She could hear Mahmoud’s chuckle. “I’ve taught him worse,” the boy said.
“I believe it. The three of you, stay down. Don’t try to leave the room – he’ll have every sniper gadget imaginable, including infrared, up there. The CIA always has too much money for toys and not enough for their people, besides which they treat them like shit. Which is why it’s so easy to steal them. Just stay on the floor and we’ll be back.”
She couldn’t let him walk away without saying something. What if he never came back? “If you don’t come back I’ll kill you.” Not the most lover-like declaration, but it made him laugh.
If she made the mistake of telling him she loved him he’d probably take a bullet rather than deal with it. He’d just damned well better come back.
“I promise,” he said. His mouth was on hers, hard, a promise, not a farewell.
A moment later they were gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Barringer sat on the hillside overlooking the farmhouse and blew on his hands. He hadn’t been this cold in years. Sure, it snowed in DC, but there wasn’t this biting wind sweeping down off the mountains, chilling him to the bone. The only gloves he wore were latex, and he found his hands were sweating, making them even colder. He’d missed his shot. For the first time in his life he’d missed his shot, and people like MacGowan didn’t give you second chances.
He could comfort himself with the knowledge that it hadn’t been his fault. He’d had MacGowan’s head in his rifle sights for a good long time, savoring the moment. If only the son-of-a-bitch hadn’t suddenly ducked his head this would all be over with. All he’d have to do is head down to the house and take care of the others.
He’d been considering it. He’d be much better off with no witnesses left alive. He’d always made his orders clear to his subordinates. He even joked about it. “Dead men tell no tales,” he’d said, and they’d listened.
But times had changed, and people paid closer attention, and needless body-counts had repercussions. He’d pretty much decided to take care of MacGowan and the girl and leave the teenager. He wasn’t heartless, after all, just practical. But once again Finn MacGowan had managed to didge death, and Barringer had been so furious it had taken all his famous self-control not to pick up the sniper gun and march down the hill to take them all out.
Of course, the sniper gun wasn’t that portable. And marching in on them wasn’t the smartest thing to do. No, he was a crafty old buzzard, and he’d sit and wait. They wouldn’t dare try to come after him – they’d be sitting ducks with the infrared. He could pick them off one by one, then go down to the house and finish things. Forget the kid and sentiment. Scorched earth policy on this one. Enough was enough.
He checked the sniper rifle, making sure it was loaded, then sat back. He hadn’t bothered with camouflage, there was no need. No one would come looking for him. No one would dare.
He whistled under his breath, softly, cheerfully, an old hymn his mother had loved. He missed his mother. Few men were lucky enough to have such a strong, wise woman as a mother. He’d always told her she’d spoiled him for any other woman, and it was the truth. Even now he still slept with her picture on his bedside table.
He hadn’t brought it with him, but then, he hadn’t planned to spend the night. This safe house was a pain and a half to find, off in the middle of nowhere and as far away from major roads as you could get in a backwards country like France. He’d never liked it here. In fact, he never liked it anywhere but home. Home was the place where you knew where you stood, where people believed in the right things. France was just godless.
He was humming, then he stopped, squinting into the darkness. Had he heard something? No, it was his imagination. He was hyper-alert, and he would have been able to hear the rustle of dead leaves underfoot, the snapping of a twig, whether it was caused by man or forest animal. There was nothing.
He’d cut the girl’s throat, make it look like a crime of passion. It was a shame he hadn’t brought one of his men with him. If the girl was found raped as well as murdered it would look like a crazy person had gotten to them. But he’d lived a celibate life and not even for the good of a mission could he endanger his immortal soul. And he hadn’t had the operatives he’d once had. They’d retired, or been killed, or reassigned. He’d been lucky to scrape together the help he’d gotten so far, which was why he’d had to turn to soldiers for hire.
You get what you paid for. The Gargonne brothers had been well-recommended and cheap, the job had been simple, and he’d had to use his own money. But they’d failed, and Barringer couldn’t wait. He should have come himself at that point, but he still had been hoping he could use MacGowan to lure Killian out of hiding. Now all he wanted to do was kill the bastard.
He caught himself. Those were words he didn’t use. Ever. Clearly the stress had been too much for him, to make a slip like that. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
He sat back on the hillside, tucking his hands inside his jacket. His shoes were muddy – have to buy new ones before he took the plane home, and get rid of these. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to go to a great deal of trouble to solve these particular executions. MacGowan and all the Committee kept deep cover, but even the French would be able to identify the bodies, including the two newcomers. Once they knew MacGowan’s past they would have a good enough answer and they would drop things. One thing about the French, much as he disliked them. They were practical.
The lights were off down at the farmhouse, but that made little difference, not with the infra-red. He’d never used the device before, but it worked well. He couldn’t rid himself of the notion that it was cheating. All this technology took the challenge out of the mission.
Then again, he’d missed his first shot. He wouldn’t miss his second.
There was no sign of movement down there. It had taken him a minute or two to figure out how to turn the infra-red on, and by that time he’d seen two heat sources at one end of the room and one in the middle. He couldn’t find anyone else, and he had the uneasy feeling that there had been others. Where were they?
He didn’t want to wait for daylight, when he could get a clear shot once more. He was cold, and he wanted to get the hell out of … he wanted to get out of France and back home. He was too old for this shit.
He stopped in confusion. Where had that word come from? He was getting disoriented, probably from stress and lack of sleep. He’d always done his best to maintain a stress-free life in a high-stress job. He valued his health too much to be prey to all the diseases stress could dump on you.
He slid his hands inside his coat, touching the small pistol tucked into his belt. It was an old favorite of his. Maybe he’d been wrong to try for a sniper’s shot. Maybe he could lure MacGowan out, finish him, then go in and take care of the others. A double tap to the back of the neck took care of things neatly and thoroughly.
Damn, he was cold. He shook himself, distressed. Darn. He wasn’t a man who cursed, ever. He was a good man, a temperate man.
He felt the muzzle of the gun up against the back of his head, cold and deadly.
“Fuck,” he said.
MacGowan moved around to face the man who had been trying to kill him, keeping the gun trained on his head. It was a cloudless night, and he could see the man quite clearly, and he stared at him in surprise.
“Jesus, you’re old,” he said.
The man frowned. His face was a network of wrinkles, his bushy eyebrows white over his unreadable eyes. MacGowan knew those eyes. He saw them in the mirror, in his friends. The blank eyes of a man who kills for a living.
“Don’t swear,” the old man said automatically.
MacGowan laughed, sinking down onto the earth in front of him. “You’re the one who said ‘fuck.’ Who are you, old man?”
“Vincent Barringer.” He was waiting for recognition to sink in. It didn’t.
“Who’s Vincent Barringer, then?”
He’d pissed the old guy off. “CIA,” he snapped.
“And they send senior citizens out on hits nowadays? You’ll have to come up with a better answer than that. Or is it simply that I’m only worth the dregs of the profession.”
“How dare you!” The old man was seething. “I’ll have you know I made this business. The CIA wouldn’t exist in its current state without me.”
“I wouldn’t be bragging about it if I were you.” MacGowan kept his eye on the rifle. Vincent Barringer would have a hard time swinging that around to reach him, but he needed to watch for any fast move. He could see no sign of another weapon, but he wasn’t fool enough to take that for granted. He shouldn’t underestimate the man because of his age. Even old cobras were deadly.
“Show some respect, young man.”
“Why?” he taunted. He was getting beneath the man’s skin. “Never mind. Just tell me who sent you to kill me, and why? What have I ever done to the fucking CIA?”
Barringer’s expression was disapproving. “No one sent me. I sent the others. When they failed so miserably I decided to finish it up myself. If you hadn’t moved at the last minute you’d be dead, your brains splattered on the walls.”
All over Beth, he thought, keeping his anger at bay. He’d learned to be icy cold in situations like this, when his rage wanted to blaze white hot. “Ah, but isn’t that always the case, old man? Death is always just around the corner, but as long as you move a fraction of an inch at the right time, you survive. So why is it you want me dead?”
Vincent Barringer looked at him with clear dislike. “It was never my original intention. I simply wanted Sully to take charge of you. Sooner or later Isobel Lambert would surface to make certain you didn’t terminate Peter Madsen, and Killian would come with her. I know I could convince her to hand him over rather than have you killed.”
MacGowan shrugged. “Maybe so. I never met the man. However, I know Madame Lambert quite well, and if she was capable of falling in love then she wouldn’t give up the man for all the tea in China and all the sorry-ass operatives she’d left behind. So why kill me?”
“Because you piss … you tick me off,” the man grumbled.
MacGowan reached for the sniper rifle, and Barringer did nothing to hold on to it. He knew guns, he was adept at dismantling them in the dark, by feel alone, and he did so, quickly and efficiently, feeling oddly light-hearted. This was over, not with a bang but a whimper. He wouldn’t have to kill anyone. The old man would be sent packing with his tail between his legs, Peter would make a few phone calls, and Barringer would be put out to pasture.
He was so tired of death. Tired of killing. Even more important, it would make Beth happy. He could give this life to her, like a present, see her radiant smile, the one that banished the shadows from her beautiful blue eyes. He wanted to see that smile on her bruised, gorgeous face, feel her hands on his skin, wanted to lose himself in her sweet, shy body with its fierce response. He wanted to lose himself forever, he wanted …
The old man moved so fast he didn’t have time to react. His hand was out, the gun pointing, and for a brief, motionless second MacGowan knew he was a dead man.
And then the old man’s head exploded, his arm jerked convulsively, and his corpse collapsed onto the cold ground, the stink of rapidly emptying bowels on the night air.
Peter Madsen appeared from above, looking at the dead man with indifference. His limp was more pronounced now, and it had taken him longer to skirt around to the back of the hillside to get here. A good thing.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, MacGowan?” he said. “Were you just going to sit there till he decided to kill you?”
Beth. Beth was what was wrong with him. He’d let himself get distracted, and it had almost killed him.
He wasn’t going to answer Madsen’s snarky question. “Looks like you saved my life.”
“Second time in an hour, mate.”
He wanted to tell him he wasn’t his mate. Old habits died hard. If a man who saved your life wasn’t your mate then who the hell was?
He uncoiled, rising to his full height. “What are we going to do about him?”
“Bury him, I expect. Easiest thing to do. There should be a couple of shovels in the barn.”
MacGowan rubbed the back of his neck and thought of Beth. “I don’t suppose we can get Mahmoud and Dylan to take care of it.”
“No!”
“Dylan’s seen death before. He’s no pussy.”
“Mahmoud’s killed people before. They don’t need to be brought in. Beth will wait for you.”
It annoyed him that Madsen could see through him so easily. He nodded, stepping out of the way as Barringer’s blood pooled downhill toward him. “I’ll get the shovels.” He started down the hill, then paused and turned. “You do realize I know perfectly well whose fault it was that I was kept prisoner for three years, don’t you?”
There was a wary expression in Madsen’s eyes. The moon had come out, and he could see him quite clearly. And then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know that now. But from thousands of miles away, over the distance of years, I had no idea what you were thinking.”
“I always knew. It was my fault for getting caught, my responsibility. No one else’s. We all go into this business knowing that in the end it’s up to us and no one else. It was easier to blame you.”
Madsen grinned then. “You mean I didn’t have to save your life twice in one day? Now you tell me.”
“Wanker,” MacGowan said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Beth didn’t want to move. She lay curled up on the floor of the great room, lit only by the nearly guttered candles and the fire. She could see Mahmoud and Dylan over in the corner. Neither of them seemed particularly distressed that the cozy dinner party had been broken up by a sniper’s bullet but then, Dylan had seen a lot in his young life. If Mahmoud had seen as much then this was simply business as usual.
Would she ever learn to take it in stride? To be able to smile up at MacGowan as he took off after a gunman? She was going to have to learn.
She’d figured out something while she’d been curled up on the cold, tiled floor of the farmhouse, Finn’s touch, his kiss still lingering on her skin. She’d thought she’d stay with him as long as he’d let her. Take what she could and mourn later.