The Bride and the Mercenary Page 19

  “Damn!”

  Clad only in a towel that was in danger, Malone noted, of coming undone where she’d wrapped it around her breasts, and with another towel towering in a precarious knot on her head, Ainslie came out of the bathroom at a stumbling trot. Strands of wet hair fell out of the loose turban into her eyes, despite her distracted efforts to tuck them in as the phone rang again.

  “It’s probably Tara. Want me to answer it?”

  She looked up through her hair, obviously startled to see him there. Then her eyes narrowed. The note of innocence in his voice hadn’t fooled her, Malone knew.

  “You were just praying for this to fall off, weren’t you?” Ainslie gave him a frosty glare that was ruined when she reached for the telephone and her towel slipped another notch. “If I even think I hear you snickering, you’re in a world of trouble, Malone,” she muttered under her breath.

  She picked up the receiver, cradled it on her shoulder, and before he realized what she intended to do, quickly flashed open the front of her towel at him, revealing a momentary glimpse of creamy breasts, heat-pinkened skin, and the tangled and still-damp triangle at the top of her thighs. She closed the towel just as swiftly, and batted her lashes at him before switching her attention to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  Her innocent voice was better than his, he conceded. Hell, her whole damn trick had been better than his, although if she glanced at him right now and slightly south of his belt buckle, that nonchalant air she was assuming might just be shaken the way she’d shaken him.

  Which wouldn’t be appropriate at all, he told himself repressively, catching enough of her conversation to realize that his guess had been right and it was Tara on the other end of the line. In an attempt to distract his thoughts from the X-rated vision Ainslie had just tantalized him with, he flipped open the book he’d been holding.

  Yeats, he thought as he leafed through the pages. With a name like Malone he’d naturally heard of him, as one of Ireland’s most beloved bards, but poetry had never been something he’d made time for. And maybe that had been his loss, he told himself a few minutes later, re-reading the final line of a verse, and feeling something stir in him at the simple resonance of the words.

  A handful of poems that would live forever. A man could face death calmly if he knew he was leaving a legacy like that for the world to remember him by. For the first time that day the stabbing pain lanced through his skull, as if to remind him that it hadn’t disappeared completely, and his grip on the book tightened as he waited for it to subside.

  It did almost instantly, but for once he barely noticed its passing. His fingers unsteady, he felt carefully along the spine of the book, sure that his imagination had misled him. He froze as once more he felt the hard, disklike shape beneath the binding. With a swiftly violent movement, he ripped the gold-stamped leather away and stared in disbelief at what had been hidden there.

  “I COULDN’T EVEN go over to Chelsea’s last night because of this nut bar who’s targeted Uncle Sully’s business. On top of that, Uncle Sully won’t tell me anything, except that you’re probably not going to marry Pearson now.”

  Tara’s voice in her ear sounded aggrieved, and Ainslie repressed a smile. To a teenage girl, everything was the end of the world. But this time her dramatics were understandable. She had a right to know at least something of what had been going on, since her future was involved, too.

  Malone had been sitting on the bed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him get up and walk to the window, but she forced herself to concentrate on what her adopted daughter was saying.

  “Is it true, Aunt Lee? Is the wedding really off for good?”

  “It’s true.” Ainslie chose her words with care. “I’m not saying what I did was the right way to have handled the situation, but I think going through with it would have been an even bigger mistake. Pearson’s a good man. He just wasn’t the man for me.” She could tell by Tara’s indrawn breath that she was readying a flurry of questions, and she cut her off before she could start. “That’s all I’m going to say right now, pumpkin. I’d rather tell you the rest of it in person.”

  “Okay.” For once Tara sounded subdued. “I guess I can understand how you feel. I know I said he was boring and all that, and he was, but he wasn’t ever mean or anything to me. Not like his stupid brother was,” she added.

  Ainslie’s parental antennae went up. “What do you mean? Did Brian do something that I don’t know about?” she asked sharply.

  “It wasn’t any big deal. That’s why I didn’t tell you when it happened, but from then on I made sure I stayed out of his way when we were at Pearson’s and he came by to visit,” Tara said slowly. “Actually it was kind of weird. I was in Pearson’s library one night when we were there for dinner, and I dozed off in the big wing chair. Brian must have come in without seeing me there, and when I woke up he was sitting at the desk with his back to me, writing something. He was talking to himself. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his voice was really creepy-sounding.”

  She stopped, and gave a little laugh. “I know it sounds silly, but he really scared me.”

  “I believe you, baby.” Ainslie gripped the phone tightly. “What else happened?”

  “I thought I’d just try to get out of there without him seeing me. I started edging toward the door, but I must have made a noise because he whirled around and jumped out of his chair with his face all strange and angry-looking. For a minute I thought he was going to hit me.” Tara’s voice shook at the memory. “He was shouting at me, asking me what I was doing spying on him and how long I’d been standing behind him reading what he’d been writing. I told him it was his own fault for not seeing me when he came in, and that I hadn’t seen anything. He stared at me for a minute, as if he was trying to figure out if I was lying. Then he grabbed the paper off the desk, shoved it into his pocket and stormed out without saying anything else.”

  “I wish you’d told me.” Ainslie’s voice shook too, but with anger. “I don’t think Pearson would want his brother treating a guest that way. The man must have been drunk, for God’s sake.”

  “He hadn’t been drinking. When he was yelling at me he had his face right up to mine, and I’d have smelled it if he had liquor on his breath. I don’t think he ever drank as much as he pretended to,” Tara said. “You know how he was the only one who liked bourbon? I saw him topping up a half-full bottle once in the kitchen with cola. I thought that was weird, too, but not nearly as weird as what happened in the library. I don’t know what he would have done if I’d told him I really had seen what he was writing.”

  “You did? What was it, to get him so excited?” Ainslie frowned.

  “That’s just it, Aunt Lee, it wasn’t anything really. It was just a darn list.” There was a note of confusion in Tara’s voice. “Some of the names on it were crossed out.”

  The towel around Ainslie’s head fell, unheeded, to the floor behind her, but the strands of wet hair clinging to the curve of her neck weren’t the reason for the sudden coldness that gripped her. “A list of people?” She tried to keep the edge from her voice, and failed. “Tell me, Tara, was it a list of people?”

  “No.” If Tara had noticed the urgency in her question, she had obviously identified it as motherly concern. “They weren’t people’s names, they were the names of countries. Half of them I didn’t know, and the other half I wouldn’t have been able to pronounce. But one of the crossed-out ones was a place that you still hear about in the news sometimes. You know…that country that used to be part of Russia where the terrible war’s been going on for so long?”

  Afterward, Ainslie never recalled just how she’d managed to wind up her conversation with Tara without revealing her agitation, but somehow she did. Her hand was shaking, she noticed as she hung up the phone. But that was hardly surprising. She’d just been given the proof she needed to convince the man she loved of his—

  “Get dressed as fast as you can, Lee. We’ve got to ge
t out of here.” His voice cut harshly across her thoughts and she looked up swiftly. He was still standing by the window, his expression grim. “They know where we are. They’ve known all along.”

  “It’s Brian, Malone.” Her voice was unsteady with excitement. “He was the one who killed Chris Stewart at that airport. He’s the—”

  “Brian gave you the book?”

  He jerked his head toward the bed. Confused, Ainslie followed his gaze, her eyes widening in shock as she took in the destroyed book and the small metallic object beside it.

  “What’s that?” She turned back to him, not understanding.

  “It’s a tracking device. It’s sending out a signal right now, telling him where to find us. It was in that volume of Yeats.”

  “That’s how Noah knew where we were yesterday?” Ainslie’s voice rose. “Because I was carrying around a damned bug?” Her lips tightened and swiftly she went to the bed. “I thought it was from Pearson—Brian knew I’d assume that. He must have dropped it into my purse himself. Let’s see how well it signals him when it’s in a thousand pieces, dammit!”

  “No.” Malone stepped in front of her as she reached for the disk. “We don’t want to do anything to panic him, Lee. He’s already killed one person to keep the secret of Chris’s murder safe.”

  “One person?” He was right. This was no time to act on impulse, she thought reluctantly. She grabbed up a pair of jeans, shoving first one leg and then the other into them without ceremony, her eyes dark with anger. “He’s responsible for thousands of deaths, Malone. Killing that forger probably meant less to him than swatting a fly.”

  “He killed Stewart and the forger, Lee. Any way you add that up, it only comes out to two murders.” His tone was even, and Ainslie pulled her T-shirt over her head before answering him.

  “I’m including his kills as the Executioner,” she said briefly, walking over to the desk and gathering up the sheaf of papers. Beside them was her purse, and she stuffed them into it and slung it over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  “He was Noah’s informant and Stewart’s murderer. But he’s not the Executioner.”

  Malone hadn’t moved. He still stood by the window, his eyes on her. She met his gaze blankly.

  “Of course he’s the Executioner. That’s what I was trying to tell you—Tara saw him going over a list of countries, and the one where Chris was killed had been crossed out. It was a list of places where he’d already started a war, or was planning on starting one, Malone. What other explanation can there be?”

  “It was a list of places where the Executioner had been suspected of starting wars.” His jaw was tight. “Yeah, Brian killed Stewart. Everything seems to point to that. What his motive was we don’t know yet, but he obviously had some reason to want him dead. You say he’s politically ambitious, and we know part of his power base comes from the sensitive positions he’s held in various government agencies, so maybe it was just Chris’s bad luck to spot him with someone from the opposing side. Someone he should never have been seen with. So he killed Chris, probably left the country on the next flight out, and thought he was safe until he heard through his contacts that the Agency had pulled me in and was questioning me about the man I’d seen at that airport.”

  “But the Agency was investigating the assassinations, for God’s sake. That’s what had him worried,” Ainslie said heatedly.

  “He was worried because he knew in the course of the main investigation, his unrelated murder might come to light. He had to discredit anything I might say—and fast.” Malone shrugged tensely. “After checking into my background, he realized that if he approached Watkins with just enough facts and dates to give the impression that he’d been studying the Executioner for some time, he could convince the Agency that I was the man they’d been hunting, and that in pretending to help them I’d been playing a double game.”

  “No. Not even Brian would have taken such a crazy chance.” Ainslie shook her head. “All the Agency had to do was come up with a single instance when it could be proven that you were in another place while the Executioner was somewhere else carrying out an assassination. It was too much of a risk.”

  “Was it?” Malone smiled crookedly at her. “They must have carried out that elementary check, Lee. They obviously didn’t come up with an alibi that would disprove Brian’s story.”

  “You’re saying that he inadvertently hit upon the truth without realizing it? That’s one hell of a lucky guess, Malone,” Ainslie said tightly. “I still think he’s the Executioner himself, and I say we act on the assumption that he is. We can’t afford not to.”

  She took a deep breath. “He’s lost any control that he once had. Killing that forger right here in Boston is something he never would have done before, and Cosgrove’s murder was the act of a man who wasn’t thinking straight. Then he shoots Watkins and lets us go free. I think he knows his time is running out, and he doesn’t care if the last anthill he kicks over is in his own backyard, as long as he can destroy as many other lives as possible when he does.” She stopped suddenly, struck by a terrible fear. “Pearson!” she whispered, her eyes wide with alarm. “Malone, we’ve got to warn him!”

  “Phone him right now.” His words were clipped. “Even if his brother’s not the Executioner, he’s still a killer and you’re right—he’s running scared. From what you’ve told me of Pearson, he’s no dummy. If he gives any indication of suspecting Brian of anything, he could be in real trouble.”

  Ainslie was already dialling the number. Holding the receiver to her ear, she chewed nervously at her bottom lip. “When I spoke to him last night he said he expected Brian at Greystones today.” She switched her attention back to the phone. “It’s not even ringing. I’ll try the operator.”

  “Don’t bother.” Malone’s expression was grim. “His phone was working fine last night, and now it’s out of order? I don’t like that, Lee. Do you know how to get to Greystones?”

  “You think Brian’s already there, don’t you?” Ainslie paled. “You think Pearson’s already dead.”

  “I think Pearson’s in danger,” Malone said forcefully. “And if we try to convince the authorities that a respectable citizen is a killer, it’s going to take time we don’t have. We could try to raise Sully on his cell phone, but he’s got his own family and Tara to worry about.”

  “I won’t have Sully involved,” Ainslie agreed automatically. “But Seamus, if Pearson’s…” She swallowed, and then forced herself to go on. “If Pearson’s already dead when we get there, what are we going to do?”

  “If Pearson’s still alive, we get him the hell to safety. If he’s dead, you’re going to turn the car around and head straight back to Boston. Then you can contact Sullivan and the police.”

  Malone pulled open the desk drawer, revealing his own gun and the automatic he’d taken from Watkins the day before. Ainslie stared at him as he retrieved both weapons.

  “And while I’m high-tailing it out of there, what do you propose to do?” she said shakily. “The property’s enormous, and Brian’s been hunting on it since he was a boy. You won’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re wrong, Lee.”

  There was a tone in his voice that she’d never heard before, and when she looked at him he met her gaze with no emotion at all.

  “He’s just a two-time killer,” he continued in the same cold tone. “I’m the Executioner. I’d say it’s Brian who doesn’t stand a chance, going up against me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  From the winding entrance road that led up to Greystones the estate appeared to be encircled with a high brick wall, but that was deceiving, Ainslie knew. Where the forest began, the wall was replaced with a high-voltage electric fence, and on the few occasions she had visited here Pearson had warned her that under no circumstances should she brush against it.

  She told Malone about it now, as they rolled to a stop in front of the estate’s imposing iron gates. Except for the most perfunctory o
f exchanges, the two of them had barely spoken a word during the long drive.

  “What about this part? How is it kept secure?” He glanced at the gates and the wall in front of them. “Didn’t you say something about an alarm system?”

  “There’s a code panel. Unless the sequence has been changed recently I should be able to get us in.” Ainslie kept her own tone brisk and started to get out of the car, but he put his hand on her arm.

  “Give me the numbers and I’ll do it. I don’t want you walking around outside until we know for sure what the situation is.”

  Even his touch was as impersonal as a stranger’s, she thought, watching him swing open the control panel and punch in the sequence she’d given him. He’d finally convinced himself beyond all doubt that he was the man he’d feared he was, and he was deliberately distancing himself from her.

  “How far away is the house?” He got back into the car, but he made no move to put the vehicle in gear. Ainslie frowned.

  “About a mile. Why?”

  “If I’m not back in half an hour, I want you to leave. Don’t wait any longer than that.” His smile was humorless. “And don’t come in to save me, Lee. I don’t need saving, okay?”

  “No, that’s not okay.” Her smile was even briefer than his. “That’s freakin’ ridiculous, is what it is. I’m coming up to the house with you, and there’s no way you can stop me. Get this damned thing moving before the gates start to close again.”

  “This is between him and me now. You’re not part of it anymore.”

  “Pearson could be lying dead or badly wounded up at that house!” Ainslie snapped. “He’s a decent man, and if there’s anything that I can do for him, I will. If he’s beyond help—” She paused, fighting back the tears that had suddenly welled up. “If he’s beyond help, then at least I’ll know I tried. I owe him that much, Malone,” she finished, her tone low.