Chapter Thirty-One
“I found ’er! Over here!”
The muffled male voice broke through Brigit’s semi-lucid dreams of Tory and her mother, and she groaned.
Her head had split open, she was sure. She opened her eyes but only one seemed to be working. Through it, the world swam in streaks of green, black and blue. The other eye’s lashes snagged on grass.
Snapping her eyes shut again, she drew a deep breath. She was lying on the ground, and snatches of memory swam through her brain.
The pungent smell of earth mixed with a more acrid smell. Hot metal? Burning rubber? A high-pitched ringing stung her left ear while her right was mercifully buried in the mud under her face. She raised her hand to cup the pain-filled ear, and her shoulder screamed at the movement.
God, I’m a fucking mess.
Again the muffled voice spoke, blurred and soft around the edges. “Easy, there, Miss. Help’s on the way.”
Help. Yes, she needed help.
Lots of it.
She tried to say thank you, but her voice wouldn’t work. She popped open the eye that wasn’t buried in the grass and tried to rise up on her elbows. The man had squatted down next to her and now touched her back in a controlled block. “Whoa, now. Ya best stay where ya are.”
He was right. The world spun and Brigit sank back down into the grass. As the man shrugged off his blue jacket and laid it over her, she flexed her fingers and her toes. They obeyed, but when she tried to lift her head again, a hundred pound elephant was sitting on it. She stopped trying, closed her eyes and drifted…
When the emergency medical technicians arrived, they kept her conscious as they poked and prodded and talked about her. After wrapping her neck in a brace and inserting an IV in her arm, they shifted her onto a back brace as well and suddenly she was able to see the sky. Black billowing smoke covered the morning sun.
Over the background noise and the ringing in her ears, she caught snatches of the ongoing conversation around her.
Possible spinal injury…head injury…internal bleeding
.
She swallowed the bile in her throat. If she was possibly going to die, she had to tell Michael the truth about Peter. The truth about everything. Her lips were thick and rubbery. She forced them apart but her voice still refused to cooperate. “Michael,” she whispered.
The man who’d found her shushed the technicians and leaned over her face. “What did ya say, Miss?”
“Mi…chael…”
“Michael? He yer husband?”
She tried to shake her head but found it immobile. “Stone.”
“Stone? That yer name?”
She sighed. “Mi…chael…Stone…he’s CIA…”
The man quirked his brows but nodded. “Aye, I’ve got it. You want me to contact ’im. Now what’s your name, lass?”
“Bri…git…”
“Brigit? Now there’s a hearty Irish name, it ’tis. Yer gonna be just fine, Miss Brigit.” He patted her hand. “Ye’ve survived a rough one, but ye be in good hands now. And I’ll be sure Michael Stone is contacted.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Thank…you…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Finding the site of the plane explosion was easy, getting up to it was impossible.
Fire trucks, police cars and Haz Mat vehicles blocked the narrow country lane. Press vans jammed the field. People by the dozens packed themselves against the police barricades, trying to get a look, take a photo and propagate gossip about why the plane had landed in a sheep field and who lay under the white sheets on the ground.
Titus stayed at the airport to refuel and store his jet. He’d had the good sense to have an armored SUV waiting to transport the others to the field south of Dublin.
The SUV got within a quarter mile of the site, and Michael jumped out and started jogging toward the crowd, the others behind him. By the time he reached the barricade and pushed his way through the gawkers, he was sweating. The temperature was only in the forties, but the heat from the wreckage permeated the air, along with the stench of burning rubber, jet fuel and hot metal.
He identified himself to a local cop, flashed his badge and grew impatient as the cop looked him over and then used a walkie-talkie to ask permission to let him pass. Permission was granted, although reluctantly.
The cop dragged the barricade open enough to let Michael and the others slip through before directing them to a knot of blue-uniformed officers.
A helicopter skimmed the still-billowing smoke from the plane. Crime-scene-recovery technicians, wearing bright orange vests, fanned out on all sides of the plane’s skeleton, scanning the ground, the stone fence and the trees that formed a north-south border on one end of the field.
As Michael surveyed the surrounding area, he wondered if Donovan had purposely chosen this field because of the tree line. Even in the dark of night, it would have provided a dark parallel shadow for him to follow as he landed.
A female officer watched him approach and broke from the group of personnel to meet him and his group. Her reddish brown hair flew around her face in the breeze, dancing with the deep lines around her eyes. Her badge hung from her neck and a serious black gun sat prominently on her belt.
“State your business,” she said.
Michael flashed his badge in its leather holder with one hand as he stuck out his other to her. “Michael Stone, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence. I have information about the terrorist who did this.”
Another officer who’d been talking on a cell phone snapped it shut and stepped toward them as the police woman shook his hand. “Did ya say Michael Stone?”
“Yes?”
Dipping his chin in a nod, he wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead. “Brigit, you know ’er?”
A chill went up Michael’s spine. “Yes.”
The man motioned for Michael to follow him down a slight embankment. He pointed to the grove of trees. “I found her along the fence, there. I don’t know how close she was to the plane when it exploded, but the blast sent ’er a good ways in the air before she landed.”
Michael scanned the area, looking for a third white sheet. “Where is she?”
“I hate to tell ye, but your gal looked to be in pretty bad shape. She could barely even speak, but her first words were ‘Michael Stone’.”
“She…” Michael paused, a lump forming in his throat. He cast a hopeful glance at Flynn standing beside him. “She’s alive?”
The man dipped his chin again. “Medics took ’er to North Ridge. Good trauma unit there.”
Truman clapped his hands together. “God Bless the Queen.”
Flynn slapped him on the shoulder. Michael’s stomach flooded with a burning sensation, but his hope grew brighter. He turned on his heel to run back to the SUV.
The female police officer snagged the sleeve of his coat. “You said you had information about the terrorist involved in this.”
He and Flynn exchanged a look. Flynn cocked his head in the direction of the SUV. “Go. Del and I’ll relay the information.”
Michael pulled Flynn away from the female police officer’s hearing. “I want Donovan, personally, whatever it takes, and I want the word to go out Brigit Kent died in that plane.”
“You think Donovan will come after her?”
“She’s in the hospital and injured.”
“Easy pickings.”
“Exactly. Donovan’s probably gone to ground, but that doesn’t mean he won’t send someone else after her.”
“I’ll barter information, see what I can do.”
Michael nodded and Flynn turned back to address the female officer.
Gunn hung off to the side, waiting for him. “I’d like to go with you.”
The acid in Michael’s stomach flowed up into his throat. He leveled his gaze at Gunn. “She doesn’t work for SIS anymore.”
“She’s my friend.”
“That all?”
Gunn met his gaze straight on and flexed some muscle. “Brigit’s been on her own since she was seventeen. She’s got nobody. No family and very few close friends. For the past five years, I’ve looked out for her, and I don’t intend to stop now.”
Gunn cared about Brigit, and while the thought continued to sour Michael’s stomach, he respected the man’s devotion. It would be unfair to refuse him a ride to the hospital, and Michael was nothing but fair to everyone.
“Let’s go.”
Our Lady of Hope Medical Hospital
The ER doctor was young and cocky, with blond hair hanging in waves around his head. He looked like Michelangelo’s version of an angel, but Michael was sure his Irish accent was courtesy of Hollywood.
“Mild concussion. Contusion on her right temple, which she claims came from the butt of a gun and happened before the explosion.” The doctor flipped through pages on a clipboard, much too willing to share information on his patient with a nonmember of Brigit’s family.
Of course, Michael’s ID had a way of making a lot of inexperienced Hollywood movie junkies talk, and Brigit had no available next of kin hanging around.
The man’s finger ran down a list on his chart. “CT scan shows no intracranial bleeding. No broken bones, no internal bleeding, no lacerations or burns. Tox screen isn’t back yet. She has two mildly bruised ribs and an older wound from a gunshot.”
He glanced up, amusement lighting his pale blue eyes. “She claims she also received that prior to today’s explosion. Who is she, Lara Croft?”
An image of Brigit in leather flashed through Michael’s brain. He shook it off, disgusted with himself. The woman was in the hospital after her so-called brother tried to blow her up. Now was not the time to free his libido. “Can I talk to her?”
“Sure. The concussion produced echolalia so if she keeps asking you the same questions, like, ‘where am I’ over and over again, don’t be alarmed. Echolalia is common in head-injury patients.”
He flipped the papers closed. “She’s refused everything but Tylenol and even as weak as she is, she’s been trying to get up and leave.” He pointed to a screened-off area on his right, divided by curtains into makeshift rooms. “That bruise on the side of her face is ugly and she admits she lost consciousness after she got it. I want to keep her here for observation. Four to six hours at least.”
“I’ll see if I can persuade her to stay on one condition.”
Dr. Hollywood grinned. “Which is?”
“You keep her name from being released to the media. Her life’s in danger, and this is no movie. The people who shot her and tried to blow her up will come after her. You understand what I’m saying?”
The grin fell off his face, and the pathetic Irish accent disappeared. “Yeah, no problem.”
Michael insisted Gunn stay in the hallway. He wanted to talk to Brigit first alone. When he entered the tiny, curtained-off area made into a room, she was curled on her side sleeping.
Her face was pale, even against the bleached-white sheets, and the term “ugly” was a mild description of her bruised temple. Black and purple smudges bled from her hairline toward her eye and down her cheek. As Michael drew closer, he saw an elongated welt rising in her hair.
His hands shook as he leaned his arms on the bed’s guardrail to watch her. His stomach was on fire again and he clenched his fists. If Peter Donovan had been in the room, he would have punched him into a pile of raw meat.
She could barely even speak, but her first words were ‘Michael Stone’.
She’d asked for him before anyone else.
Blowing out a deep breath, he tried to figure out why, even though he didn’t really care. His brain had no logical answer, but his heart raced under his shirt like he’d just run a touchdown into the end zone.
Brigit’s hand rested on top of the sheet. Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand over hers. Her slender fingers disappeared under his wide ones, and she sighed in her sleep.
He stood like that for long moments, enjoying the softness of her skin and the faint rise and fall of her chest. Out in the hallway, a pan clattered to the floor. Brigit stirred.
Drawing his hand back, he straightened up as she blinked open her eyes. Her right eye was swelled and stayed half lidded as her gaze locked on him. “Are you really here or am I hallucinating?”
He smiled, swallowing the lump that seemed to form in his throat an awful lot when it came to her and her well-being. “I’m here. How do you feel?”
“Better now that you’re here.” She grinned, as if surprising herself at the admission, but the smile dropped off her face as she rolled over on to her back slowly, wincing. “Actually, my body feels like hell. No, worse than hell.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I bet I look about as good too. Why is it you always see me at my worst? I’ve been gun-shot, had my hair French fried and now I’ve been blown up. I’d like you better if you showed up a tad earlier and saw me at my best. And maybe kept me from getting hurt. I don’t like pain.”
“Yet you keep throwing yourself into these situations.”
“I’m not usually such a magnet for bad luck, just so you know.” She stared at the ceiling and Michael could see her eyes tearing up. “That’s not true, either, I guess. My mother was killed when I was seven and my father kicked me out ten years later. We had a fight over Tory, but I think the real reason we fought so much was because he got tired of seeing my face.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Brigit’s voice was almost a whisper. “Well, you didn’t kill your mother and then have the audacity to grow up and look just like her.”
“Your mother’s death wasn’t your fault.”
She shot him a grave look. “How do you know that?” Before he could answer, though, she sighed. “Never mind. I know your skills at discovering my deepest secrets are unparalleled.”
A tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and she swiped at it. “Guilt doesn’t have to be directly related to fault, by the way.”
“I agree.”
That got her. She shifted her gaze again to look at him. “What guilt trap keeps you up at night?”
He wanted to keep her talking, partially, he admitted to himself, just to hear her voice, and a good way to do that was to offer up the truth. He hadn’t ever shared it with anyone, yet the idea of telling Brigit his list seemed natural, easy to do. She would understand.
“My father’s death tops the list. Five CIA operatives killed while I was Director of Operations, three men killed and another three held hostage with me last spring. Do you want me to go on?”
Something flickered in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Not pity. Something else. Camaraderie. They were in the same survivors’ club. “Your father’s death, what happened? How old were you?”
“I was ten. He was undercover in Germany, feeding information back to the CIA. He got caught, was arrested for spying and thrown in prison. Before the U.S. could negotiate his release, he was severely beaten by a group of fellow prisoners. They called my mother, and she didn’t even take time to get a babysitter for us. She left me in charge of my siblings and took off. He died five minutes after she got there.”
Brigit’s expression was pained. “Oh my God, Michael. I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t my fault, and yet I’ve carried around guilt over it my whole life. Maybe if I’d done better in school or been a better son, things would have turned out differently.”
She nodded. “I do that too. All kids do, whether their parents die or get divorced or run off and leave them.” Staring again at the ceiling, she seemed to shift to a younger version of herself. “If I’d been a better little girl, maybe Peter would have left me alone,” she whispered. “If he hadn’t kidnapped me, I wouldn’t have accidentally started the fire that killed my mother.”
The world outside the room went deathly silent, as if he’d just entered a vortex. “Donovan kidnapped you as a child?”
Picking absently at the edge of the sheet, she darted a glance at him. “He’s my brother. Half-brother, actually, and yes, the distinction is important to me. He kidnapped me and Tory when we were young girls, seeking revenge on our father, who Peter believed was responsible for his own father’s death. When my mother tried to rescue us, I knocked over a candle, which started a fire. The fire set off some gunpowder Peter was storing in the kitchen and caused an explosion. She was killed.”
When he didn’t say anything, she looked away. “I know, I should have told you Peter was my half-brother sooner. You have every right to be angry.”
Angry? He was furious. “You should have told me he kidnapped you.”
“Three people outside of my immediate family know. You make number four. Among other embarrassing things, like the fact I’m a total klutz and failed becoming a full-fledged operative for SIS, it’s not something I share on a regular basis.”
“Then why tell me?”
She pressed her lips together and another tear escaped the corner of her eye. “I’m not sure, it just seems like you’ve…earned it.”
Earning her trust shouldn’t have made any difference to him, but it did. His heart took up kickboxing. It thudded so hard, he almost put his hand up to catch it when it finally broke free from his chest.
She could barely even speak, but her first words were ‘
Michael Stone’.
“Did Donovan give you the bruise?”
“Yes.” She raised her hand and gingerly touched her hairline. “I tried to stop him from taking off, but as you can see, I’m not much of a roadblock. Another reason I didn’t cut the mustard as a spy.”