CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Peter Madsen drove down the M2, headed for Folkestone, his foot hard on the accelerator of his Porsche. He had a crossing reservation at the Chunnel which he had no intention of missing, and if the police tried to stop him for speeding he could easily outrun them. Right then his mood was dark enough that he’d look forward to the challenge.

The battle last night had been epic, worse than he’d ever remembered. Since their tumultuous … you couldn’t really call what brought them together a courtship, but since they’d been together, really together, he and Genny hadn’t had a knock-down dragged-out fight. He’d had the vain hope that they’d gotten rid of the bad stuff up front, and nothing could ever come between them again.

Nothing but his job. He’d promised her he wouldn’t get involved in any of the operations, and he’d kept his word as best he could. But he was damned if he was going to stay in England, a sitting duck, and wait for MacGowan to pick him off. Not when CIA operatives showed up dead in his office, and the only connection he could find was MacGowan.

He was a stubborn Irishman, and he wasn’t going to listen to anyone. The way Peter saw it, his only choice was to confront the bear in his den. A den Peter arranged and paid for, but that wouldn’t stop MacGowan when he had a score to settle. And three years was a fuck of a long time.

It didn’t help that Peter felt guilty. He should have known, but it had seemed so clear that MacGowan was dead, and he’d been juggling so many other things, that he hadn’t followed through the way he should have and MacGowan had been left to rot in the jungles of South America. If their roles were reversed he’d be planning on killing him too.

The battle had raged for hours, with Genny accusing him of abandoning their children, abandoning her, being an adrenaline junkie, that he resented her for his promise, resented her for holding him back, hated his life.

All of which was ridiculous. He’d seen enough, done enough, that he had no interest in going out in the field again. In fact, she hadn’t asked him to make that promise in the first place, he had volunteered.

But she wouldn’t listen. Genevieve Spencer Madsen was a tough woman, a lawyer, an angry lioness when it came to defending her home and her life, and he’d suddenly become the enemy. He could go court death, she told him. He just couldn’t do it from her bed.

She’d locked the door, and if it weren’t for the children and Mahmoud he would have splintered it, grabbed Genevieve and taken her long and hard, so that she’d have no doubt as to his commitment to her.

But that was difficult with an audience, so instead he’d bedded down on the couch, avoiding Mahmoud’s disapproving questions, and left at first light. No matter what decision he made it would be wrong. He would either betray Genny’s trust or put the coup de grace on MacGowan’s revenge. He owed them both, but right now his debt to MacGowan was greater, and he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t face him.

He could tell himself he was doing it for her, that a rogue operative seeking vengeance could put his family in danger, but he knew that was bullshit. MacGowan might be a stone-cold killer when he needed to be, but he wouldn’t put innocents at risk. Ever. It had been a problem in the past, he remembered. Thomason had always hated him for his refusal to obey certain orders. So no, if MacGowan was going to take him out it would be in London.

But he was damned if he’d sit there waiting. Particularly not when the CIA had unexpectedly come into play.

His Porsche raced through the countryside like the beautiful machine it was, and he once more marveled at the clutchless manual transmission. He’d been afraid he’d be stuck with some stodgy automatic for the rest of his life. With the Cayenne he could work off some of his frustration.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face when he told her he was going to face MacGowan. It was something he’d hoped he’d never have to see again, and it was his fault.

At least Mahmoud would keep her mind off things. He took sides, and at seventeen was as devoted to Genny as he was to his mentor, Reno. Peter he could take or leave, the little shit. But at least Genny could pour out her anger and frustration and Mahmoud would distract her.

The crossing was ridiculously easy – they wouldn’t check for weapons or smuggling heading into France, though coming back was another matter. Apparently everyone wanted to get out of France and come to England, which he could understand. He personally found France a pain in the butt, and the last operation he’d been involved in there had ended in disaster. He would have been happy never to set foot in France again.

He could only hope this mission would have a better ending. He had to warn MacGowan about the CIA, fill him in on what was happening with Isobel and Killian. And convince him not to kill him.

It was going to be an entertaining time.

He had no idea how long he was out this time, but when MacGowan came to the pain in his head was like a jackhammer. They’d trussed him up like a chicken, his hands tight behind his back, but they hadn’t bothered with a gag. He tried to move his legs, but they’d tied his ankles as well, and he began to curse, quietly and colorfully. The pistol in his boot was gone, as was the knife in his sleeve. The only thing left was the switchblade he carried in a special pocket near his zipper, the one place most men wouldn’t be checking.

He was furious with himself. He’d acted like a rank amateur, first spinning around when Beth screamed, then reacting when they’d hurt her. What the hell was his problem? These were simple enough things he’d learned a decade and a half ago. You don’t react, no matter who’s getting hurt and why. It showed your weakness.

Now the boys downstairs would be fairly certain he wouldn’t sit by and let them hurt Beth. He could prove them wrong, of course, but because of his slip she could end up dead.

It was early afternoon if he could tell by the shadows, and he inched his way around so he could see Dylan and Beth. Dylan was looking dazed, Beth’s eyes were closed, and there was a bruise on her cheek. He was going to enjoy making someone pay for that.

“Beth?” He kept his voice low, and her eyes flew open, staring at him above the swath of silver tape. They hadn’t done a very good job of it – one corner was loose. Maybe they’d made other mistakes.

He couldn’t get out of this alone. He was going to need help, and Beth was cool enough to manage.

“Come here.”

Her expression might have been comical if he could have seen more of it. Instead she tilted her head as if to say “What the fuck?”

“The chair’s flimsy,” he said patiently. “See if you can rock it so that it falls over. It might splinter.”

No, she didn’t like that idea much. She looked over at Dylan, but they’d done a better job of tying him, and if MacGowan was going to get comfortable with someone he preferred it to be Beth. Sister Beth.

Odd, he hadn’t thought of her that way since he’d fucked her. Maybe he needed to reorder his thinking. He was better off with a crabby nun than a vulnerable woman.

“I don’t know what the hell else you think we can do?” he said irritably. “I need you down here, and I’m a little indisposed.” They’d looped the rope between his ankles and his arms, keeping him in an incredibly awkward position. He couldn’t sit up to try to work on Beth’s ropes with his teeth, he couldn’t manage to get his body up the two steps to the dais where they’d dumped his charges.

Beth’s ankles were tied to the chair legs, her feet touching the floor. He expected she’d need to rock in order to get the chair to move, but instead she simply pushed off with her toes and both chair and female moved, tumbling down the two steps to land half on top of him with the blessed sound of splintering wood.

“Ooof.” She hadn’t hurt him, but he figured complaining might keep her calm. She was scrambling to get off him, pushing away with her bound hands, pieces of chair attached to her back and ankles, but it gave her more flexibility than she would have had in the chair. “Hold still,” he growled, waiting to see if the men downstairs had heard her fall. No pounding on the stairs, but he didn’t allow himself the luxury of relief.

He moved his head toward her face and she tried to duck away, her head banging on his chin and making his headache worse. “Hold still, damn you,” he said again in the voice he used to terrorize small children. “I’m just getting your gag off.”

Her deep blue eyes looked at him questioningly, and he could feel her instinctive flinch when he moved closer, but this time she held still, like someone trying not to alarm a tarantula crawling on her arm.

His teeth caught the small edge of the duct tape. He froze for a moment. He could smell her skin, smell her fear, and if his arms were free he would have put them around her, comforting her. Like the crazy man he suddenly seemed to have become, he reminded himself. That blow on the head must have been worse than he thought.

He bit again, the tape held and he started to pull it off her mouth.

“Son of a bitch,” she whispered when he finally yanked it off completely.

“You talking to me?” he inquired politely.

Beth was a tough woman, but she wasn’t in the mood for banter. “Who are these people, and what do they want with us?”

“They work for the CIA.”

Relief washed over her face. “Then that’s no problem. Dylan and I are Americans. They wouldn’t want to hurt us.”

“Don’t count on it. They’re subcontractors, and they’ll kill anyone they want. As far as I can tell it’s me they’re interested in, and the two of you are expendable.”

“Great. Another thing to thank you for,” she snapped. “So how do we get out of this?”

“I have a knife. If you can get to it you can cut my ropes and then I’ll take care of you and Dylan. I’ll need to canvass the place before I know how we’re getting out, but trust me, we’ll do it.”

She didn’t move. “Oddly enough, I do. Where’s the knife?”

He shouldn’t have grinned. “Front of my jeans.”

Her icy stare would have flash frozen an ocean. “Yeah, right.”

“Sorry, babe, but that’s where I keep my spare. If anyone checks they just think I have a hard-on.”

“Which you probably do.”

“Not yet. You have to get closer.”

“You asshole,” she said in a fierce whisper. “You did this on purpose.”

“I don’t think so. It’s always been a smart place to hide something. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy having you get to it. But be careful. It’s a switchblade.”

“You mean if I grab it the wrong way I get to castrate you?”

He winced, then laughed. “No, probably just circumcise me.”

She looked startled, and he realized she didn’t know he wasn’t circumcised. That’s what came of innocence debauched and fucking in the dark. “Didn’t notice, did you?” he said softly, so the curious Dylan couldn’t overhear. “You can check it out later.”

She tried to jerk away, and the only way he could stop her was to slam his legs over her, keeping her still. “Come on, Sister Beth,” he chided. “We know you aren’t really a nun. Just chill and do what I tell you and we’ll get our asses out of this mess.”

She wriggled back toward him. “Do you know how much I despise you?” she said in a calm voice. She moved her bound hands toward the front of his pants, and he managed to keep the smile from his face.

“I know,” he said. Right now her fury with him was keeping her alive. Tenderness would have made her crumble, anger made her strong. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Make my day.”

Of course he was hard, had been since they’d started talking about it. Her hands brushed against him, for a moment mistaking his cock for the knife.

“No, baby,” he whispered. “Nice as that feels, the knife is over to the side. I dressed left today.”

He could feel her fury radiating from her body. The jeans were loose, as all his clothing was, and she moved her hands inside the waistband, finally finding the small pouch he carried the switchblade in, yanking it free with brutal haste.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider adjusting …?”

“Shut up, MacGowan,” she snarled. “You’re on thin ice already. How do I open this thing?”

“First, you move it away from my genitals,” he said gently. “Then you press the button on the side, and keep your hands away from the blade. That’s a Microtech Hawk and a very lethal piece of machinery.”

She grunted, not a promising sound, but the blade sprang free in her bound hands. “Do I get to cut your throat with it?”

“Maybe later. For now you need to cut the ropes around my wrists, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you get behind me? I’m having a hard time moving trussed up like this, and in my current condition …”

“Shut up, MacGowan.” She wriggled around him, a sight he found a little too stimulating, and then he heard her curse.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, and he felt her bound hands brush his. “Hold still or you’ll lose a finger.”

“Can’t have that. I’ve had a lot of good times with my fingers.” Something felt warm and wet, and he wondered if she’d managed to slice one of his body parts off and he was too numb to feel it. A moment later the rope gave way and he pulled his arms free with relief, shaking them. Blood on his hand – she must have nicked him, and he swiveled around for the knife.

She was sitting there, the knife on the floor, holding her wrist against her chest in a seemingly casual gesture. Totally ignoring the blood that was spreading onto her plain white t-shirt.