The Spy Who Loves Me (31 page)

Fail-safe.

Diana Traynor knew her stuff. And Finn was all out of options.

Unless…

There was still one possibility left. It was extreme, but if he was lucky it was something Diana had overlooked.

Once again, Finn maneuvered through the system like a thief in the night. And, sure enough, his theory panned out. He might not be able to stop the satellite from firing, but he could change its target. And Finn knew one set of coordinates in all the world—the island.

He took a deep breath, realizing he might be signing his and Amber's death warrant. But what other choice did he have? He couldn't let Drake go through with blowing up the mosque. And if he shifted the coordinates just slightly—hopefully pointing the laser at the sea—that would leave open the possibility that Diana would get back into the system and simply fire again.

No, this was the only way. And with slightly trembling fingers, he started to type in the new targeting coordinates, hoping all the while that he and Amber could get the hell off the island before the damn thing blew.

D
ead.

Amber scowled at the locked control center doors, the vision of Bernie's cold, lifeless form still playing in her mind. She should have known, should have expected it, but still it was a shock.

And now she feared for the man behind these doors. Would Finn end up dead, too? Would they both?

She shook her head, banishing such thoughts. She had to focus on this problem. On these solid steel doors with the unpickable lock. And the clock was ticking.

To her right, the touch pad glowed its dim electric glow, as if taunting her with its power. She studied the door, frustrated. She knew only one way in.
Beltzer.
She was going to have to go back for the little worm.

She hugged the wall as she maneuvered back to the intersecting corridor. She took a deep breath, then eased around the corner, leading with her gun.

And that's when it happened—a powerful thrust slamming down hard against her wrist with a force and precision powerful enough to rip a howl from her throat and send her gun flying from her fingers to clatter across the concrete floor. Amber hit the deck, instinctively knowing that if the first attack was meant to disarm, the second would be to kill.

As soon as she hit ground, she rolled, ending up in a crouch, her dive knife poised and ready. She hauled back, prepared to launch it at her attacker, to spear his throat and get on with her mission. But in the keen acuity of sense brought on by fear and adrenaline, her brain signaled recognition. At the same moment, he spoke, his voice stilling her hand.

“Amber, it's you. Thank God I found you.”

“James,” she said, her voice flat. She kept the knife raised, a fact that wasn't lost on the man.

“Amber, it's me.” He held a gun loose in one hand. “I know you wanted to work alone. But it's too dangerous. I came after you. I came to help you.” He paused, his eyes cutting to her hand. “Put the knife down.”

She pressed her lips together, the full impact of his betrayal finally hitting her. She'd trusted this man, believed in the life he'd given her. And he'd thrown it all away. She didn't lower the knife; she didn't move a muscle. “Why?” she asked, a thousand questions echoing in that one word.

To his credit, he didn't even pretend to misunderstand. An expression of pure misery settled on his face, and his shoulders sagged as if in defeat. His fingers, however, tightened around the gun. “I didn't intend for you to get hurt. You or Brandon.”

“Brandon,” she repeated, feeling sick. “You…?”

“It had to be done.” His free hand clenched into a fist. “Goddamn Schnell. If only he'd kept you overseas…”

“Then what?” she asked, forcing the words out past the lump in her throat. “It would have made it easier on your conscience? Your betrayal would have been that much easier to justify?”

“They're forcing me out, Amber. I've given the Unit my life and they're kicking me out.” His face contorted, sadness mixed with an unfamiliar rage. “I should be leading the Unit, not answering to Schnell.”

Her own rage bubbled to the surface. “You're pathetic,” she whispered, forcing the words out. “Everything you've ever told me about honor and sacrifice and being part of a team”—she shook her head—“it was all a lie. You just wanted power. And you'll take it however you can get it. Even if it means hurting the people you love.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. He reached out, and she automatically took a step back. He stiffened, as if her movement had inflicted physical pain. “Come with me. We're a team, you and I.”

She shook her head, his words filling her with disgust. “I work alone.” Her eyes welled, and she blinked back tears. She never cried, and she didn't intend to start now.

Alone. Her whole career, she'd thought she had James. The Unit. She'd been alone, and yet she'd had her team. Now, she had nothing.

Except Finn.
She still had Finn. And somehow, instinctively, she knew that where everything with James had been illusion, Finn's love was real. And permanent. And not laced with ulterior motives.

Her eyes met his, and she saw the shadow reflected there.

“I'm sorry,” he said. His finger moved, almost imperceptibly, and she knew he wasn't apologizing for his past mistakes, but for the gun he was about to fire.

She lashed out, her knife catching him in the wrist, slicing deep. He fired as she dove to the ground, the bullet barely missing her.

She leaped forward, kicking him in the chest and knocking him backward. He'd grabbed his wrist with his left hand to staunch the blood, and now he was scrambling on the floor, his knees slipping in the bright red fluid as he scrabbled for the gun.

She kicked it clear, recovering her knife and pressing the blade across his neck. “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” she said. “When I first turned the corner.”

“No,” he said. “I should have killed myself.” He closed his eyes. “Do it fast.”

The muscles in her arm tightened and then went slack. Her face was wet, and she realized she was crying. Fucking hell. She urged him up, the blade of the knife flat under his chin. “Up,” she said. “And move.”

“Am—”

“Shut up, James. We have nothing to say to each other.” She led him down the corridor, pausing only long enough to retrieve both their guns. She shoved hers in her shoulder holster, then sheathed her knife, keeping his gun trained at his back. She used the opportunity to pat him down, liberating the knife strapped just above his ankle in the process.

“Now walk,” she said. He did, and she led him down the corridor to the control room doors. “Open it.”

He shook his head. The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale and hollow, his face a mix of angles and shadows. In contrast to the gray of his face, his arm was bright red. The blood from his wrist had stained his shirt and his other hand where he clutched it, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Amber opened her waist pack and pulled out a length of rubber tubing.

“Open the door,” she said, “and the tourniquet is yours.”

He paused, his face a mass of indecision. And for a moment, Amber actually believed that he would decline. That he would summon the courage to let his own life flow away rather than betray his new friends, and by so doing, somehow redeem the faith she'd had in him.

Instead, he pressed his palm against the touch pad, opening the door for her. Not to assist her mission, but to further his own.

She tossed him the tourniquet. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

 

Blackness everywhere. All around him blackness, and the dull throbbing of red-hot pain in his head and chest.

The suit.
Linus's suit had saved him. But saved him from what? From whom?

And then he remembered, and the memory jolted him awake.
James.
Oh, Jesus in heaven, James had turned traitor.

With a groan, Brandon opened his eyes and tried to sit up. He was a little unstable, but he made it. He was still on the road, the stars winking above him, and he had to figure some way back to Amber's house. She'd be on the island now. Walking into a trap.

He had to help her. Had to get to her.

And with every muscle in his body aching, he climbed to his feet and headed for his car, abandoned still at the side of the road.

With any luck, Digby could get him onto that island. With a little more luck, he'd get there in time.

 

They were running out of time.
And, still, no Amber.

Finn swallowed. He had to assume she wasn't coming, and he railed against the unfairness of finding love only to have it slip through his fingers. Love wasn't his problem. Not now. Possibly not ever again. This satellite was. And without Amber there to provide a distraction, everyone in the chamber was going to notice when he entered the change in coordinates.

Even if he encrypted a password—and hoped Diana couldn't break it in only a few minutes—he was still a dead man. Without Amber's cover, Drake would pick him off like a duck at a shooting range. And then Drake and Diana would waltz out the door to their plane. Their equipment would be destroyed, but they would not. And Finn would lie dead on the floor.

He clutched the edge of the keyboard, wishing there was another option, but seeing only that one possible path. If he was going to die anyway, he might as well wait to engage the change in coordinates at the last possible moment. So that no one—not him, not Drake, not Diana—made it off the island.

And so he sat, his eyes glued to the monitor, trying to look unobtrusive, as precious seconds ticked down. And he wondered if that was how soldiers felt, in those last moments before fate found them, calling itself duty, and asked them to die for God and country.

Was it wrong to be scared when faced with such a noble task?

Finn shook his head, frustrated with himself. He'd known from the outset that he might not be returning. His only regret—well, the only regret worth counting—was that he hadn't seen Amber one last time.

Ten minutes to range.

His stomach twisted, and he chanced a look around. The monitor displayed an image of old Jerusalem, the mosque prominent. Drake stood beneath it, a phone to his ear. Diana stood at the console nearest the podium, her eyes fixed on the computer screen. On either side of Finn were more lab rats, going about their business at terminals and monitoring equipment. He caught sight of the monitor next to him, and realized the guy was pulling weather and tourism information about Bali off the Internet. Drake and company's next stop, Finn assumed.

With studied casualness, he entered the island's coordinates onto his own terminal. He didn't send the coordinates to the system, though. Just stood there waiting, his finger poised over the Enter key, as he waited for that nebulous point of no return.

A shriek of metal grating against metal rang out from the far side of the room, and Finn whirled around, fearing that Beltzer had gotten free and was coming to warn Drake.

Instead, he saw Amber. Her face was hard—sadness mixed with anger—and she held a gun on a man he'd never seen before.

He glanced at the projection screen.
Eight minutes.

The doors were open, his distraction had arrived.
Now.
He had to do it now if they had any hope of getting off the island.

“I will kill him.” Amber's voice carried from the doorway. “Shut down Prometheus, or I'll splatter him all over this room.”

It was a bluff, of course. Finn knew perfectly well that Amber didn't believe Drake would comply. But it bought them time, kept their eyes on her rather than on the projection screen.

He pressed
ENTER
, and on the screen, the coordinates shifted, rattling through an array of numbers like a slot machine before it came up all cherries.

“You'd never hurt him,” Diana was saying. “Your precious Mr. Monahan.”

Amber's eyes darted to his, her chin lifting just the slightest. A signal. Any second now, they were going to run.

“Is that a bluff you're willing to call?” she said.

And unreadable expression flickered across Diana's face, and in the same instance, Drake whipped out a gun, aiming it straight at Amber's head. “Shoot the bastard,” he said. “I'll just keep his half of the money, and you'll be dead, too.”

Finn inched his hand toward the folds of his lab coat, seeking the gun that was tucked in a holster at his side.

“Don't even think about moving.”
Garner.
The familiar voice came from right behind Finn, even as the cold end of a gun barrel pressed at the back of his neck. “You want to tell me what you're doing at this computer?”

“Not really,” Finn said.

The man walloped him on the back of the head with the butt of the gun. Finn saw red, his knees buckling, but he didn't go down.

“Aw shit,” Garner said. And then, “He did something,” he yelled. “Teague got in the goddamn system and fucked something up.”

If any good came from being caught, it was the fact that both Drake and Diana turned at the sound of Garner's voice. And as they did, Amber fired, hitting Garner in the shoulder and spinning him backward to crash against the terminal. Finn didn't waste any time; he ran toward Amber as fast as he could, pushing aside the lab-coated peons who stepped into his path, urged along by Diana's shouted orders: “Stop him.
Stop him!”

“Did you encrypt it?” Amber yelled, loud enough for Drake and Diana and the rest of the free world to hear.

“Hell yes,” he said. “Multiple levels. They're never getting through.” In truth, he'd only had time to do one layer of encryption. Diana could probably be through in five minutes. Hopefully, though, she wouldn't try.