Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (21 page)

She threw back her head,
accepting the wet kisses at her neck.

Tomorrow, she told herself,
tomorrow she’d regret this.

He was parting her with his
fingers, positioning himself. She closed her eyes, and he entered her with one
quick thrust that drew the breath from her lungs
.

She
folded herself around him and he took her in, molding himself to her, sensing
her every rhythm and need. They were lost in each other – two reckless
creatures of the sea, as blatant in their want as the witch-like Pacific that
beat the neighboring shore to their splashing pulse.

The howling of the northwestern
Galician winds recalled Ana to the present. Wooden storm shutters beat
relentlessly against the small frame house.

A squall was brewing.

The wide hungry plains
stretched before them, assorted wind mills dotting the desolate landscape like
miniature beacons, their pedals turning lightly at the touch of the wind.

McFadden turned to Mark. 'Who
the hell is
Rebelles
?'

'Spanish Intelligence.'


'He said so?'


'Has to be. Who else would want
to ensure our success?'

'How about the LPP?'

Mark adjusted his hands on the
wheel.

'What you talking about,
McFadden? Now you’re saying
Rebelles
is LPP?'

'I’m saying the LPP has a
vested interest in our getting there. So we can make the exchange.'

'No dice.
They want Cromwell to do it.
Right to the source.
That
one I’d lay money on. Besides, your theory is flawed. If
Rebelles
is LPP, then who’s been trying to kill us?'

'OK, Mr. Analyst, I’ll bite.
What’s your take on the LPP’s motivation? Why kill us when we’re cooperating?'

'Cooperating to a point. We’re
supposed to be taking direction from them, not forging ahead on our own.
Besides, now we know something.'

'The cocaine operation?'

'Big money, and it’s news.
American Intelligence had suspicions before. Now, we’ve got proof.'

McFadden looked out his window.
'
Rebelles
is hiding something. I can smell
it.'


'Who in this line of work
isn’t?'

McFadden shrugged. 'Just a
feeling that something’s off.'

Mark shared that feeling but
wouldn’t admit it.
Rebelles
to him seemed a straight
arrow. Where then was the crooked foil? 'Well, whatever his motivation,
Rebelles
has saved our tails more than once.'

'We think.'

'Look, until we know better, my
guess is
Rebelles
is on our side. But you’re right,'
Mark said, knowing operating on foreign soil brought inherent danger. 'We need
to keep our eyes open.'

The red coupe was crossing a
dry, empty stretch of desert. For miles there had been nothing but an
occasional olive grove dancing on spindly legs beneath the cloudless azure sky.
The engine of the small car strained, as it began its steady ascent of the
gently sloped mesa of central Spain.

Mark noted the gradual
appearance of a walled city on the back of the wind-swept plain. Avilla rose
from the earth, a fortress of sand carved out among a smattering of enormous
boulders. His eyes locked on his driver’s side mirror.

'Don't look now, but I think we
have company.'

McFadden flipped down his visor
and adjusted the vanity glass. 'Keep driving,' he said, drawing his
semi-automatic from the Bible perched on his knees.

The khaki-colored car behind
them was picking up speed. As it clipped along the curves of the desert
highway, its tan chassis was intermittently lost to the sands of the distant
landscape.

McFadden was looking over his
shoulder.

'They're gaining on us. Can't
you make this thing go any faster?'

Mark pulled his Browning from
beneath his vest, released the safety and laid it on the seat beside him.

The approaching car roared in
an accelerated thrust of speed. McFadden checked his mirror
.

'Jesus,
it’s the guys from the tent.'

'Get down!' Mark ordered as the
first round of gunfire shattered the rear window and windshield in one fell
swoop.

Joe flattened himself against
the back of his seat and Mark stiffened his arms against the wheel as their car
careened wildly along the shoulder of the lonely road.

Mark hit the brakes and slowed
the car to a near stall.

McFadden gave him a crazed
look. 'What the hell are you doing?'

'They want us,' Mark said
through clenched teeth. 'Let those bastards come and get us.'

He spun gamely in his seat to
begin his counterattack. Mark positioned his pistol against the headrest and
fired. Ten sharp pops sliced through the air and flattened the windshield of
the on-coming car.

McFadden crouched on folded
knees, his right arm steadied against the back of his seat. He let his first
six shots go. The attackers returned fire.

Mark quickly reloaded his
weapon. He craned his head high enough to see his target and fired. This time
he scored with the tan vehicle's right front tire. Mark hit the gas and their
car reeled on its axle. In seconds, they were back on the road.

Mark checked his mirror at the
sound of a siren. The flashing lights of an unmarked car rapidly approached
their assailants’ vehicle. 'Looks like our angel’s working overtime.'

McFadden glanced over his
shoulder and folded his Beretta back into his Bible. 'Yeah, let’s just hope
he’s not a fallen one.'

It had been a long, eventful
journey, but they’d managed to rent a new car and with any luck would make
Galicia by morning.

Mark was at the wheel, McFadden
dozing from exhaustion. A slug to the shoulder was no small matter and he’d had
quite a bit of excitement in Seville. But he was a tough guy, like most
ex-marines. Another couple of days and he’d be back in form completely.

McFadden had agreed their
assailants near Avilla had been from the Feria tent. Definitely LPP. So why did
Mark have this nagging feeling that McFadden was onto something more?

It was the warehouse, he
realized. Something about it still didn’t make sense. Maybe they’d lost their
double tail. The Spanish spooks had not been around to defend them. Or if they
had been, they’d somehow deemed Denton’s life less important to secure. Or
maybe it was something even more twisted than that involving a third party.
That’s what McFadden had been getting at. He’d not only been concerned about
Rebelles
per se, he’d been worried
Rebelles
represented a separate interest altogether.

Holy Christ. That’s all they
needed right now.

The orange sun sank low in the
horizon, wiry shoots of pine trees grabbing for the sky on the hilly slopes
ahead. The dry brown earth of Castile was melting into the lush rolling valleys
of the wetlands.

Mark tried to take heart. She
was alive, he reminded himself. He had to believe there was hope. There’s
always hope, his Mom used to say. Always, that is, until the moment you give up
trying.

Mark lowered his driver’s side
window and the scent of pine rushed in through the open glass. All was new and
fragrant and green. He had to believe it. A change was in the restless winds of
Iberia.

By daybreak, the Americans had
almost reached their destination at the end of their well-traveled route: El
Camino de Santiago.

Santiago, named for the apostle
James whose remains were unearthed there, sat like a scallop shell, tucked in
the neat swirl of northwestern Spanish countryside. Gone were the starched
white villages of Andalusia, ushered in were the quiet brown townships of the
north.

In the dawning glow of the sun,
Santiago was mauve and peach, a rosy collection of low houses with rust-colored
roofs. Mark pulled in to the Plaza del
Obradoiro
, the
heart of the small city. Santiago Cathedral dominated the square with its
expansive Romanesque facade and smiling statue of Saint James.

'Over there,' McFadden said,
motioning to the large, flag-lined building to the Cathedral's west.

'Hotel de los Reyes
Catolicos
,' Mark said, shutting off the ignition. 'Looks
like four-star lodging to me.'

McFadden stretched his arms
behind his head. 'Don't know about you, Neal, but I'm breaking out the
government credit card.'

Mark let himself into the
privacy of his room. At last, he was alone. It had been since Madrid. What he
wouldn't give for a run.
A nice long sprint through the
cobblestone streets, an opportunity to stretch his cramped and aching legs.
But his gear had been taken along with his bags in Jerez. And now, there was
work to be done.

He took a seat on the plush
green coverlet of the queen-size canopy bed and reached for the phone.

'Operator,' he said, knowing
English was always spoken in expensive hotels, 'I'd like to place a call to the
United States.'

It wasn’t long before Mark had
Jarvis on the line.

'Diego,' Jarvis said. 'That's
all I have, but he'll meet you in the Cathedral at 1600.'

'Is he on our side?' Mark asked
.


'Supposedly. But I'd watch my
back if I were you.'

'Thanks for the tip. Looks like
we'll have to be careful all the way around, especially now.' Mark cursed
himself again for losing his briefcase.

He could hear Jarvis' hand over
the receiver, and some sort of muffled discussion taking place.

'Boss, I've got someone here
who wants to speak with you.'

'Hello, sir,' Mark said, before
Cromwell had the opportunity.

'What's the word? Jarvis seems
to think you know where
Ana
is. That true?' His voice
was anxious yet imposing.

'No sir, I'm afraid not
exactly.' My God, this was Ana's father. 'I've a feeling we're getting close,
though. I'm calling from Santiago.'


'My God, you think they've
taken her to Basque country?'

'Into the Pyrenees?' Mark knew
it would be next to impossible to track her in that rugged terrain. 'No, sir,'
he said, hoping he was right. 'I have a hunch she's closer to home.'

A precipitous silence filled
the static-punctuated connection.

'I want to be advised of your
plan as soon as you see Diego. Do you read me?' Cromwell said, his voice
rising
an octave. 'This whole damn thing has gone on too
long.'

Mark hung up the phone knowing
it was no longer only Ana's life that was at stake. His job at DOS and his
future in intelligence were on the line.

Mark left the hotel and went
for a walk. He had precisely two hours. He circled the massive Cathedral and
made his way through the flourishing Plaza de la Quintana, where tourists and
locals gathered to enjoy the tumbling spill of the central fountain and the
musky, rhythmic sound of an outdoor musician's guitar.

Nestled behind this bustling
square, Mark discovered the charming streets and back alleys of old town
Santiago. A selection of manor houses and rich, old churches adjoined the maze
of moss-covered buildings, dripping with the evergreen reminder of Galicia's
rainy climate. And overhead, everywhere, there were magnificent granite
archways connecting the disparate points and plazas of the ancient city.

Mark happened into a bar and
ordered a glass of the regional sparkling white wine. At least by now he'd
picked up enough Spanish to accomplish this meager task. He carried his
bubbling glass to a small corner table and sat on the lean wooden bench. A
large oil painting hung like a window over the bar, its seascape wild and
restless. White ocean fingers clawed at the sides of a wind-battered ship. High
in the midnight sky shone a placid yellow moon.

Mark's heart sank at the
parallel. The quiet of this drawn-out afternoon was merely the calm before the
storm. Rocky seas were coming. He could feel it in his gut. This would be his
last lonely night of
tranquillity
. This haunting day
would pass, and by this time tomorrow he would have taken her back, by fear or
by flame.

Taken her back or failed in the
effort, condemning both their lives in the process.

He tried to think of what his
Dad might say but knew only what his father would do – walk straight into
the fire. Mark swallowed the thought of a 747 plunging toward the earth like a
hurtling comet along with his wine. He’d have his father here now if it weren’t
for
Carnova
.
His mother and sister
too.
And now
Ana
, who’d already been robbed of
her father, could possibly lose her life.

Mark polished off his drink
with a silent prayer to the one God he knew.
A God who would
not let a woman die by virtue of her parentage.
God of
divine retribution and healer of a teenage orphan’s scars.
Maybe this
was the one thing he’d been groomed for.
His big test.
There was still so much to rectify and it was time to settle the score.

A waiter smelling of olive oil
and wearing a soiled white apron walked over and set another glass of wine on
Mark’s table.
'En la casa,'
he said, with a broken smile.

Mark stole a quick glance
around the room. Maybe it had been sent. But the only one who hadn’t been there
before was an old man leaning into the bar, chewing a burnt-out cigar.

The old man paid his bill and
ambled toward the door
.

Mark had the feeling a
bomb was about to drop.
He jerked to his feet, upsetting the small cafe
table and sliced dead center for the door. Bar patrons screamed after him,
their dishes crashing in an angry tumble to the floor.