicopter sat waiting in the pasture behind Murphy’s cottage. While Jordan loaded their gear, Elsa chatted with her uncle. “You’ll be back next week then?”

“Moira and I are flying into Sword Sunday night. If you and your guys are free, meet us there for dinner,” Murphy said as he stowed the laptop. “You know the place.”

“Aye, that carvery you like so well, and no doubt, a pint of black beer,” Sean declared easily.

More backslapping. More handshaking. Once Jordan finished mugging Elsa, he climbed onboard, and the helicopter lifted. Eric should have felt a measure of relief, but he’d seen too many Black Hawks brought down on their way to shelter. Still antsy, he watched for lingering signs of trouble in the soft green meadow below. The sun’s glare off a sniper’s scope. The skulking shadow of a killer at the tree line.

At Shannon, an armed security guard accompanied them from the helicopter to a nearby airliner waiting on the tarmac. When they boarded without incident, the smallest whisper of peace breathed hope into Eric that this op was truly over.

Because he had Shea to care for this time around, the transatlantic flight went by quickly. She slept most of the way, but near the end of it, she roused in a steadier frame of mine. Elsa must’ve alerted the crew to her delicate condition. The two flight attendants couldn’t seem to do enough for her.

God, the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor was a welcome sight. “I’m home,” Shea whispered from where she was tucked in under his arm. “I’m finally home.”

Eric planted a kiss to the top of her head. He’d given her the window seat for this precise moment. The first glimpse of America was always a heartfelt rush after deployments. “Almost. We still have to catch an express into Reagan, but you’re sleeping in our bed tonight.”

“Our bed?” she asked, that beautiful glint of disbelief in her eye. “The same one? You kept it?”

How could he tell her what a sap he was? That bed was the place he’d prayed and cried for her every night since she’d run away. He couldn’t get rid of it any more than sign that damned divorce decree. Eric settled for an extra moist kiss to her forehead. “Our bed, baby. The house is different, but the bed…” He choked. “The bed’s sacred, baby.” It’s where we made love and I’m never getting rid of it.

Shea snuggled into him, her hand on his chest and the scenery forgotten. “I so hope I’m pregnant,” she whispered at his neck.

What a marvelous, hopeful thing to look forward to. Eric held his wife as the aircraft circled the city before it landed at JFK. The fairytale ending Shea deserved was finally in reach.

“There’s something you need to know before we go home,” Eric whispered on approach.

His wife’s lashes lifted as she looked up at him. “Yes?”

“We’ve got three dogs now.”

Her eyes lit up. Her shoulders scrunched. “We do?”

“Yeah.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Bogie, Buddy, and Beau. They were strays. I got them from the shelter. They’re boarded now and I’ll have to stop on the way home to get them.”

“Aww, the three dirty little pigs,” she said, her fingertips on his cheek, making him wish they were already home and in that bed.

“The house was empty and I… I...”

“And you filled it up,” Shea finished for him.

“Something like that,” he admitted. His throat closed at the memory of all the lonely nights that left him feeling like he lived in a morgue. Bogie and Buddy joined the solitude first, but then he’d spotted little Beau quivering in the farthest corner of a big empty kennel, so now he was a no-kidding dog owner. Between them and Harley’s Bible, things were almost bearable until that South American op when he thought he’d lost his picture of Cheyenne. It wasn’t the only one he had of her, but it was the one he’d talked to. Cried with. Yeah, that.

“I can’t wait to meet them. What kinds are they?”

“Bogie and Buddy are brothers, brindle pit bulls, but Beau’s the boss. He’s some kind of a Chihuahua mix. Looks a little like a Jack Russell with whiskers all over his face. You should see him chase his brothers. He thinks he owns the place.”

“And now we’ll have Aishling,” Shea murmured. “We’ll have a house full.”

Eric slid his palm over Shea’s flat belly. “I hope.”

Just then the pilot announced their arrival. Sixty-three degrees and scattered showers in New York City. He thanked everyone for flying Aer Lingus and landed the flight with barely a bump or a rattle. Give that man a standing ovation, Eric thought as he pressed one last kiss to the top of Shea’s head.

“There’s a limo waiting for you on the tarmac,” one of the flight attendants said. “Courtesy of a Captain Finnegan of the Irish Guarda. Do you know her? She said the limo was on the house.”

That elicited a growl from Murphy. “That girl’s making too much money.”

Eric kept his opinion to himself. Throwing a little money at the hacker who’d gotten away was a smart move on Elsa’s part. It was a small token of one-upmanship in the face of the formidable FBI, but it was classy. Damned classy.

“I’m good with it,” Jordan said brightly.

Of course you are, Eric thought, you hound dog. It’s a send-off from Elsa. Why wouldn’t you be good with it? “How long before our connection?” he asked the attendant.

“Three hours,” she replied. “That should be enough for you to grab a decent lunch.”

“And a pint or two,” Murphy added.

“And I need to call Ireland.” Jordan didn’t seem to know when to leave well enough alone.

“Not to my niece, you’re not,” Murphy shot over his shoulder as they disembarked.

The showy limo, a black Lincoln Town car stretch, was a nice change from the usual airport shuttles. The uniformed driver stood at crisp attention as they made their way down the steps. With a curt nod, he ushered Jordan and Murphy in first, then assisted Shea to the side-bench. Amenities of the highest order greeted Eric once inside. Plush white leather seats, as soft as butter. A sidebar with Irish Crystal decanters, matching lowball glasses. A Bunn push-button coffee thermos. Irish Coffee cups with crystal handles. Chic. Very chic.

All exterior limo windows were tinted dark to ensure anonymity, the privacy screen between the driver and the occupants as well. Once the driver closed the passenger door, he was out of sight and out of mind.

As the engine left the runway in its rearview, Eric tugged Shea into his side, content to hold her on this last leg of her harrowing two-year journey. The driver had placed her next to the privacy screen, but Eric wanted her in his arms. “Almost home,” he whispered against her temple.

Her answering squeeze on his thigh jump-started a fever in his blood that he couldn’t wait to put out. The Reynolds family was finally back together, maybe with a baby on the way. Except for his report to Alex, Operation Find Finn was over. Berglund’s laptop with its dynamic energy displacement model was in safe hands, Murphy’s at the moment. God, it’s good to be home.

Jordan kicked his long legs into the center aisle, his head tipped back. “I had no idea G2 had these kinds of funds. Man, Murph, your niece is spoiling us rotten. I think I’m in love.”

“You do know I’m right here, don’t you?” Murphy growled. “Keep your paws off my niece, Hannigan.”

Jordan lifted a brow, his grin wide and relaxed. “She started it.”

“Hey, Eric, why don’t you call up front and find out where we’re going?” Murphy asked.

“Knowing, my girlfriend, we’re probably on our way to a fine Irish pub,” Jordan added. “I’d wager there’s plenty of them in New York City. Are you good for twenty, Murph?”

Murphy landed a smack to the backside of Jordan’s head. “She’s not your girlfriend, you bone-headed lout.”

“Sorry, old man. That’s between me and my girl.”

“She’s not your girl!” Another smack did nothing to dampen Jordan’s wicked grin.

Depressing the call button, Eric asked their driver, “Excuse me, sir, but exactly where are you taking us?”

The privacy window lowered. A pistol lifted into view.

“To hell if I’ve got anything to say about it!” Hugh Carlson roared.