CHAPTER FOUR

The home offices of Bradley Manufacturing and Import, Ltd., were still and quiet in the late November morning. Peter Madsen sat back in his chair, staring at the computer screen abstractedly, barely listening as the rain clicked against the windows with icy insistence. He was used to the cold of English winters. Only his bad leg protested, and he ignored it, as he ignored anything inconvenient.

He liked working in a vacuum. The board that oversaw the covert work done by the organization he headed left him alone, and it seemed as if even the CIA had stopped hounding him. It was always possible that they’d finally given up looking for the former head of the Committee, Isobel Lambert, and her lover and former CIA operative Thomas Killian, but he didn’t believe it. In four years they’d been unable to get any closer to finding them, and if Peter had his way they never would. Nor would the various other international groups that desperately wanted to take out Killian, or Serafin the Butcher as he’d once been known during his undercover work. Both Isobel and Killian were experts at getting so lost no one could ever find them. Not even the best in the business, which was, frankly, himself.

The fact that he knew exactly where they were, and always had, was due to Isobel’s choice and not any brilliance on his part. If anyone decided he held the answers and tried to get them out of him, Isobel knew that he was, simply, unbreakable.

There were no family photos on his desk or on the computer or in his wallet. He didn’t need them – he had a photographic memory. And there was no way he’d put them at risk. Their existence was no secret, but his reputation as the Iceman was so widespread that no one would dare touch them. He’d done just enough to terrify the most hard-boiled assassins. He’d installed other security measures as well, just to be on the safe side, and he’d made sure Genevieve knew how to shoot, and shoot well. Mahmoud, once a child soldier and now a seventeen-year old with the arrogant attitude of a teenager and the cold-eyed determination of a killer, would keep the only mother he’d known safe, as well as the two babies, six month old Sasha, and Isobel, nearing three. They were as safe as anyone could humanly be, and normally he didn’t even think about them when he was at work, compartmentalizing everything neatly.

But today he couldn’t help it. The message had flashed across his computer screen, the ghost messages that came from Isobel, merely a passing cloud of phosphors that vanished the moment he touched the computer. He had no idea where she got her intel. She and Killian were so far off the grid that they could have been on another planet. The tiny island in the middle of the Southern Pacific was almost impossible to find, like something out of a dream, and he liked to think of the two of them living alone there, dispensing with clothing and even conversation most of the time.

At other moments he wondered whether they’d ended up killing each other, two trained assassins so caught up in passion that it could have turned deadly. He didn’t think so. The last he’d seen of Isobel she was a different woman. Some of the shadows had lifted, and the bright southern sunshine would keep them at bay. The sun, and Killian.

He still couldn’t figure out how she could have discovered something that had eluded even his substantial efforts for the last three years, but she’d somehow managed to ferret out the truth. Finn MacGowan was alive.

He still couldn’t believe it. MacGowan had disappeared in the bloodbath Harry Thomason had instigated almost four years ago, a debacle that had ended with the loss of five of their best agents, the disappearance of Isobel Lambert, and the death of Thomason himself, just before the old bastard had been about to be knighted for his noble deeds, may he rot in hell. Peter had turned over every rock, looked everywhere for MacGowan, only to be assured that he had died in a gunfight in Callivera.

When all the time he’d been held prisoner, with the Guiding Light waiting patiently for word from Thomason on what to do with him.

At first he hadn’t been able to figure out why they’d waited so long, but once he’d had a place to start it hadn’t take him long to come up with the answers. He could hack into anything, leaving no trace, and he found the hidden account in no time. Thomason had set up a blind trust, sending automatic payments to the ever-bribable Guiding Light to keep MacGowan on ice. He could imagine just what he’d been through. Rebels like F.A.R.C. in Callivera were finally releasing prisoners who’d been held for up to seven years. The Guiding Light would have waited longer, seeing as they were being well-paid.

Even that would have been no guarantee that MacGowan had survived. The rebels would have continued taking the cash even if Finn had inconveniently expired. But the son of a bitch had finally managed to escape, and his movement was what had alerted Isobel in her island sanctuary. He’d taken off with a few of his fellow hostages, disappearing into the heavily-forested mountains with his captors hot on his ass.

Peter leaned back, considering. If Isobel had even a decent approximation of where they were she would have told him. Right now he had a country and nothing else, and no one he could trust to send after MacGowan. The rest of the operatives were just too new to the game.

He could always go himself. Genevieve would just look at him out of huge, sad eyes, but she’d let him go. Taka could take over the day to day running of the Committee – handing out assignments, gathering intel, and he could pull his cousin Reno in if need be. Peter had no delusions about his being irreplaceable – no one was. And Taka could be just as ruthless and coldly deliberate, if not more so, than he could. His wife would be just as happy if he stayed put for a while, and so would Taka.

But he’d promised. Even if Isobel wouldn’t hold him to it, he’d promised not to walk into a firestorm again, not if he could help it.

Tomas was on the ground there, and MacGowan would go to him. Tomas was an independent contractor, but he was the best man in the business for false papers. MacGowan would go straight to him, and Peter would make certain he had enough money to get where he wanted to go.

He had a good idea where MacGowan would be headed. Back to England to kill the man who had left him to rot in a South American jungle. Namely, Peter Madsen.

He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to stop him long enough to tell him. In fact, he wasn’t sure MacGowan’s rage wasn’t justified. He should have made certain. But when operatives disappeared it was hard to verify they’d been cancelled.

He would wait. With an eye out for an extremely pissed off Irishman out for blood.

At least, for now, the CIA was the least of his worries.

Beth was past exhaustion, past hunger, past pain. She simply kept walking, her eyes trained on the back of their fearless leader, careful not to careen into him again. It wouldn’t do any good to complain – his feet and legs would be hurting too, after all that time in captivity. He’d been just as hungry as she’d been when he’d shared his last candy bar. Which, in retrospect wasn’t nearly as noble a gesture as it had seemed, since he’d been planning on getting out of there and getting any number of Santander bars in the near future.

The German and the American weren’t as circumspect. Hans Froelich complained vociferously about her presence, about the roughness of the trail, and the teenager – Dylan – kept whining about being hungry. There was an odd, jittery intensity to him that somehow reminded her of Carlos and his buddy, and she found it unnerving, but she said nothing, just put one foot in front of the other. MacGowan had told him to keep his hands off her, and Beth had every faith in him, though she wasn’t quite sure why. He’d protect her, at least from the worst predators of the night. She would have said a teenager was hardly that dangerous, but then she remembered Carlos.

She heard the noise first, a muffled roar that could have been a convoy of trucks, or a helicopter, rescue or recapture, but MacGowan ignored it. She tried to do the same, but it was slowly growing light, and if the Guiding Light were imminent, she was heading into the bushes. “What’s that noise?” she said finally in as soft a voice as she could manage.

There was no response, and she wondered whether he’d heard her. She started to ask again when he spoke. “It’s a waterfall. We’re stopping there for a few hours. There’s less coverage further down, and we’re better off travelling at night.”

“That’s where we’re stopping?” Froelich demanded, pushing past her.

The man turned to look at him. “Why the fuck do you care so much about where we’re stopping, Hans? You expecting company?”

In the early morning light she could see the German’s already high color deepen. “I’m expecting you to get me out of here as soon as possible, given the money I’m paying you.”

“And I’ll do exactly that,” he said in a voice filled with silken menace, “as long as you shut the fuck up and do exactly as I say. Which means sleeping during the day and travelling at night, and today we’re sleeping by the waterfall.”

Froelich made an ugly noise and started after him, but MacGowan stopped again. “You’re behind the little lady.”

Froelich started to complain, but something in MacGowan’s face made him stop, and he fell back behind Beth, muttering under his breath in German.

They kept walking, the sound of the waterfall growing louder, the night-dark sky growing lighter. At one point Beth realized she’d been crying, silently, out of sheer misery, and she made herself stop. Tears were useless, a waste of time. She was a survivor, and she wasn’t in any worse shape than if she’d gone on an Outward Bound course. She would survive.

The next time he stopped she wasn’t as alert, and she bumped into him. He gave her a look, and she stepped back hastily, unaccountably nervous. Beneath his occasional charm he had the same feral intensity of some of the men who’d taken her, that raw edge of lawlessness that threatened the very tenets of civilization. Good, she thought. A civilized man wouldn’t keep her alive.

“We’re here,” he said briefly. “The water’s good. Get yourself something to drink, and I’ll see what’s around that we can eat. It’s not going to taste good but at least it won’t kill us, and it’ll give us enough fuel to keep going another night. In the meantime, find someplace to sleep. Alone.”

“MacGowan, man, you’re no fun,” the grubby teenager said, moving off into the thick brush.

“Not supposed to be,” MacGowan said. “As for you, sweetheart, I’d suggest you keep your sweet little tail away from all of us. I don’t fancy breaking up a fight or having to kick some randy teenager butt when I’d rather be sleeping.”

She looked up at him. His hair was long, to his shoulders, of an indeterminate dark color, in some sort of dreadlocks, and his rough beard covered half his face. All she could see was tanned skin and dirt and flinty eyes staring down at her as if she were an unwanted insect. “All right,” she said in a numb voice, about to turn away, when he caught her chin in one rough hand.

“You’ve been crying,” he said, his voice cool. “That’s a weakness you can’t afford, not if you want to get out of here in one piece.”

Clearly she didn’t deny it. She must be filthy – the tears would have shown down her dirty face. “It didn’t slow me down,” she said.

“Next time it might.” He stared at her. The other two men had disappeared into the thick growth, leaving them alone by the edge of the waterfall. It was surprisingly small, given the noise it made, but then, the jungle trail was very quiet in the night, and she looked at it longingly.

“I won’t do it again,” she said. “Can I go swimming?”

“No.”

“I’m filthy. What harm would it do?”

“Honey, you don’t know the meaning of filth,” he drawled. “I haven’t seen hot water in I don’t know how long.”

She made a face. “Nor a comb or razor.”

“Nope,” he said easily. “You feeling squeamish?”

“Not particularly,” she said, trying not to pull back. “You don’t smell that bad.”

His sardonic grin did little to lighten his dark face. “Just how bad do I smell? Don’t answer that. In case you didn’t notice, the rebel camp was beside a stream. They liked to watch me bathe in it, particularly when it was cold. It hasn’t been that long.”

“Not my business,” she said, wishing she’d vanished into the bushes along with her fellow hostages.

“It might be, depending on when I’m planning on collecting my rescue fee.”

“When we get to a major city, I assume,” she said stiffly. “I can hardly get sufficient funds while we’re in the jungle.”

“I’m thinking that I don’t really need your money. Froelich and Dylan have enough.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“It’s not only hot water that I’ve been missing.”

She froze. There was no mistaking his meaning, and it would be a waste of time to pretend she did. She looked at him calmly. “You expect me to go to bed with you?”

“It seems like a reasonable idea.”

“Not to me.”

“Then stay here.” He started to turn away, and she felt the familiar panic begin to return.

“You can’t just leave me here.”

“Of course I can.”

“I’ll follow.”

“I can tie you up for Izzy and his new friend to find you. Trust me, you wouldn’t like it. They spend their time getting high on bazooka, which is part cocaine. Gives them lots of energy. Izzy decided to tap one of the nuns they’d captured and he ended up killing her. Think what two of them could do. And don’t tell me you’d rather them than me. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“So I’m supposed to drop my jeans for you or you’ll leave me to die? What kind of man are you?”

“An angry, dangerous, extremely horny man. And fate has seen fit to provide me with just what I need.”

“No.”

“We’ll see about that.”

They weren’t getting anywhere like this. She looked at him, shuddering slightly. She wasn’t having sex with a stranger, even if it would save her life. She’d take a header into the waterfall first.

Death before dishonor, she thought again. Maybe it really depended on who was doing the dishonoring. “Then why don’t you just rape me? Who’s to stop you?”

He shook his head. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. I don’t force women, I don’t hurt women. I just thought you might be feeling grateful. If you find the idea that horrifying then maybe I’ll give you a break. Just behave yourself and maybe I’ll let you off. Annoy me and we’re heading into the bushes.”

She laughed harshly. “Not likely.”

His smile didn’t reach his flinty-gray eyes. “Go find a spot to sleep. Not too far from the waterfall if you don’t want to be left behind.”

She didn’t move. The stupid truth was that she was afraid to be alone in the jungle, afraid of worse predators than MacGowan. And she was still having trouble believing his cool threat.

“Unless you’ve decided a little show of gratitude wouldn’t be amiss,” he drawled, his eyes running down her body like a physical touch.

She backed away from him, abruptly, and lost her footing, crashing backwards into the bushes. He sighed, reached out and hauled her up again. “Go find a place to sleep,” he said in a tired voice. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

A moment later he was gone, vanishing into the jungle like the ghost he was.

Jesus, he was a fool and a half, MacGowan thought as he moved through the underbrush. He didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for the girl, for that’s all she was, despite the fact that the laugh lines around her eyes and the wisdom in her face made her at least thirty. She may have bought her way into Callivera but she was still reeling from the shock of real life. She hadn’t been raped yet – he’d picked that up from Carlos’s comments, and women who’d been raped had a different look in their eyes, one that never went away. An ugly, broken look, and he was a right bastard for even threatening her with it.

It was a guaranteed way to keep her on her best behavior. He was no more interested in having an unwilling sex partner than he was in heading back to camp, but it was a very effective threat, especially considering the way she was looking at him, like a cross between a monster and Jesus Christ. This way she wouldn’t get too fond of him before he dumped her off.

He wasn’t going to give her the chance. He figured it would take at least two more days to get down the mountain and to the nearest decent-sized town. They couldn’t afford to stop in any of the villages that dotted the foothills – too many of them were under the control of the Guiding Light. La Luz. Depending on the stamina of his little brood, it might take as long as four days. The faster the better, but he couldn’t afford injuries any more than he could afford to abandon any of his meal tickets if he could help it.

They’d passed some juniper bushes – the berries were bitter as hell but they’d provide enough nourishment to get them through the next night, and by tomorrow they’d be down low enough for him to find papayas. They’d make their way toward more and more food, and it would give them incentive when they were too tired to think. He’d feed them, keep them alive, deliver them to safety, and then maybe disappear himself. The Committee had abandoned him – he owed them nothing. If any of them were even left.

Except that he had a very good idea who had left him to rot. That son of a bitch Madsen.

She’d found a spot about twenty feet upwind of him, trying to make as little noise as possible as she lay down. He could smell her, the sweet scent of female skin and sweat and a hint of something flowery. Nothing as intense as perfume – it probably came from the shampoo she used. Now there was a concept. He hadn’t seen shampoo in three years either. When he finally dumped them he was going to find the biggest bathtub in the country, climb in and stay there for days.

Damn, she smelled good. He couldn’t tell what kind of body she had beneath her rough clothing, but he hoped it was soft and slightly plump. He’d had enough of wiry women, entirely made of bone and sinew instead of curves. Too bad he wasn’t really going to take his payment out in trade. Unless he offered, and he didn’t think that was likely. Beth Pennington didn’t like sex. He knew women well enough to sense it. And his threat wouldn’t have helped matters.

He had more important things to worry about than some bleeding heart’s sexual hang-ups. He’d waited this long, he could wait a few more days. He just wished he didn’t find her so damned tempting.

He ought to move further away before he bedded down himself. He knew exactly where Dylan and Froelich had ended up. Dylan had settled down quickly, a few hundred yards off the trail, and he was probably already asleep, dreaming of things he was too young to know about. Froelich was restless, wandering, which surprised him. He was a businessman, middle-aged and sedentary, and the hike had to have been harder on him than anyone. And yet he was wandering.

MacGowan didn’t like it. He didn’t trust the man, which was no surprise. He didn’t trust anyone, and hadn’t in years. Only a few in the Committee – Madame Lambert, Taka O’Brien, and he’d thought Peter Madsen, as well as Bastien Toussaint. Millionaire industrialists weren’t likely to make the cut.

He moved to a clearing by the waterfall. He should have warned the girl about sleeping in the bushes – there were snakes and spiders and all sorts of beasties to crawl inside her clothes – but he hadn’t wanted to prolong their encounter. She was too distracting, and that made him mean. He needed to save his mean for whatever the fuck Froelich was doing. Not that he didn’t have more than enough mean to go around.

He stretched out on the hard ground. He could set his body like an alarm clock, he could sleep lightly, ready to move at a moment’s notice. He could keep going for days without sleep, but he could also afford to catch up just a bit. He closed his eyes and slept.