Now You See Him (28 page)

"What's wrong with that?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong with that," Cardiff hissed. "People like the man you call Michael can't afford to trust. Because trust is always betrayed, by accident or design, and in his line of work, that will kill you. He's been a dead man since he met you, and he knows it. That's why he wants you out of the way."

"Is that why you had me stashed in a Spanish prison? To save him?"

Cardiff smiled, reaching out a small, well-manicured hand to touch her hair. "I already knew it was too late. I was just playing for time. And indulging in a particular weakness of mine. A taste for revenge." He yanked on her hair, hard, then released it. "If I'd known Michael would come racing to the rescue like a tarnished Sir Galahad, I would have had you killed outright and risked your cousin's suspicions."

He moved away from her, wandering over to the window with a dreamy expression on his face. "Maybe I'll rape you," he murmured. "It's the closest I'll ever get to him, and there might be some sort of vicarious thrill in it. And in knowing I've done it."

I will not panic, she told herself, her fingers clutching the sheet. Panic won't help. "You don't strike me as the sort of man who's interested in raping women."

He smiled sweetly. "I'm not. But I'm afraid I have rather a…thing…for Michael. Not reciprocated, of course. He is rather determinedly hetero. But then, life is full of disappointments, isn't it?" He shrugged. "Get your clothes on."

"Why?"

"You have an appointment."

The man didn't look crazy, even if his words seemed over the edge. Surely he could be reasoned with. "Look, Mr. Cardiff, I'm sorry if I jeopardized your mission. I want the Cadre wiped out just as much as you do, and I promise I'll stay here and keep out of the way. I won't interfere at all."

"But you don't understand, my dear." Ross patted her hand gently. "You're part of the deal."

"The deal?"

"With your sister. I don't just deliver up the British government's well-laid plans for wiping them out in return for my tidy little sum of money. I also present Caitlin Dugan with a far from virgin sacrifice to appease her family pride and bloodlust."

For a moment Francey couldn't breathe. Suddenly it all made sense. "You're a traitor."

Again he shrugged. "Every man is out for his own benefit. I'm a pragmatist. Of course, the Cadre have promised me a prominent role in the new order, but I'm not holding my breath. They'll be wiped out sooner or later, quite possibly sooner. Michael is a phenomenal agent, an absolute killing machine. He's quite beautiful in action. He might very well prevail tomorrow morning. In which case I've covered my tracks quite effectively, and while I'll enjoy giving him an official reprimand for going off on his own, I believe I'll give him an opportunity to continue the good work he does for us."

"The killing, you mean." She was numb, sick with horror.

"They don't call him the Cougar for nothing. He's quite lethal." He tapped his neatly shod little foot. "Hurry up, there's a love. Caitlin's waiting for us, and she
is
an impatient one."

"And if I refuse."

"Then I'll kill you in his bed, quite bloodily, and leave it to him to find you. I imagine you know he's quite foolishly sentimental where you're concerned. If you have to die—and believe me, Miss Neeley, you do have to die—then you might do your best to make it easier on the lad. After all you've meant to each other."

"You're a pig."

"Spare me. I've been called any number of creative things, and I have a very thick hide. Your choice, Miss Neeley. At my hands, or your sister's."

She closed her eyes for a moment, conjuring up Caitlin Dugan's hate-filled face. She had no hope of making her see reason. The best she could do was buy herself some time.

She wouldn't show him how frightened she was, how much she wanted to throw up. She put a bright, angry smile on her face. "I think I'm in the mood for a family reunion," she said with false brightness.

"A wise decision," Ross Cardiff said calmly. "I never was particularly clever with my hands. Clumsiness can be so painful."

"Cardiff's here, mon." Cecil's phony Caribbean accent was still getting on his nerves, but for the first time Michael ignored it.

"Bloody hell. How did he get here so fast? I thought we had another couple of days at least."

"I'm not sure. But he was chatting up Sir Henry, and the two old biddies were getting on like a house afire."

"When was this?"

"This afternoon. He left the embassy around five, and he hasn't been seen since."

"He's not staying there?"

"That remains to be seen. At least he hasn't been anywhere near the Cadre. Everyone's holed up at the old army barracks way out on the peninsula, thinking they're bloody invisible. Stupid fools."

"What the hell is he up to?" Michael peered through the dark. His nerves were hopping beneath his skin. He always felt this way just before everything all blew to hell. He hadn't been involved in anything of this magnitude in a long time, and his instincts, his reflexes, were off. He was going to die in this one. He knew it Ml well. And he didn't really give a damn.

"Beats me," Cecil murmured. "I tell you, I was spooked as hell to hear he'd shown up. At least he's out of the way for now."

"Who says?"

"One of my contacts. He was seen driving out to the eastern end of the island just before sunset. No one lives out that way, just a few abandoned villas, and the road's not much better than a goat track. He'll probably get lost looking for the Cadre's hideout and not be seen until all the shouting's over and he can come out and take credit for it and…what's the matter, mon? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"The eastern side of the island? Are you sure?"

Cecil shrugged. "I trust my contact. Why?"

Michael rose, surging upward. He didn't waste time with rational thought, weighing the alternatives, or anything else. His instincts kicked in, and he went with them. "Francey," he said abruptly.

"So they'll keep each other company," Cecil said easily.

"Like hell," Michael said, his voice as cold as ice. "He's going to kill her."

«
^
»

The night had grown cold, far colder than Francey would have expected as she stumbled behind Ross Cardiff's small, immaculate frame. She found if she kept a modest three paces behind, no further, he would leave her alone. If she tried to fall back, he would put those soft, manicured hands on her, and hurt her, and she knew if he did it one more time she would start screaming and never stop until he did kill her, and then what good would this midnight trek have done anyone?

At least Michael wouldn't find her in his bed. The image Ross had conjured up had been horrifying, for Michael's sake, not hers. If it came right down to it, she would go over a cliff rather than let them use her to hurt him. He'd already said goodbye, dismissed her from his life. If she died, he would mourn, there was no doubt of that. But he'd managed to shut off his emotions with a cold efficiency that astonished her. He would probably be just as efficient in dealing with her loss.

If
she was going to die. She wasn't prepared to accept that, not yet. That was the other thing that sent her off into the night with a man who was either mad or intensely evil or both. She was still ready to fight. For her life. For Michael's life. And for the future that he didn't believe in.

They'd driven at first, bouncing over unpaved dirt roads in a late model Range Rover that Cardiff barely knew how to drive. He ground the gears, stalled out, skidded on the loose gravel and generally proved himself incompetent. That weakness went a small way toward improving her equanimity. She almost went so far as to offer to drive for him, then thought better of the notion. He was a man on the very edge, and a woman's mockery might just drive him over.

They'd been walking for the last half hour. Cardiff had stashed the car behind a small outcropping of bushes, and the two of them had taken off down a narrow spit of land leading away from the island. The place was desolate, deserted, a setting for ghosts. A fitting place to meet her sister once more.

Francey's only shoes were a pair of flats she'd worn for traveling. There was blood on them, Dex's blood, and she'd wanted to leave them behind and go barefoot, but thought better of it when she saw Cardiff's expression. He would like nothing more than to drag her barefoot through nettles, or whatever the Maltese equivalent was.

She had no idea they were getting close until they passed the first lookout. The whole affair was ridiculously melodramatic, with passwords and such, like little boys playing soldier. The watch was a young man with a mop of curly dark hair and bright, irrepressible eyes. "They're waitin' for you," he said, gesturing ahead into the impenetrable darkness. "That's the one?"

Cardiff smirked. "The very one."

"Heard they did for Dex and Petey. Her highness is in a rare taking, I promise you." His glance swept her, cool and unconcerned. "Rumor has it they're sisters. They don't look much alike, do they?"

"Particularly not now," Cardiff said with a hollow laugh. "Keep an eye out, lad. They're not planning to come until dawn, but things might change. Cougar's never been one to follow orders."

The young man didn't look as though he cared for Cardiff's orders, either, or the condescending tone they were delivered in, but he nodded anyway. "Better get along with you now. She wants her pound of flesh, she does."

Francey considered diving into the bushes.

"Don't even consider it, Miss Neeley," Cardiff said, putting his soft, slimy hand on her arm once more. "Teddy here's an excellent shot, and I happen to know he's equipped with the finest of British military equipment, including heat-seeking bullets. I've seen to it myself. You wouldn't get two feet."

Francey swallowed the scream that tickled the back of her throat. "I'm getting tired," she said in a flat, unimpressed voice. "Do you suppose we can get on with it?"

"A cool one," Teddy said admiringly. "Sorry I'm going to miss all the fun."

Francey shivered.

Cardiff didn't release her again. The two of them continued onward in the dark, past the ruined remains of what seemed like an old army outpost. She could smell the sea, the clean fresh fragrance of salt, and in the distance she could hear a rustling sound that might be the wind in the trees that she couldn't see. Or surf crashing on rocks.

The light blinded her. Sudden and shocking, it blasted into their faces, and she stumbled backward, breaking free of Cardiff's grip as she put an arm up to her face.

"It's about time," Francey knew that voice. Faintly husky, like her own, with the charming lilt of Ireland overlying it. Enriched with the sound of murderous contempt. "You
are
a stupid bugger, Cardiff. Did you get lost along the way?"

Cardiff was fool enough not to be frightened. He'd underestimated her sister, Francey knew that immediately. Francey didn't. The moment she heard that voice a flood of memories came rushing back. All of them evil.

"I'm not a boy guide, Caitlin," he said stiffly. "I've brought you the woman. The rest is up to you."

"You're not interested in watching?" The voice was silken, insinuating. "I underestimated you, Cardiff. I thought your tastes were a bit more sophisticated."

Cardiff shrugged. "I want the money, Caitlin, and then I'm leaving. I've told you, there's no guarantee that the Cougar will stick to the plan. He's always been too independent, and I value my skin enough not to stick around."

Francey could see nothing but Cardiff in the brightness of the artificial light. "Boys," Caitlin Dugan said, "pay the man."

Francey saw it coming; Cardiff didn't. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late. The gun was silent, wielded by unseen hands, a deadly, snicking sound beneath the rush of surf and wind. Cardiff's bland face creased in sudden surprise as the bullet entered his brain. "Damn," he said faintly. And died.

"Fool," Caitlin Dugan said. "Stupid bloody English bugger." And she stepped into the pool of light.

Except that she didn't step, she lurched. And with sudden sickening horror Francey understood Cardiff's amused remark that they no longer looked alike.

In the hours since she'd learned Caitlin wasn't dead, she hadn't had time to figure out how she'd managed to miss that huge, oncoming car. Obviously she hadn't. The vibrant, determined young Caitlin who'd dragged her across Manhattan in a vain effort to save Patrick was gone, replaced by a malevolent hag with a ruined face and body. Her body hunched to one side, her arm hung useless, her leg a withered stick. The left side of her face had been smashed, distorted in a cruel parody of healing, leaving the unmarked right side of her face an even greater contrast. If Caitlin had hated her legitimate half sister before, her reasons had increased a thousandfold.

"Sister dear," Caitlin hissed, hobbling over to her. "What a joy to welcome you to our humble encampment."

Francey had always been taller than Caitlin, but now she towered over Caitlin's hunched body. She tried to summon up pity, regret, some distant feeling of emotion for the warped soul that was her sister. But the smell of death was all around her as the woman looked up at her out of bright, malicious eyes that were eerily like her own, and it was all Francey could do not to shudder.

"Get it over with, Caitlin," she said flatly. "You've brought me here to kill me, so have done with it."

"I wouldn't think of doing anything so tame," she crooned. "I have great plans for you."

"I'm certain you do." She kept her voice cool as she clenched her bloodstained silk skirt in her fists. "I won't be much fun, I'm afraid. I'm squeamish, and I don't like pain. You won't have any trouble making me scream and cry. If you're going to think of all sorts of nasty things to inflict on me, why don't you get started? You heard Cardiff—Michael's coming. He's going to be quite a distraction for you."

Caitlin smiled. The teeth on the left side of her face were gone, increasing the ghastliness of her expression. "But, sister mine, that's part of the plan. I agree, it would be child's play to torture you. Instead, we're going to sit and have a nice sisterly conversation while we await your sweet Sir Galahad. And he'll come, I promise you. Not at dawn, as he'd planned. But alone, and very soon. You see, I made certain that he'd get word about you. The chain of information is so lengthy that by the time he gets word, he'll trust it implicitly. And he'll come for you. I can't wait."