The Guardian (39 page)

The last fifty yards were the worst of it. Behind the house the slope was at its steepest, the rock wall its most sheer, bereft of vegetation. The only handholds and footholds
were clefts in the surface, often only inches deep. The fall was over a hundred feet to a brief shelf twenty feet wide, with a few shrubs and grasses. From there, it was another two hundred feet
before the slope leveled off.

Cianna dug her fingers in and moved along the mountain face, pulling herself along until she could see the deck from the back of the house hanging over the edge above her. Slowly, carefully, she
made her way up. Twice the holds to which she clung pulled free, small portions of the mountain plunging to the plateau below, almost taking her with them. She cursed as she struggled to stabilize
herself.

It took several minutes before she reached the top of the cliff and hauled herself up there, panting as she caught her breath. After a moment she got to her feet and crept along the foundation
underneath the deck that hung out over the cliff, looking for a way in.

The foundation was stonework built into the mountain granite. At times she had trouble distinguishing that which had been put there by man, and that which was a part of the land itself. On one
side, though, she found a narrow wooden window sealed into the rockwork. Spider webs covered the outside, thick as cotton candy, and she had to push them away, angering the arachnids, which
scurried for cover.

She thought back to Saunders’s description of the security system: the windows and door on the first floor were wired into the alarm. It seemed less likely, though, that the small window
in the foundation would be alarmed, as well. It was so narrow it wasn’t clear that she would be able to get her small frame through it, and the paint made it look as though the window
hadn’t been opened in decades. It was a risk, but an acceptable one. She worked her fingers around the edges to see whether the ancient wood had been sealed in such a way as to allow an alarm
wire to function. It looked as though the wood there was far older than any of the other doors and windows she had seen from the drive. As she dug her fingers along the sides, she could tell that
it had weakened enough over time that it might come loose with reasonable effort. She pushed and pulled, trying to get her fingers far enough into the gap to gain leverage. It took a few minutes,
each of which seemed an eternity, but eventually the wood gave enough that her fingers could get behind it. With one final pull, the piece of wood came free, and she was able to prize the narrow
opening further apart.

She hesitated, waiting for some sign that an alarm had been tripped. There was nothing but silence, however, and after a moment, she felt sure that she was still undetected.

She got down on her belly and shimmied her way through the low gap, letting herself down onto the damp and uneven basement floor.

It was even darker inside than she’d expected. She crouched on the ground, waiting for her eyes to adjust. After a moment, she was able to make out charcoal-toned shapes. The basement was
little more than a glorified crawl space, with a low ceiling of exposed beams and rotted insulation dripping from in between the joists. It ran the length and breadth of the house, except that in
the eastern-most section, away from the cliff, the natural rock ledge grew from beneath and ran up to meet a low span of foundation on the far side. In the center of the area, a rough but sturdy
tower of stone rose up through the flooring above. She guessed that it was the foundation for the chimney. In between that tower and the north side of the house, a ladder was built into a
support.

Cianna crept over to the ladder and looked up. There was a hatch cut in between two joists, hinged on one side. She put a foot on the bottom rung and put her hand up to push on the hatch. It
moved, but reluctantly. Climbing up another rung, she pushed harder, and the hatch rose higher. She snaked a hand into the gap to see what was causing the resistance and felt the bottom of a piece
of rug. With a little effort, she was able to move it to the side and raise the hatch enough that she would be able to slip through onto the first floor.

It was dangerous; perhaps even foolish. She had no idea what part of the house she was emerging into, and whether it was in a spot where Ainsworth could see her and pick her off as she pulled
herself out. But she had few options, so she climbed the ladder as quickly and quietly as she could.

The hatch opened into a large pantry. The door was closed, and the lights were off, but there was enough light coming from the wide gap underneath the door for her to see. She let the trapdoor
down quietly and stood at the door, listening for any movement. Hearing none, she opened the door slowly, and followed the barrel of her gun out into the house.

‘Your gun,’ Ainsworth said. His voice was cold, and it was clear that any sentimentality that had kept him from viewing Saunders as a threat was gone.

‘My gun?’ Saunders could only play for time now.

‘You said it was in a shoulder holster.’ Ainsworth gestured with the barrel of his gun. ‘Open your jacket slowly, please.’

‘Lawrence, I don’t understand . . .’

‘Yes, you do. Do it now, Jack. You know me well enough that you have little doubt that I will shoot you if I need to. Open your coat, now.’

It was true. He’d been behind a desk for several years, but before that, Ainsworth had been known as one of the most ruthless men in the Agency. He had taught Jack everything he knew, and
there was little question that he was prepared to kill even Saunders if he thought it necessary to ensure the success of a mission he’d set in motion. Saunders did as he’d been
instructed.

‘With your right hand, unsnap the holster,’ Ainsworth instructed.

‘It’s unsnapped,’ Saunders replied.

Ainsworth looked offended. ‘Did you come in here expecting to be able to reach for your gun? Did you really think that I would allow that to happen?’

‘You always taught me to be ready for anything. I figured it couldn’t hurt. You never know what kind of dangerous creatures there are up here in the mountains.’

‘Ah yes,’ Ainsworth said. ‘The bears.’

‘The bears,’ Saunders agreed.

Ainsworth advanced toward Saunders, his gun now pointed at the man’s head. He was close enough that a shot couldn’t miss. ‘If I see either of your hands move, I’ll kill
you.’

‘Understood.’

Ainsworth reached out with his left hand and grabbed Saunders’s gun by the butt. He pulled on it, his eyes still on Saunders. It caught, and Ainsworth gave it a harder tug. It still
didn’t come free. Ainsworth looked down at it for the first time, and saw that the holster was snapped shut. He was confused for a moment, as he pulled at the strap to free the gun.
‘The holster is snapped,’ he said in an annoyed voice. ‘You told me—’

He realized his mistake even as the words came out of his mouth. He’d taken his eyes off Saunders only for a split second, but he understood instantly that it was enough of a mistake to be
fatal. He squeezed the trigger on his own gun even before he looked up, hoping that he’d get lucky.

He didn’t.

At the moment Ainsworth’s eyes went to Saunders’s gun, Saunders ducked to the left and swung his right arm upward. His fist connected with Ainsworth’s arm just as the gun went
off, and Saunders could hear the bullet whistle by his ear. Ainsworth was thrown off balance, and Saunders grabbed the older man’s gun with his right hand and locked him in a headlock with
his left. The two of them struggled as Ainsworth tried to maneuver the gun around to aim it at Saunders. Saunders tightened his choke hold on his mentor, cutting off his breath bit by bit. He could
feel Ainsworth losing strength. For a moment, he thought the fight was won. Ainsworth had only his left hand free, and it was unlikely that he could generate any strength in a punch, or would be
able to grab hold of anything he could use as a weapon.

Saunders realized he’d underestimated the old man when he felt the tightening on his testicles. Ainsworth had reached around behind him and sought out a weak spot. There was little
Saunders could do; he couldn’t let go of the gun, and the headlock was the only way he saw to put the man down at the moment. He screamed out in pain, and tightened the choke hold. His
reaction only encouraged Ainsworth, who tightened his grip.

Saunders hung on as long as he could, but the pain was too great, and he released his grip on Ainsworth’s neck, swung his fist at the back of the man’s head, and pushed off to
separate himself from the left-handed grip. At the same time, he clung to the gun to prevent Ainsworth from getting a shot off. The move might have succeeded, but Ainsworth’s fingers were
wrapped so tightly around Saunders’s gonads that when he pulled away, it sent a wave of blinding pain and nausea through him so powerful that he collapsed.

Ainsworth stumbled, choking as he tried to catch his breath. As Saunders released the gun, Ainsworth swung it around and lost control, and it fell to the floor. Saunders saw it and made a move
toward it, but he was doubled over in pain; there was no chance for him to grasp it first. Ainsworth dove and grabbed it, still coughing. ‘I always told you during your training to remember,
Jack,’ he sputtered, ‘that old men fight dirty.’ He raised the gun to shoot.

Before he could get the shot off, though, there was an explosion from the far side of the room. Ainsworth was knocked off his feet, and fell backwards into the wall. There was a splatter of
blood on the floral wallpaper that smeared as he slid to the floor; the gun dangled loosely in his lap.

Saunders, still doubled over, looked up and saw Cianna at the door in a shooting stance. He looked over at Ainsworth. His eyes were still open, and he still held the gun, though it lolled
impotently. Saunders crawled over to him.

The gunshot had taken him in the chest. Cianna was carrying a military-issue 9 mm loaded with shredders that spread on impact to maximize internal damage. Saunders could tell immediately that
the wound was fatal. Ainsworth was sweating and there was a heavy bubbling sound with every breath. Saunders leaned in close. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked. ‘How are Fasil and
his men getting out of here?’

Ainsworth looked at Saunders and seemed surprised that he was there. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘It’s better this way.’

‘Tell me, Lawrence. I need to know how they plan to get the Cloak back to Afghanistan.’

‘They’re gone already,’ Ainsworth said. He smiled, and Saunders could see the blood seeping between the older man’s teeth. ‘They heard the gunshots, I’m
sure.’ He coughed up some blood. ‘You won’t catch them.’

‘Tell me how,’ Saunders demanded. He took Ainsworth by the shoulders and shook him. ‘This is your one chance to set things right, don’t you understand? You can’t
let this be your legacy.’

Ainsworth shook his head. ‘My legacy is a ghost.’ He was struggling with each word. ‘That’s what we do, Jack. We take all of the risk, all of the blame, and none of the
credit. That is what we signed up for.’

‘I didn’t sign up to start a holy war!’ Saunders screamed at Ainsworth, shaking him again.

‘I’m glad it was you and the girl, Jack,’ Ainsworth said, choking on a sad smile. ‘Toney’s an asshole. I would have been very unhappy if he’d been the one to
take me down.’ His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body convulsed.

‘Tell me, goddammit! Tell me now!’ Saunders was shaking Ainsworth more violently, but it was too late. He was dead.

‘Shit,’ Saunders said, releasing Ainsworth’s body and letting it slump to the floor.

‘What now?’ Cianna asked.

‘We try to catch them. Morrell said they were up at the abandoned schoolhouse. Even if they’ve left, they can’t be too far ahead of us. There’s a trail that leads up the
mountain from here; maybe we can catch up to them. It’s our only chance.’

‘Do you know where the trail is?’

He nodded and pulled out his gun. ‘I’ll show you.’ He started to head toward the door, but turned and said to her, ‘Thanks. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be the
one dead on the floor.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘You’re better-looking when you’re breathing.’

The words had barely left her mouth when his chest exploded, splattering blood and tissue all over the front of her shirt. She didn’t understand what was happening as his expression went
blank and he fell to his knees. As he went down, she saw Sirus Stillwell standing in the door, his gun pointed at her.

Saunders had no understanding of what was happening; that was the strangest thing about it. In his mind he was still on his feet, turning to give chase to Fasil and his men.
And yet, somehow, the images flashing before his eyes didn’t match what his brain believed he was doing. His optical screen, which should have been shifting to the front of the house, to
images of running down the hallway and out the door, instead remained static, teetering on some unknown precipice, looking at Cianna Phelan as a spray of red covered her blouse. The image tilted,
slowly at first, but with gathering speed, crashing to the floor – as though someone had dropped a video camera but left it on.

There was no pain. Perhaps that was the disconnect that barred rational comprehension of what had happened. Stillwell’s round, a shredder not unlike the one Cianna had fired into Lawrence
Ainsworth, struck Saunders in the ribs and ricocheted toward the center of his body, narrowly missing his heart, causing immediate trauma to his spinal cord. It had continued through his body and
exited out his side and smashed into the wall as a mangled hunk of lead with three times the diameter it had had as a projectile. The feeling to most of his body had been instantly snuffed. He
could move his hands a bit, but it felt as though they were caught in semi-congealed Jell-O.

Cianna was moving even before Saunders hit the ground, rolling to her left, nimble and balanced, like some acrobatic dancer whose every muscle had been trained to adhere to set choreography. She
was a vision, and from his vantage he appreciated the full range of her beauty for the first time. Her face was determined, her reddish hair untamed, her body taut and athletic. As she rolled, the
hardwood floor exploded within inches of her, two rounds from Sirus’s gun throwing up splinters and smoke. It was as though the rounds couldn’t catch up to her; she transcended physical
threats.