Without a Trace (3 page)

“I was twelve.” She jolted and turned around nervously when something crashed in the kitchen. “Of course, I didn’t know about the project then, but later …” The smell of onions and liquor was overpowering. She wanted to get up, wanted to walk along the beach, where the air would be warm and clear, but she forced herself to continue. “The project was dropped, but my father continued to work on it. He had other obligations, but whenever possible he resumed experimenting.”

“Why? He wouldn’t have been funded for it.”

“My father believed in Horizon. The concept fascinated him, not as a defense, but as an answer to the insanity we’re all aware exists. As to the money—well, my father has reached a point where he can afford to indulge his beliefs.”

Not only a scientist, but a rich scientist, Trace thought as he watched her from under the brim of his hat.
And this one looked as if she’d gone to a tidy convent school in Switzerland. It was the posture that usually gave it away. No one taught proper posture like a nun.

“Go on.”

“In any case, my father turned all his notes and findings over to my brother five years ago, after my father suffered his first heart attack. For the past few years, he has been too ill to continue intense laboratory work. And now …”

For a moment, Gillian closed her eyes. The terror and the traveling were taking their toll. As a scientist, she knew she needed food and rest. As a daughter, a sister, she had to finish. “Mr. O’Hurley, might I have a drink?”

Trace shoved both bottle and glass across the table. He was nibbling, but he wasn’t ready to bite yet. She interested him, certainly, but he’d learned long ago that you could be interested and uninvolved.

She’d have preferred coffee or at the most, a snifter of warm brandy. She started to refuse the whiskey, but then caught the look in Trace’s eye. So he was testing her. She was used to being tested. Her chin came up automatically. Her shoulders straightened. Steady, she poured a double shot and downed it in one swallow.

She drew in breath through a throat that felt as if it had been blowtorched. Blinking the moisture from her eyes, she let it out again. “Thank you.”

The light of humor flashed in his eyes for the first time. “Don’t mention it.”

Hot and bitter though it was, the whiskey helped. “My father is very ill, Mr. O’Hurley. Too ill to travel. He contacted Mr. Forrester but was unable to fly to Chicago himself. I went to Mr. Forrester in his place, and Mr. Forrester sent me to you. I was told that you’re the best man for the job.”

Trace lit another cigarette. He figured he hadn’t been the best man for anything since he’d lain bleeding in the dirt, a bullet two inches from his heart. “Which is?”

“About a week ago, my brother was taken, kidnapped by an organization known as Hammer. You’ve heard of them?”

It was training that kept his face blank over a mix of fear and rage. His association with that particular organization had nearly killed him.

“I’ve heard of them.”

“All we know is that they took my brother from his home in Ireland, where he had continued, and nearly completed, his work on the Horizon project. They intend to hold him until he has perfected the serum. You understand what the repercussions could be if a group like that possesses the formula?”

Trace tapped the ash of his cigarette onto the wooden floor. “I’ve been told I have a reasonably developed intelligence.”

Driven, she grabbed his wrist. Because she was a woman in a man’s field, physical contact was usually reserved for family and loved ones. Now she held on to Trace, and the only hope she had. “Mr. O’Hurley, we can’t afford to joke about this.”

“Careful how you use ‘we
.
’” Trace waited until her fingers uncurled. “Let me ask you, Dr. Fitzpatrick, is your brother a smart man?”

“He’s a genius.”

“No, no, I mean does he have two grains of common sense to rub together?”

Her shoulders straightened again because she was all too ready to lay her head on the table and weep. “Flynn is a brilliant scientist, and a man who under normal circumstances can take care of himself quite nicely.”

“Fine, because only a fool would believe that if he came up with the formula for Hammer, he’d stay alive. They like to call themselves terrorists, liberators, rebels. What they are is a bunch of disorganized fanatics, headed by a rich madman. They kill more people by mistake than they do on purpose.” Frowning, he rubbed a hand over his chest. “They’ve got enough savvy to keep them going and pots of money, but basically, they’re idiots. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a bunch of dedicated idiots. My advice to your brother would be to spit in their eye.”

Her already pale skin was ghost white. “They have his child.” Gillian placed a hand on the table for support as she rose. “They took his six-year-old daughter.” With that, she fled the cantina.

Trace sat where he was. Not his business, he reminded himself as he reached for the bottle again. He was on vacation. He’d come back from the dead and intended to enjoy his life. Alone.

Swearing, he slammed the bottle down and went after her.

Her anger had her covering ground quickly. She heard him call her name but didn’t stop. She’d been an idiot to believe that a man like him could help. She’d be better off attempting to negotiate with the terrorists. At least with them she wouldn’t go in expecting any compassion.

When he grabbed her arm, she swung around. Temper gave her the energy that lack of sleep and food had depleted.

“I told you to wait a damn minute.”

“You’ve already given me your considered opinion, Mr. O’Hurley. There doesn’t seem to be any need for further discussion. I don’t know what Mr. Forrester saw in you. I don’t know why he sent me to look for a man who would rather sit in a seedy little dive swilling whiskey than help save lives. I came looking for a man of courage and compassion and found a tired, dirty drunk who cares about no one and nothing.”

It stung, more than he’d expected. His fingers stayed firm on her arm as he waved away a small boy with a cardboard box filled with Chiclets. “Have you finished? You’re making a scene.”

“My brother and niece are being held by a group of terrorists. Do you think I care whether I embarrass you or not?”

“It takes more than an Irish redhead on a roll to embarrass me,” he said easily. “But I have a policy against drawing attention to myself. Old habit. Let’s take a walk.”

She very nearly yanked her arm away. The part of her that was pride burned to do it. The part that was love triumphed, and she subsided. In silence she walked beside him, down the narrow planks that led to the water.

The sand was white here against a dark sea and a darker sky. A few boats were docked, waiting for tomorrow’s fishing or tomorrow’s tourists. The night was quiet enough that the music from the cantina carried to them. Trace noted that somebody was singing about love and a woman’s infidelity. Somebody always was.

“Look, Dr. Fitzpatrick, you caught me at a bad time. I don’t know why Charlie sent you to me.”

“Neither do I.”

He stopped long enough to cup his hands around a match and a cigarette. “What I mean is, this situation
should be handled by the ISS.”

She was calm again. Gillian didn’t mind losing her temper. It felt good. But she also knew that more was accomplished with control. “The ISS wants the formula as badly as Hammer. Why should I trust my brother’s and my niece’s lives to them?”

“Because they’re the good guys.”

Gillian turned toward the sea, and the wind hit her dead on. Though it helped clear her head, she didn’t notice the first stars blinking to life. “They are an organization run by many men—some good, some bad, all ambitious, all with their own concept of what is necessary for peace and order. At the moment, my only concern is my family. Do you have family, Mr. O’Hurley?”

He drew hard on the cigarette. “Yeah.” Over the border, he thought. He hadn’t seen them in seven years, or was it eight? He’d lost track. But he knew Chantel was in L.A. filming a movie. Maddy was in New York starring in a new play. Abby was raising horses and kids in Virginia. His parents were finishing up a week’s gig in Buffalo.

He might have lost track of the time, but not of his family.

“Would you trust the lives of any of the members of your family to an organization? One that, if they considered it necessary for the common good, might sacrifice them?” She closed her eyes. The wind felt like heaven, warm, salty and strong. “Mr. Forrester understood and agreed that what was needed to save my brother and his child was a man who would care more about them than the formula. He thought you were that man.”

“He was off base.” Trace pitched his cigarette into the surf. “Charlie knew I was considering retiring. This was just his way of keeping me in the game.”

“Are you as good as he told me?”

With a laugh. Trace rubbed a hand over his chin. “Probably better. Charlie was never much for back patting.”

Gillian turned again, this time to face him. He didn’t look like a hero to her, with the rough beard and the grimy clothes. But there had been strength in his hand when he’d taken her arm, and she’d sensed an
undercurrent of violence. He’d be passionate when it was something he wanted, she thought, whether it was a goal, a dream or a woman. Under usual circumstances, she preferred men with cool, analytical minds, who attacked a problem with logic and patience. But it wasn’t a scientist she needed now.

Trace dipped his hands into his pocket and fought the urge to squirm. She was looking at him as though he were a laboratory rat, and he didn’t like it. Maybe it was the hint of Ireland in her voice or the shadows under her eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

“Look, I’ll contact the ISS. The closest field office is in San Diego. You can feed them whatever information you have. Inside of twenty-four hours, some of the best agents in the world will be looking for your brother.”

“I can give you a hundred thousand dollars.” Her mind was made up. She had discarded logic for instinct. Forrester had said this man could do it. Her father had agreed. Gillian was throwing her vote with theirs. “The price isn’t negotiable, because it’s all I have. Find my brother and my niece, and with a hundred thousand dollars you can retire in style.”

He stared at her for a moment, and then, biting off an oath, he walked toward the sea. The woman was crazy. He was offering her the skill of the best intelligence organization in the world, and she was tossing money in his face. A tidy sum.

Trace watched the sea roll up and recede. He’d never been able to hang on to more than a few thousand at a time. It just wasn’t his nature. But a hundred thousand could mean the difference between retiring and just talking about retiring.

The spray flew over his face as he shook his head. He didn’t want to get involved, not with her, not with her family and not with some nebulous formula that might or might not save the world from the big blast.

What he wanted was to go back to his hotel, order up a five-star meal and go to bed on a full stomach. God, he wanted some peace. Time to figure out what to do with his life.

“If you’re determined to have a freelancer, I can give you a couple of names.”

“I don’t want a couple of names. I want you.”

Something about the way she said it made his stomach knot. The reaction made him all the more determined to get rid of her. “I just came off nine months of deep cover. I’m burned out, Doc. You need someone young, gung ho and greedy.” For the second time he ran his hands over his face. “I’m tired.”

“That’s a cop-out,” she said, and the sudden strength in her voice surprised him enough to have him turning around. She stood straight, loose tendrils of hair flying around her face, pale as marble in the light of the rising moon. It suddenly struck him that in fury and despair she was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen. Then he lost that thought as she advanced on him, her Irish leading the way.

“You don’t want to get involved. You don’t want to be responsible for the lives of an innocent man and a young child. You don’t want to be touched by that. Mr. Forrester saw you as some kind of a knight, a man of principle and compassion, but he was wrong. You’re a selfish shell of a man who couldn’t have deserved a friend like him. He was a man who cared, who tried to help for nothing more than the asking, and who died because of his own standards.”

Trace’s head snapped up. “What the hell are you talking about?” His eyes caught the light and glittered dangerously. In one swift, silent move he had Gillian by both arms. “What the hell do you mean? Charlie had a stroke.”

Her heart was beating hard in her throat. She’d never seen anyone look more capable of murder than Trace did at that moment. “He was trying to help. They’d followed me. Three men.”

“What three men?”

“I don’t know. Terrorists, agents, whatever you choose to call them. They broke into the house when I was with him.” She tried to even her breathing by concentrating on the pain his fingers were inflicting on her arms. “Mr. Forrester pushed me through some kind of hidden panel in his library. I heard them on the other side. They were looking for me.” She could remember even now how hot and airless it had been behind the panel. How dark. “He was putting them off, telling them I’d left. They threatened him, but he stuck by the story. It seemed that they believed him.”

Her voice was shaking. Trace watched her dig her teeth into her lower lip to steady herself. “It got very
quiet. I was more frightened by the quiet and tried to get out to help him. I couldn’t find the mechanism.”

“Two inches down from the ceiling.”

“Yes. It took me almost an hour before I found it.” She didn’t add that she’d fought hysteria the entire time or that at one point she’d beaten against the panel and shouted, prepared to give herself up rather than stay in the suffocating dark. “When I got out, he was dead. If I’d been quicker, I might have been able to help him … I’ll never be sure.”

“The ISS said stroke.”

“It was diagnosed as one. Such things can be brought on by a simple injection. In any case, they caused the stroke, and they caused it while looking for me. I have to live with that.” Trace had dropped his grip, and she’d grabbed his shirtfront without realizing it, her fingers curled tight. “And so do you. If you won’t help me for compassion or for money, maybe you’ll do it for revenge.”