The Bride and the Mercenary Page 18

  “How the hell could I have a deal going with a man I’ve never met, goddammit?” This time he did wrench away. “For God’s sake, Lee, listen to what you’re saying. It doesn’t make any sense!”

  “No, Malone, you listen to what you just said,” Ainslie shot back. She saw his momentary disconcertion, and pressed home her advantage. “You’ve never met the Executioner? How could that be, if he’s you?”

  “It was a slip of the tongue, nothing more,” he said tightly.

  “Was it?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think some part of you knows the truth. But you’re not going to let that part of you win.”

  Suddenly the fire went out of her. He had her on the ropes, Ainslie told herself wearily. She’d hung in for as long as she could, but he was just too good, too determined. And he wanted the prize he’d been fighting for too much to let her to wrest it away from him now, when it was almost within his grasp. She took a deep breath.

  “You know, it’s too bad you don’t believe in the legend,” she said quietly. “Because if it was redemption you were seeking instead of oblivion, then putting an end to the Executioner might be the way to buy back your soul, Seamus. But once he gets rid of you he’s just going to go on killing—and wherever you are then, that blood will be on your hands forever.”

  Bending, she picked up her jacket and purse from where they’d fallen to the floor. She straightened and turned to the door.

  This time it was Malone’s grip that stopped her so unexpectedly that she nearly lost her balance. His hand on her shoulder, he spun her around to face him.

  “Once I turn myself in, the blood-letting stops, dammit.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

  “And if it doesn’t? If you’ve made a terrible mistake, and by giving yourself up you allow the real Executioner to remain at large?” Ainslie struck his hand away and thrust her face close to his. “Maybe I can’t convince you you’re wrong. But are you willing to stake the lives of innocent people on the certainty that you’re right?”

  For a moment she thought she’d pushed him too far. Then he closed his eyes briefly, as if in defeat. He opened them again, and his gaze met hers.

  “One more day.” His voice was quiet. “That’s all I’ll give it, Lee. Twenty-four more hours. If we haven’t found anything that points to someone else being the Executioner, then you have to promise me you’ll let it go.”

  Slowly she nodded. “I promise. But we’re going to need some outside help. First thing tomorrow morning, we call Sully in on the Chris Stewart lead, agreed?”

  His smile was wry. “Agreed. But don’t be surprised if he’s more interested in taking a swing at me than putting the resources of Sullivan Investigations at our disposal.”

  She shrugged in mock unconcern, the casual gesture belying her overwhelming relief at his change of heart, however temporary. He’d gone through so much, she thought in sudden fierce resolve. But enough was enough. The Executioner might not know it yet, but she’d won the first round against him.

  And she was just getting started.

  “STEWART’S COLLEGE records were easy enough to trace. It helped that an ex-mercenary buddy of mine, Quinn McGuire, knew him by his real name a long time ago.” Sully spoke tersely, addressing his remarks solely to his sister, as he’d been doing since he’d arrived at the motel a few minutes ago.

  Once he and Ainslie’s half brother had been friends of a sort, Malone thought. Now the man wouldn’t even look his way, and under the circumstances he supposed he couldn’t blame him. But they couldn’t work together like this.

  “I appreciate the help, Sullivan. What did you find out?” He knew his question was the opening that the other man had been waiting for.

  Sullivan swung around to face him, his eyes chips of ice. “Get one thing straight, Seamus. Any help I’m providing here has nothing to do with you.”

  Ainslie had been sitting at the desk, poring over a sheaf of documents that Sullivan had handed her, but at his outburst she jumped to her feet. Her hair swung in two dark wings at the sides of her set jawline, and her eyes were suddenly as blue as Malone had ever seen them.

  “That’s enough, Sully,” she said tightly. Malone saw Sullivan’s quickly disbelieving glance at her as she went on, her voice edged with anger. “Malone and I are on the same side, and if you’re not with us—both of us—then we don’t need your help.”

  “Dammit, Lee, the man’s probably a killer, for God’s sake!” Sullivan exploded. “What I’d like to know is how the hell he managed to convince you he’s innocent.”

  “It looks like you and I are on the same side, Sully.” Malone pushed himself away from the door frame. “I think there’s every chance that I’m the Executioner, too. But you don’t know Lee if you think she’s going to let either of us make up her mind for her.”

  Sullivan narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re damn right I think you’re capable of everything they say you did. I’ve done some asking around, and I’ve heard some things that made even my blood run cold. Apparently you once went on a one-man killing spree in the jungle—stalked and dispatched five victims with about as much emotion as a man-eating tiger going after its prey.”

  “Did your informants tell you why?” Ainslie’s tone was strained, and suddenly Malone didn’t want it to go any further.

  “I told you, Lee, why doesn’t matter. The stories are true, as far as they go, Sullivan. I killed those men.”

  “Because they buried him in a box six feet under—buried him and left him to die.” Her gaze was fixed on her brother. “Maybe your informants forgot to pass on that part of the story.”

  Terrence Sullivan had a reputation for a cool toughness that nothing could shake. It was obvious he was shaken now. His appalled gaze went from his sister to Malone.

  “Is that true?”

  Malone held his gaze. “Yeah, Sully, it’s true. And you and I both know it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I hunted them down—not like the soldier I was supposed to be, but like a killer. Maybe I found I liked it.”

  “I’ve heard of that happening,” Sullivan said shortly. “But usually a man who turns killer shows some sign of his inclinations long before. I never saw that in you.”

  Malone lifted his shoulders. As if sensing his reluctance to pursue the subject, after a last appraising glance, Sullivan picked up the papers Ainslie had been going through.

  “Chris—it’s easier to just keep calling him that, since that’s the name you knew him by—had a pretty privileged upbringing. He was a golden boy—but a golden boy with a tarnished reputation.”

  Beside him Ainslie nodded stiffly, her edginess still apparent. “According to those records, he dropped out of college midterm in his second year. That must have been when his family finally washed their hands of him for good and he became a mercenary.”

  “Probably the most unsuitable profession he could think of, just to shock them,” Sully said. “But if you’re right, in the end it was someone from his eminently suitable past that killed him.”

  “Not just from his past. Someone who’d been in college with him.” Ainslie frowned at Malone. “That’s what he told you at the airport, isn’t it?”

  “An old school friend.” Malone agreed. “But how the hell are we going to find out which one?”

  “The invaluable Moira’s already working on that back at my office,” Sully said. “We’re running all his classmates’ names through the computer and eliminating anyone who was in the country at the time of his murder. Then we’ll check whoever’s left against a State Department database of Americans whose passports show them to have been in that particular area of the world on the date in question.”

  Malone knew better than to ask Sully how he’d managed to be allowed access to information like that. But he had one question for him.

  “And if none of the names pan out? It’s likely our man was using a false passport, Sully.”

  “Yeah, tha
t occurred to me.” Sullivan grimaced. “My sources tell me the best passport forger in the business up until yesterday was a woman who lived right here in Boston.”

  “Until yesterday?” Ainslie queried sharply. Her brother’s mouth tightened.

  “She was shot while taking her morning jog. The police haven’t got any leads on her killer yet. It could be just coincidence, but…”

  “But it’s never a coincidence.”

  Malone heard the flatness in Ainslie’s tone as she repeated his words of a few days earlier, and suddenly the futility of their undertaking struck him anew. He watched as she sat at the desk and started flipping through the documents again. This was tearing her apart, he thought. There were unhealthy shadows under those violet-blue eyes, and the coffee and bagels that Sully had brought still sat, untouched, by her elbow.

  “Oh!”

  Her exclamation broke into his thoughts. Glancing quickly over at her, he saw the faint question in her eyes as she looked up at her brother.

  “I wondered if you’d catch that.” Sullivan, now standing beside her, shook his head.

  “What is it?” Rousing himself, Malone crossed to the desk. In answer, Ainslie tapped a forefinger on a name halfway down on the typewritten page in front of her.

  “‘McNeil, Brian Michael,’” Malone read out loud. “Sorry, I don’t get it.”

  “A couple of days ago he came to within half an hour of being Ainslie’s brother-in-law,” Sully drawled. “Then my sister ran off with you. But having his name show up on this list is probably one of those rare times when it really is just a coincidence.”

  “Oh,” Ainslie said again, this time with a tinge of disappointment in her voice. She looked instantly guilt-stricken. “Not that I want Pearson’s brother to turn out to be a murderer, of course,” she said hastily. “But I thought we might be on to something.”

  “At first glance, so did I.” Sullivan jammed his hands into his pockets. The gesture betrayed slight frustration. “At second glance he looked even better—he was on the rowing team with Stewart, and the two of them had the same circle of friends. But he wasn’t out of the country at the time of Stewart’s death. In fact, he was a very junior member of a committee that was looking into the alleged misuse of funds by a covert government agency—not the Agency, but one similar,” he added as Malone’s gaze sharpened.

  “Anyway, he was in the public eye at the time. I’ve still got feelers out to see if I can pick up any rumors of our Brian ever being suspected of acquiring a false passport, but I think for now we have to scratch him as a possibility, Lee.”

  “I suppose I’m glad.” She smiled crookedly. “Pearson’s always known that his brother wasn’t perfect, but that would have destroyed him. He doesn’t deserve to have any more bombshells dropped on him.” She shoved the pile of papers away from her and reached for a container of coffee. “I haven’t had a chance to ask how Bailey and Megan are doing, Sully. Don’t they come home from the hospital today?”

  “I’m picking them up later this morning. Tara’s coming with me.” Sullivan shot her a glance. “I’m keeping her out of school for a day or two and I brought her over to my place last night so I could have one of my men with her at all times. She was still asleep when I left the house, but I wrote down the number of the motel and stuck a note up on the refrigerator. You’ll probably hear from her yourself sometime today.”

  “Thanks, Sully,” Ainslie said softly. “I know she’ll be safe with you.” She fixed a determined smile on her face. “Now, fill me in on all the fascinating details about my new niece’s first day in the world. You have my permission to brag as much as you want.”

  Her brother obviously didn’t need any further prodding. As he launched enthusiastically into a recounting of all the ways that Megan Angelique had already demonstrated that she was the most adorable baby in existence, Malone saw the troubled lines between Ainslie’s brows smooth out.

  This had been one of his dreams, he thought heavily, being part of a circle of family and friends, sharing with Ainslie and the people they cared for the daily joys and small setbacks of an ordinary life. But those dreams would never come true. He knew that now.

  He closed his eyes and immediately he was there again, the butt of a high-powered rifle snugged up against his shoulder, the scene through the scope jumping into startlingly clear focus….

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was nearly time. It seemed as if he’d been waiting up here for hours, hiding behind this massive steel girder that provided the framework for the array of powerful floodlights ringing the stadium. In a country where electricity was still a novelty for many of the rural residents, this newly built structure was symbolic of how far the nation had progressed in the five years of peace since Joseph Mocamba had become president. Considering tonight’s dedication and formal unveiling was symbolic, too—a declaration to the world that this tiny republic had put its strife-ridden past behind it—Mocamba had insisted on addressing the crowd without a show of armed protectors about him.

  The cheers below rose to a crescendo as the slight figure of the man he had been waiting for came onto the field and headed toward the podium, his progress impeded by the television crews milling around him. Malone looked through the scope again, and immediately Mocamba, although partially hidden by reporters, appeared close enough to reach out and touch. It would happen soon, he thought coldly.

  It did.

  A cameraman on the edge of the group surrounding the president stumbled, and suddenly the sight line to Mocamba was unimpeded. His finger tightened on the trigger, but even as it did the president looked swiftly around, as if he had somehow sensed the danger coming for him. There was no way he could be visible to the man so far below him, Malone knew, but for a split second it seemed as if Mocamba’s gaze, bisected by the rifle’s crosshairs, was fixed on his.

  And then the view through the scope was obscured by a haze of crimson, as Joseph Mocamba, whose code of non-violence had set his beloved country on the road to peace, was thrown backward by the force of his assassin’s bullet—

  “…probably want to go with you and check out it out, right, Malone?”

  The query in Ainslie’s voice jerked him back to the present. “Sorry, I drifted off there.” His voice sounded normal enough, he noted with relief. “Where are we going and what is it we’re checking out?”

  “When I arrived, Dare told me his friend had brought the car back this morning,” Sully said. “It’s parked out back. I thought we might take a look at it.” There was an odd inflection in his voice.

  “Sure.” Malone looked at Ainslie. “You mind holding down the fort here for a minute or two, Lee?”

  “Hmm, staring at the side of a car or stepping into the shower, turning it on as hot as I can stand it and getting really clean for the first time in two days? That’s a tough choice,” she said dryly. “But I guess I’ll go with the shower option, boys. Go ahead and do your manly stuff without me.”

  Sullivan dropped a quick kiss on tip of her nose. “Good idea, little lady.” He dodged her halfhearted swat. “I’ll keep you posted on what Moira and I turn up on Chris’s contacts, and if Tara hasn’t phoned you, I’ll remind her to give you a call. I know you miss the brat, sis.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know why, but I do,” she replied in mock chagrin. “Now get out of here and give a girl some privacy, bro.”

  “The car’s fine. I had a look at it when I got here,” Sullivan said in an undertone as they rounded the corner of the motel to the small gravel lot at the back. “I’m worried about the Chris Stewart connection, Seamus—and the murder of that passport dealer. Maybe it was just a random shooting, but I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.” Malone looked away. “I think my resurfacing made Chris’s murderer nervous—nervous enough to eliminate anyone who might know anything about his existence. That not only includes me, but the one person I might have taken into my confidence.” He frowned. “Do you have any contacts on the
police force who might be able to give you what they have on the shooting of the forger?”

  “Jennifer Tarranova and Donny Fitzgerald,” Sullivan said promptly. “Maybe Straub, if he’s working the case. I’ll make a few phone calls from home before I pick up Bailey.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going. I still have to stop by the house for Tara, and there’s a couple of errands on my list, too.”

  He shot Malone a self-conscious grin. “I saw this giant toy giraffe in a toy store downtown, and I said I’d be by today to get it. Plus, the florist is making up a special bouquet that I ordered for Bailey.”

  Maybe a long time ago their lives had followed similar paths, Malone thought a few minutes later. He let himself into the motel room, the roar of the shower as he entered a noisy indication of Ainslie’s whereabouts. But Terry Sullivan’s ghosts had been vanquished, and he had become that rarest of beings—a perfectly happy man, supremely content with his lot in life.

  Toy giraffes and flowers… Malone sat on the edge of the bed, and for just a moment allowed himself to wonder what his and Ainslie’s child might have looked like if things had turned out differently. She—for some reason he was certain that their firstborn would have been a girl—would have come into the world with her mother’s same uncompromisingly direct stare, he mused. She would have had the same tough little chin, the same blue-black hair with no hint of a wave in it, just like Ainslie’s. But maybe her eyes would have been the same green as his…

  He would have liked being a father, he thought. He would have liked that a lot.

  The roar of the shower abruptly ceased and he got to his feet, not wanting Ainslie to sense his mood when she came into the room. The papers she’d been looking through were still sitting on the desk, anchored by a slim book. With mild curiosity he picked it up, and just as he did the phone rang.