Morgan's Son (15 page)

"You don't have nightmares?"

Sabra raised her eyebrows. "Not often."

"I would think with high-risk missions, you would."

"Maybe it was because of my partner," Sabra offered quietly. "Terry was a wonderful teacher. One of the first things he taught me was to talk about anything and everything that bothered me. If I was scared, he wanted to know about it. I think he realized that talking helped bleed off some of the adrenaline that built up over the stress of whatever had to be accomplished."

"He was older?"

"Yes, he was forty when I was teamed with him."

"You were like a baby to him."

She smiled a little. "I'm sure I was. He used to tease me that I was awfully green around the edges."

"Was he a merc all his life?"

"Yes. He told phenomenal stories of his adventures before joining Perseus. Originally, he'd been in the British Army, part of a very secret and elite commando troop. After that, he kicked around the world, getting hired out by small countries, and I'm afraid he did a lot of killing."

"Have you?" He held her startled look.

"No."

"And yet you're in high-risk."

"Usually that means we're liable to get shot at or killed, not that we're doing the killing, Craig. I couldn't do that. That's why I like Perseus so much—we're in the business of rescue, not murder."

He stared at her. "Have you been shot at?"

"Yes, a number of times." She held up her hand and pointed to a small, round scar on her forearm. "A bullet went through me there. I was lucky. It could have hit a bone and shattered my arm."

"How did it happen?'

"The first year I was with Terry we were trying to rescue an American child from kidnappers in
Italy
. He was the son of an American diplomat. The
U.S.
government called Morgan and asked for help, though the Italian police and the CIA were trying to locate the son, too. Terry was very good at finding local contacts. He speaks at least eight languages fluently, including Italian. An old man in a village outside of
Rome
gave us reliable information. We found the child at a villa owned by a mafia leader in that country. Under cover of nightfall, we scaled the walls and saved him. During the escape, the guards discovered us and started shooting." She shrugged. "I took a hit climbing over the wall."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing, at the time. I felt a sting on my arm. I was carrying the boy and Terry was behind me, returning fire. We made it down a hill to where our car was hidden in an olive grove, and took off. It was dark, and I was so concerned about the boy's safety that I honestly didn't think anything about my arm until much later. By dawn, we reached
Rome
and returned the child to his parents. It was only afterward, when Terry pointed to my arm, that I realized I had been bleeding."

"Did you go into shock then?"

"Actually," Sabra whispered, avoiding his gaze, "I did something very embarrassing."

"What?"

"I fainted."

"Not an abnormal reaction."

"I guess not, but can you imagine? I'm supposed to be this tough mercenary, and I take one look at my bloody sleeve and drop like a ton of rocks to the floor." Laughing quietly, Sabra added wryly, "I found out later that Terry picked me up and carried me to a chair and plunked me down. They called an ambulance, and I remember waking up in it on the way to the hospital. Terry was with me, holding my hand, reassuring me I wasn't going to die. Later, I found out it was little more than a flesh wound, and I was embarrassed by my reaction. At the time, it seemed a lot worse to me."

"Experience teaches you to minimize or maximize your reaction."

Sabra nodded, absently rubbing the small scar on her arm. "That's what Terry told me. I was in the hospital, and when he came to visit me the next day, I started to cry. I mean, this was no small amount of weeping. I felt horribly embarrassed at my lack of control over my emotional state, but Terry just laughed. He assured me it was a healthy reaction and encouraged me to keep on crying as hard and long as I wanted."

"He sounds like a good man."

"He is. I hope," Sabra murmured, "you can meet him someday."

"Maybe," Craig muttered. "First we have to survive this mission."

Nervously, Sabra picked at her slacks. "Craig?"

He turned, seeing the question on her face. "Look, I'm not the talking type. I don't want to discuss what happened to me."

"But—"

"No."

She saw the flat glare in his eyes; the warning was clear. "Then answer me this—do you have to take sleeping pills every night in order to sleep?"

"Yes. So what?"

Her lips curved downward. "You can't do that on this mission, Craig. From the time we land on
Maui
, we have to be alert. If you take those pills, you might not hear something that could save our lives. I can't be expected to stay up and be alert enough for both of us. I'm going to need your help."

"I don't think we've got to be on guard twenty-four hours a day. We have to be heads-up when we check out the estate, but not back at our hotel room."

"You're wrong," Sabra said forcefully. "If Garcia even suspects us, he could send his men there to kill us."

Holding up his hand wearily, Craig rasped, "Let's discuss this later. Right now, all I want to do is try to get a little more sleep."

Chastened, Sabra realized belatedly it wasn't the right place or time to discuss the issue. She knew better. Terry had taught her the importance of timing talks. "You're right."

Craig lay back in his seat. "I hope I don't wake up like I did before. If I do, just talk to me, okay? It helps."

She managed a strained smile. "Sure…." Sabra watched him turn on his side again, his back to her, the blanket wrapped tightly around him. She felt such an urge to lean over, gently stroke his tousled hair and reassure him that everything would be all right. But she couldn't do that. Worriedly, she leaned back in her chair, wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes.

Sleep wouldn't come. Part of her waited for Craig to have the nightmare again, while another part of her searched frantically for the reasons behind his responses. Something terrible had happened to him, and judging by the violence of his reactions, not too long ago. Did the burn scars on his hands, arms and cheek have anything to do with it? The scars still looked relatively fresh. Sabra sighed and tried to clear her mind. In two hours, they would land. Perhaps the magic of
Hawaii
's ephemeral beauty would ease his pain. She hoped so.

A policeman in civilian clothes—a bright Hawaiian print shirt and white cotton slacks—met them shortly after they'd retrieved their luggage. Sabra had spotted the man immediately as they'd walked to the luggage area to wait for the items. He appeared Chinese in heritage, with short black hair and dark brown eyes that were constantly roving, missing nothing. Craig was groggy, and Sabra walked closely at his side, remaining alert for both of them. They had no weapons, because it was against the law to carry them onto the islands.

The crowd of tourists who had been on the flight milled around them. Children cried from being awakened too early. Jet lag was compounded by the fact that it was 3: 00 a.m. Hawaiian time, and Sabra felt exhaustion pulling at her, but forced it away. The warm dry air of
Hawaii
felt good, almost reviving, to her.

As soon as they'd retrieved their luggage, the same man she'd noticed made a beeline toward them. Automatically, Sabra went on guard, unsure if he were friend or foe, and put herself in front of Craig. She felt him stiffen and become intent behind her.

"What?" he demanded.

"That man," she said in a low voice, keeping her eyes on the approaching figure, "is either a cop or a hit man."

Craig squinted against the lights, groggy and not at all alert. Gripping Sabra's arm, he forced her to step aside. What the hell was she doing, putting herself between him and potential danger? He used enough force to let her know that and saw the anger leap to her eyes as he drew her aside.

"You're not my shield," he growled.

Sabra rubbed her arm where he'd gripped it. Before she could say anything, the man stopped in front of them.

"I'm Detective Sam Chung." He dug out his badge case as inconspicuously as possible and held it open to their inspection. "You're from Perseus, right?"

"Yes," Sabra said, "we are."

"Great. Come with me."

Sabra gave Craig a glare and jerked up her single piece of luggage, hefting photographic equipment in her other arm. He glared back at her and did the same. Together, they braved the crowds of excited tourists and headed outdoors.
Maui
's early morning warmth struck her full force. She inhaled deeply as she hurried to keep up with the short, wiry detective. Overhead, stars twinkled in a soft ebony sky. Palm trees hugged the asphalt road around the airline building, starkly silhouetted against the glare of the area lights.

Chung opened the trunk of his car. The parking lot was comparatively empty this time of morning as they settled their luggage in the compartment.

"Once we get in the car, I'll give you weapons that are registered with us," he told them in a low tone. "Then I'll drive you to the car-rental area, where you can pick up your vehicle."

"Good," Craig said, shutting the trunk. "Let's go."

Sabra climbed into the rear seat, while Craig sat up front with Detective Chung. The policeman was in his forties, but he looked much younger, a toothy smile in place as he turned and laid his arm along the back of the seat to speak with both of them.

"We still don't have conclusive proof that Jason Trayhern is at Garcia's estate. We haven't tailed any of Garcia's men, because we don't want to arouse suspicion." He reached into his pocket and handed Craig a piece of paper. "Here's a detailed map of Garcia's estate and suggested locations where you can set up your camera equipment to watch for the boy. There are two hills you might use. One is pretty steep and rolling, with lots of eucalyptus trees and tall grass to hide in. The other hill is pretty brushy, with shrubs and fewer trees, so you'd have to be more careful. Both are about a mile from the estate, right off the
Kula Highway
. Most of the traffic stops at nightfall, so you don't have to worry too much about headlights interfering with your infrared equipment."

"Does Garcia have any idea we're around?"

"No," Sam said, shaking his head. "We know who his guards are, and there's been no unusual activity. We're fairly sure Garcia isn't on to the fact that we know something. We've deliberately stayed away from his area. We have a police cruiser that normally drives the road to Kula daily, so we've maintained that schedule but nothing more." He reached into the glove box and handed Craig an envelope. "There are photos in there of Garcia's hoods, the boys who do the damage, as well as some of his chauffeur, the maids and other people in his employ that we've managed to photograph over the years. His hit men have criminal records, so their photos are real clear. The rest tend to be surveillance shots, so they can be a little fuzzy."

"It's good to have these," Craig said.

Sabra leaned forward. "Is Garcia at his estate now?"

"As far as we know. If he leaves by jet, we know it."

"How?" Craig demanded.

"Garcia keeps a Learjet at this airport. He uses it to fly to
Honolulu
on the
island
of
Oahu
, then takes a commercial flight from there to the Mainland or wherever he's going."