Moonrise (13 page)

She lost track of time. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to open her mind. As they sailed down the hill, she could still feel those eyes watching her. Still feel the target at the back of her neck.

She could feel his heart beat through their bodies. Two thin T-shirts separated them, and she could feel his heat, his bones, his breath, and his pulse as he gunned the motor and took them farther and farther away from that lovely little cottage with the stench of death all around it.

She couldn’t rest her face against his back with the helmet in the way, a mixed blessing. All she could do was trust him, completely. She’d made her choice, and now she’d stick with it.

It no longer mattered where they were going. She’d thrown in her lot with him. She tightened her hands around his waist and hung on, shutting off her mind.

*       *       *

The Vincent purred beneath him, a magnificent machine from a better age. He glanced down at it in the bright sunlight. Probably as old as he was, perhaps older. A fitting farewell present from his old friend Clancy.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Clancy had lived with the reality of death for as long as James had, knowing it could appear, unexpected, at any time. He’d come to their aid knowing it might mean his end, and he’d come willingly. Something else would have gotten to him sooner or later. He’d made too many enemies along the way, and Carew, or whatever asshole was behind all this, had too powerful a network.

James had learned not to feel guilt or regret. Not to mourn, not even to think about the past. He’d examined Clancy’s body with detached calm, trying to pinpoint the trigger man’s style, how long he’d been dead, etc., before he’d hauled Annie’s ass back to the house.

He’d felt nothing during the long, sleepless hours of the night as he considered their options and how they’d get the hell away from there. When he relaxed he’d think about Clancy. About a time when they were young, full of passion and patriotism and justice.

And how they were old now. Empty inside. And Clancy was dead.

He must have known. They all had a sixth sense about it, the good ones. And the good ones were the only ones who made it for very long. When Clancy had stashed the Vincent Black Shadow in the shed, he would have sensed that it would be James who would come for it.

He was feeling too much, and it was dangerous. If someone had been hidden in the shed, waiting for him, he’d be a dead man now as well. And God knows what they would have done to Annie.

He wouldn’t think about it. He could shut it off, neatly, surgically. Just keep moving forward, one step at a time. Get to the next stop, as fast as they could, and then deal with things.

She was holding on tightly, plastered to him. She was beginning to get that shell-shocked look around the eyes, as reality began to sink in, only to be summarily rejected. There was no way a woman like her could live with the reality of his life. Or her father’s. If she had to face it, she’d be better off dead.

At this point he didn’t plan on having her face it. He’d keep her with him, keep her safe, while he discovered his own answers.
And in the end, when he knew who had been working with Win, who’d been behind the setup, and his own eventual death sentence, then he’d finish things up. And Annie would be safe.

It was the least he could offer Win. The man he’d loved like a father.

She didn’t know she had her arms wrapped tightly around an executioner. She didn’t know he’d come back to the kitchen with the stench of death all around him. She didn’t know, and she couldn’t. Or it might drive her as mad as it was slowly driving him.

“I’m sorry, sir. McKinley and the woman got away.”

“The hell you say! I sent some of our best people out there. You told me there was no way a car could have gone in or out, that the place was too isolated to walk out of.”

“Yes, sir. Apparently I miscalculated.”

“Apparently you did, son.” The General leaned back, swirling a glass of single-malt scotch in one stubby-fingered hand. It would take a hell of a lot of scotch to take the edge off this disaster, and he was a man who watched his intake carefully. Too much liquor was a sign of weakness, and the General was a man without weakness.

He stared at the yuppie slime in front
of him. The new breed of bureaucrat—Ivy League—educated, politically correct, white wine—swilling faggots. He’d seen too damned many of them in the last few years, and if it was up to him he’d dump the lot in Iraq and let Hussein sort ’em out. They’d run crying home to mommy soon enough.

This one, though, was different, and the General had always known that. This one had the morals of a jackal, the brains and heart of a tiger. And no soul whatsoever. He had only to look into those empty, clever eyes and know that here was a man capable of absolutely anything.

It was a useful tool. And he was the General’s tool, there was no doubting that. But like all tools, he had to be properly taken care of. Respected like the lethal weapon he was.

“So what do you intend to do about it?” the General asked calmly enough.

“I can take care of it. I just wonder how quickly we want to finish this.”

“Damned quickly, son!” the general spat. “James McKinley has been a boil on my backside for months now, ever since he went rogue. He’s a live wire, and this organization is too damned delicate to risk it. We’ve covered our tracks as well as we can, but we’d be fools to underestimate him, no matter how erratic he’s gotten. If we want to get this up
and running again, we’re going to have to eliminate him before any more time passes. Before he can tell anyone else about what’s been going on. He could get to us, son. He could bring us all tumbling down if we don’t do something about him.”

“Would you like me to handle it, sir?”

“Hell, yes, I’d like you to handle it! Haven’t I already told you so a half dozen times?”

“And if Carew starts getting suspicious?”

“Handle him too. Hell, handle all of them. We can always blame terrorists. Or blame McKinley. Do you think the Sutherland girl knows about him?”

“I doubt it. She wouldn’t have chosen to stay with him if she did, and Carew said it was definitely her choice.”

“There’s your way in, then. Drop a few key bits of information. Let her know what he does for a living, where he came from. That should scare the piss out of her.”

“How do you suggest I do that without telling her everything? About the organization, about all of us?”

The General looked at him. There shouldn’t have been any emotion, any regret in those soulless eyes, but there was. Even the best tool had its flaws, he thought absently. “If you can’t see to it, son, I have plenty of people who can. It doesn’t matter
what she knows, what she guesses. She won’t have a chance to pass it on. You tell her, get her away from McKinley. We’ll take care of her, you take care of him. You do it fast. Is that clear?”

“As crystal, General.”

“Then get on with it. Find ’em. Before they find us.”

T
hey were in the desert. She’d lost track of how long they’d been riding, or even where they’d been going. She simply closed her eyes and held on tight, with her arms around his waist, her knees tight to his thighs, letting her mind drift into some safe, quiet place where there was no blood or death. No moon rising over the barren landscape. Only bright, warming sunlight baking her back as they sped along the rough roads toward whatever destination James had in mind.

She knew they must have stopped, at least once, for a bathroom and for food, but she was only vaguely aware of it. Time blended together, and it seemed as if she’d been on the back of that sleek black motorcycle for years when the road beneath them became so rough that he had to throttle down, and she tightened her grip around him, afraid she’d be tossed off the back of the machine.
And not certain he’d come back for her if she was.

He finally stopped, turning off the engine, and she had no choice but to sit back and look around her, blinking in confusion. It looked like the trailer park from hell. There were a half dozen rundown mobile homes arranged in a haphazard fashion, surrounded by rusting automobiles and pickups. A broken toilet was set outside one of the worst-looking hovels, a mangy dog slunk through the shadows, glaring at them. The sun was already setting, and the chill that filled the air bit through Annie’s thin T-shirt.

“We’re here,” James said, climbing off the bike.

Annie still didn’t move. “Where’s here?” It looked barren, bleak, and nightmarish, and much as she wanted to stop driving, she wasn’t sure if this was where she wanted to stay.

He didn’t answer, looking around him with a lack of curiosity that Annie found particularly chilling. He knew this place, knew it well. He’d chosen to come here, for whatever twisted reasons he might have.

He glanced back at her. “Are you coming with me or not?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“I doubt you’d be able to handle the Vincent.
Right now you don’t look like you could handle a tricycle. You need to get your land legs back.”

He held out a hand for her, but she’d touched him enough that day. She’d had no choice, clinging to him on the motorcycle. She had a choice now.

She swung her leg off the motorcycle and slid to the ground, sinking to the hard-packed earth as her knees buckled beneath her.

He picked her up, of course, with all the impersonal care of a forklift operator, setting her on her feet and holding her arms for a moment until she steadied herself. Then he released her, obviously as loath for physical contact as she was.

The thought startled her, and she looked up at him, confused. He seemed almost unwilling to get close to her, and she wondered why. And she wondered why it bothered her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded irritably.

She managed a weak shrug. “Just daydreaming. Is there anyone else here?” She looked around him at the decrepit trailers.

“They keep to themselves. As we will.” He started toward the most rundown of the structures. It was rusted, the small windows so
streaked with grease and filth that she doubted any light would penetrate.

The light was fading fast. She was tired, she was hungry, and she needed a bathroom. She looked up at the place, wondering if it came equipped with indoor plumbing.

“This is where we’re staying?” she asked, not moving.

“It’s safe,” he said grudgingly. “It might not be the Ritz, but it’s better equipped for our needs. Unless you have a better idea.”

She thought about it. “No,” she said. “This is about the last place anyone would think of finding me.” She followed him up the broken steps to the dented metal door.

That was when she noticed the locks. The trailer itself might be a disreputable pile of rusty metal, but the series of locks on the doors would have protected Fort Knox. And James held the keys.

She allowed herself a faint hope that the interior of the trailer might be similarly surprising, but the moment the smell of old beer, chili, and hot, stale air hit her, she knew that hope was in vain. She followed James into the darkened interior, but something made her stop for a moment, to look back over her shoulder at the place across the way.

There were no lights on in the afternoon
dusk, but she could see the movement behind the windows, and a chill ran over her.

“Someone’s watching us,” she said, skittering inside.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Anybody out here is more concerned with covering their own ass than watching yours.” He pushed the door shut behind her, closing them both into the heat and the darkness and the smell. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him, close, so close, and his arm slid past her face, and a sudden wild panic filled her.

Only to vanish as he switched on the light and then moved away.

She took a deep, calming breath. “It looks better in the darkness,” she said. The one bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling glared into the sparse interior. There was a kitchen at one end of the structure, a small living area in the center, and at the far end an alcove with a bed. One bed, with a bare mattress and a threadbare-looking blanket folded neatly at one end.

“All the comforts of home,” she said wryly. “Is there a bathroom?”

“To your left. The plumbing even works.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

The bathroom was minuscule, complete with rusty shower stall, rickety toilet, and a
tiny sink. She didn’t care. She wanted that shower.

She heard voices as she was washing her hands. The water was rusty, brownish as well. She didn’t care.

She opened the door slowly, carefully, expecting God knew what. Only to find James stretched out on the sagging sofa, a cold beer in one hand, staring at a tiny black-and-white TV set.

She wanted to hit him. She wanted to take her fists and beat against him, to pound his head against the wall and demand some answers. Once more he looked like a different man. Like a good old boy, stretched out, watching a football game. But he wasn’t watching a football game, he was watching CNN. And this wasn’t the kind of place that would have cable.

“There’s food in the kitchen,” he said. “And beer.”

“I told you, I don’t drink.”

“I do.”

There was nothing she could say to that. He was stretched out on the sofa, his long, black-clad body seemingly at ease as he stared at the flickering images on the television set, but she could see the handle of the gun tucked in his waistband.

There was bottled water, cans of chili and
beef stew and soup, ramen noodles and tuna fish. She settled for tomato soup and crackers, not bothering to offer James any.

There was no other place to sit but the old sofa. She perched next to him, as far away as she could manage, concentrating on the television as well.

“Anything interesting?” She made a belated attempt at sociability.

“Brush fires in California,” he said casually. “They think it started up in one of the canyons. Some old cottage caught on fire, and it spread from there.”