At the Edge of the Sun (7 page)

Maggie knew Randall well enough to see the distrust beneath his polite words. “We’ll be there.”

“Both of you, I’m hoping,” O’Banion said, turning the full force of his dazzling smile in Maggie’s direction.

And like a besotted fool, she smiled back.

“I don’t trust him.”

Maggie glared at her companion. “You just don’t trust anyone with charm.”

“Maggie, you may not recognize it, but I’m accounted to have a certain amount of charm myself,” Randall drawled. “You just happen to be immune to it.”

“And maybe you’re immune to O’Banion’s.”

“Maybe. But I don’t like this wild goose chase all over the
hills of County Down. Why couldn’t we meet someplace else? I don’t think walking into a pub full of occupying forces is the safest thing to do.”

“O’Banion wouldn’t have suggested we meet there if it was dangerous,” Maggie insisted.

“Wouldn’t he? I’m not convinced of that.”

Maggie sighed, a long-suffering exhalation of breath. “If you’re not certain then why don’t we head back to the hotel rather than wander all over the Irish countryside in the dead of night? My feet are killing me, I’m half frozen, and I want a large glass of Irish whiskey to wash away that disgusting warm beer.”

“You can go back if you want, Maggie. The car’s still parked by the trees back there.”

“And leave you to take care of everything? No way, Randall. I’m sticking to you like glue.”

He looked down at her. “Promises, promises,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Never mind,” Randall said with a weary sigh. “Come on, Maggie. Miles to go before we sleep.”

“Miles?” she echoed unhappily.

“Miles.”

“And we can’t drive?”

“It wouldn’t be wise,” he said.

Maggie stopped complaining. There was a heavy fog lingering over the hills and valleys as they tramped in silence. The dampness crept beneath the cape and sweater, and Maggie shivered in the darkness. She’d been fool enough to wear her new leather boots, and her feet hurt like hell. Next time she’d stick with her Nikes.

In complete silence she followed Randall down the deserted roadways, the mist clinging to them like a malevolent ghost. Several times she opened her mouth to complain, to challenge, to break through the still night air. Each time she closed it again, trudging onward in silence.

They were approaching a town—the lights glowed eerily
through the fog and the muffled sounds came and went, bouncing off the thick mist. Randall had come to an abrupt halt, and through the shifting light and shadows Maggie could see the pub not more than a hundred yards away. The door opened, and noise and light and laughter spilled out for a moment, then disappeared like the closing of a tomb.

Maggie ignored the shiver of apprehension that swept over her. She wanted that light and warmth, not the cold, deadly darkness around her. “What the hell are we waiting for, Randall?” she demanded in a heavy whisper. “It must be after midnight by now. Let’s go in and find O’Banion.”

“Not yet.” His voice was low, emotionless, and brooked no possibility for argument. Maggie once more contemplated bloody vengeance as she stood behind Randall in the alleyway.

“You want to tell me what you’re waiting for, Randall?” she inquired with ironic courtesy. “Or am I just supposed to stand here all night and freeze to death while you decide whether it’s safe or not?”

“Stop bitching,” he whispered, not bothering to glance in her direction. “I may be saving your life.”

“You may be giving me pneumonia. What—” Her voice stopped abruptly, not even needing his sudden, furtive gesture. She could hear it as well as he could, the sound of booted feet moving stealthily down the cobbled roadway.

She edged closer to him, forgetting for the moment her distaste at his nearness. In the cold damp air his body heat was curiously comforting, and she didn’t even notice when he put an arm around her, half in restraint, half in protection.

He was intent, listening, and she tilted her face up to his, curious. The footsteps drew closer, and in the shadowy night she could see the silhouettes of half a dozen men edging toward the pub. And then, through the darkness, came
an eerie clicking noise. The sounds of weapons being readied. She watched with horror as they moved in on the pub, and she opened her mouth to scream a warning to the people in the pub. A warning that never came.

Randall slammed her back against the side of the building, hard, and his hand crushed her open mouth. The scream died to a gurgle in her throat as she kicked at him, struggling as he subdued her. From the corner of her eye she could see the light once more flood the dark street, hear the noise and laughter. And then there was no sound but the thunder of machine guns, drowning out everything, drowning out screams and pleas and weeping. As suddenly as it began, it was over, and there was silence once more, silence and darkness. Any light in the pub had been smashed by the storm of bullets.

“Well done, lads,” a voice said. It wasn’t O’Banion’s voice, and Maggie wondered if their informant was lying dead in that pub. Randall’s body still held her immobile against the wall, and the two of them scarcely breathed.

“You want to see if anyone’s left?” another voice questioned. A woman’s voice.

“No need. We’ve been thorough enough. I think we’d better move fast. The villagers know well enough to stay behind closed doors, but we don’t want to risk running into any witnesses.”

“What about the Americans? Shouldn’t we make sure … ?” Again the woman’s voice, cool and businesslike.

“Faith, don’t worry, Maeve. They swallowed Flynn’s tale, hook, line, and sinker. They’re there, all right. And Flynn’s on his way to Beirut by now. It’s been a good night’s work. Stop looking for trouble.” They were moving away then, six or seven dark-clothed strangers on a walk in the damp night
air. Their voices drifted away, then back, bouncing off the fog, and then faded away entirely.

Slowly, slowly Randall lifted his hand from her mouth. His body kept her pressed against the wall, and in truth, she was glad of it. For the moment she didn’t think her legs would support her.

“I couldn’t let you scream, Maggie,” he said, his voice low and grim. “You couldn’t have saved them, and they would have killed us too.”

“So instead we had to watch. It’s a hell of a choice, Randall,” she said quietly.

A bleak smile lit his face. “Be glad you didn’t have to make it.”

She nodded. He was warm in the chilly winter air. He was a few inches taller than she was, and broader, and his body covered hers, protecting her from the wind. She could feel his thighs pressed against her trembling legs, the bones of his hips, the warmth of his torso and strength of his arms around her. She knew she should push him away, but she didn’t have the strength. She used her mouth instead.

“You want to let go of me now?” she said. Her voice didn’t come out the way she’d planned it. Not terse and laconic, it sounded almost wistful.

“Not just yet,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment, and she could feel the tremor of pain and something else shiver over him. “Give me a minute.”

She stood very still. And then she sighed, dropping her forehead against his shoulder, and slid her arms around him. And they stood there, for countless moments, with the smell of death all around them in the fog-shrouded night.

“Do you think they’re all right?” Holly kept her voice casual as she toyed with the glass of whiskey. She was lying stretched out on one uncomfortable sofa in the deserted common room of the dingy, second-rate hotel Maggie had deliberately chosen, and one slender, high-heeled foot was dangling over the armrest. Her toenails were painted a
pinky-lavender, a perfect match for her silk caftan, and Ian Andrews glowered at them every ten minutes. It was now almost two o’clock in the morning. The two of them had been sitting there in monosyllabic discomfort since they finished an amazingly horrible dinner at ten-thirty, which made it … twenty-one glares, she computed triumphantly. Or was it two hundred and ten … ? What the hell. She drained her whiskey.

“How should I know?” Ian demanded, pacing back to the front window. He’d been as restless as a caged tiger the entire evening, storming from the window to the doorway, perching for a moment on the other sofa, then moving back and forth. He’d taken two hours on one game of patience, drank more than his share of the bottle of Irish whiskey, and in general been a less than charming companion.

Holly sighed. “Shouldn’t they be back by now?”

“They should.”

“What do you think happened to them?”

“Maybe they got caught.”

“Reassuring, aren’t you?” she drawled.

“I’m not here for your reassurance. If you want someone to hold your hand you’ll have to look elsewhere.” He stalked back across the room and threw himself down on the sofa again. His strong body knocked the table, the cards slid to the floor, and his own glass of whiskey took a dive toward his lap. He caught it deftly enough, cursing, and glared at Holly. Number twenty-two, she thought. They were coming more frequently now. At this rate, even if Randall and Maggie made it back safely they might return to discover their accomplices’ bodies, locked in a death struggle.

“What are you grinning at?” he demanded.

Holly let her aquamarine eyes sweep over him with insolent cheer. “Just trying to figure out the best way to murder you,” she said sweetly.

He didn’t even blink. “Plenty have tried.”

She believed him and suddenly her amusement fled. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

He didn’t bother to look at her, or doubtless it would have been glare twenty-three. He stared down at his glass of whiskey, contemplating it as if it held the secrets of the universe. For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer her, and she couldn’t blame him. As usual she’d been astonishingly tactless.

He lifted his head, his green eyes meeting hers. “Yes.”

Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, she thought. “How many?”

He could have thrown his half-full glass of whiskey at her, and she wouldn’t have blamed him. She had no right to ask him these questions, but the alternative was to worry about Maggie, and she couldn’t spend another minute doing that without going crazy.

He didn’t throw the glass, he drained it and set it down on the table in front of him. “I’ve been a soldier. I’ve been in wars. People lose count.”

“Do they?”

“Does it turn you on, lady?” he countered roughly. “Do you get all hot and bothered hearing about blood and death and violence? I’d be more than happy to tie you up and beat you if that’s your fancy. Just don’t expect me to screw you afterward.”

“You’re a pig, Ian.”

“So I’ve been told.” Dead silence reigned in the room, an uncomfortable silence. There was a sullen peat fire in the blackened hearth, and the hiss and spit seemed unnaturally loud. Ian was staring into that fire, unmoving. “Seven,” he said.

For once Holly stopped her unruly tongue. It was too alien a concept, the deliberate ending of seven lives, and she simply sat there, trying to absorb it.

“And it’s going to be eight,” he added.

Holly raised her head. “I hope you don’t mean me?” she said lightly.

“No. I don’t kill women, either for duty or pleasure.” He shrugged. “Timothy Seamus Flynn is going to be number eight.”

“What about a trial? What about innocent until proven guilty?”

“That’s an American concept. The first chance I get I’m going to kill Flynn,” he said.

“Unless he gets you first.”

“I’m going to have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“And if you fail?”

He smiled suddenly. It was fatalistic, ironic, and absolutely devastating. Holly just stared at him, momentarily besotted. “Then you, dear lady, are going to have to kill him for me.”

“This sounds like a fascinating conversation,” Randall drawled from the open doorway. “Are we allowed to interrupt?”

“Maggie!” Holly leapt off the couch and flew across the room, enfolding her sister in an enthusiastic embrace. “What the hell took you so long? Ian and I nearly murdered each other.”

“Don’t!” Maggie said, shuddering.

Holly drew back, her beringed hands still clasping Maggie’s shoulders beneath the thick green cape, and her eyes were searching. “What happened? You look like holy hell. Did you find Flynn?”

Randall reached over and removed Holly’s hands, so deftly that she barely noticed. “Why don’t you get your sister a drink? It’s been a long, cold night and she could use one. We both could.”

Holly hesitated, torn. Then she nodded, turning toward the much-depleted Irish whiskey and splashing a generous amount in two glasses. She presented them without a word, noting with concern that Maggie used two hands to hold her own glass.

“So?” Ian said finally. “Did you see O’Banion?”

“Maybe. Or maybe we found Flynn himself,” Randall said. “What does O’Banion look like?”

Ian’s cursing was sharp and fluent. “Damn his soul to hell. Rory O’Banion’s a great bear of a man, six and a half feet tall, red hair, red beard, black eyes.”

“And Flynn?”

“Medium height, medium build, reddish hair,” Ian supplied.

“A charming smile?” Maggie questioned. “Blue eyes that would put Paul Newman to shame?”

“That’s Flynn!” Ian said. “Where is he now?” Andrews was already halfway to the door.

“On his way to Beirut,” Randall said.

Maggie took another healthy swallow, and a trace of color returned to her pale face. “He set us up, the bastard. He knew exactly who we were, and he had us walking right into a trap.”

“What sort of trap?”

“A group of them opened fire on a pub that catered to British soldiers. We were supposed to be in there too, waiting for O’Banion, or Flynn, or whoever he was,” Maggie said. “They didn’t bother to check, but no one was left alive. They were very thorough.” She shuddered and drained her glass.

“Who were they?” Ian demanded, his voice cold and hard.

“IRA, I presume. They were working with Flynn, whoever they were. There were six or seven of them, including a woman.”