Operation Proof of Life (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

The din of yelling spectators vibrated in Peter’s ears. As he watched the woman disappear through the bar’s entrance, the voice in his head fought for center stage over the noise.
It can’t be Brigit. She’s dead.

He read the words on the paper in his hand again, the slender script conveying a familiar message. One the IRA had sent to Margaret Thatcher over twenty years prior.

You have to be lucky every day. I only have to be lucky one.

Under the handwriting, the note was signed by a dead woman.

Brigit.

Through the windows on the north side, Peter saw a red umbrella weaving and bobbing down the sidewalk. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he pushed his way past the layers of men watching the fight and took off after her.

Across the street, in a vacant apartment above a retail wool shop, Michael followed Brigit’s progress down the sidewalk with his night-vision binoculars. She stopped at the entrance to a dark alley and looked both ways.

Flynn sat at the kitchenette’s table with Del, listening to a small speaker as Lawson Vaughn’s commentary from inside the pub came through loud and clear. “She got his attention. He’s going after her.”

“Damn it,” Michael muttered, shoving the binoculars in his inside jacket pocket and speaking into his headset. “Go out the back and head for the alley. I’ll cover the north end, you take the south. First one who can grabs Brigit.”

“Copy that.”

The undercover cops were only a few blocks away, waiting for Michael to pull the trigger. He tossed the headset to Del. “Call the cops.”

Brigit didn’t know Lawson so he’d been the one to send into the bar. Now Flynn, who’d been begging to see some action himself, rose from his seat. Michael waved at him to follow.

As their boots echoed in the long, narrow stairwell, Michael ran through scenarios in his head. Just like in his Marine days, he saw the field and the players on a giant chessboard. The king could move here, the knight here and the queen anywhere she damn well wanted.

Flynn, luckily, wasn’t a player on the board. “Hang back in case I need a distraction,” he said over his shoulder.

When they hit the street, Flynn peeled off to Michael’s right, disappearing into the shadows.

Now to find Brigit.

Michael saw Donovan cut around a group of young kids under a streetlight, bee-lining for the alley like he was on rollerblades. Michael waited for a car to pass and jogged across the street. The cops should be there any minute. All he had to do was keep Brigit from killing Donovan.

Or vice versa.

A minute later he entered the alley. The smell of rotting garbage and old beer permeated the air. Light from the street filtered down to nothing six steps in, and Michael paused, shut his eyes for ten seconds and reopened them. A man stood in the guts of dumpsters and debris, head bowed. No one else was in sight.

Sinking his hands into his jacket pockets, Michael fingered the compact SIG hidden there as he strolled toward the shadowy figure. Sirens blared in the distance.

At the sound, Donovan’s head snapped up and he turned, facing Michael. He was holding the red umbrella.

Michael did a double take. No Brigit. Had Lawson grabbed her or had she dropped the umbrella and run?

The SIG was pointed and ready to fire if necessary. It would have been so easy to drop Donovan where he stood, but over the past forty-eight hours, Michael had hit on a different plan for the asshole.

“Cops,” he said, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets as he passed Donovan. “Better disappear.”

Donovan stepped in Michael’s path and glared at him. “Who the hell are you?”

A police car stopped at the end of the alley, flashing lights flickering across Donovan’s face in a strobe. Michael squared up with him and looked him in the eyes, wishing he could spit poison into them. “You got two choices. Run or get in the dumpster. Either way, I’ll cover you.”

Donovan was smart. He dropped the umbrella and ran.

Ten minutes later, Brigit shouted at him when Michael came through the door.

“You!” She jumped out of the chair like a crazed woman, her face flushed and her eyes bright. She held up her thumb and forefinger as she marched toward him. “I was this close to nailing him.”

Sweet relief at seeing her alive and ready to take him on buzzed Michael’s nerve endings. Kinnick, Flynn and Vaughn all moved reflexively forward to intercept her before she could take a swing, but Michael held up a hand to stop them and handed the umbrella off to Flynn.

Brigit promptly punched him in the arm. The slight sting almost made him laugh, but the sincere fury on her face kept his amusement under wraps. He rubbed the spot as if it hurt to give her some satisfaction, but couldn’t hide the teasing annoyance in his tone. “You were
that close
to getting killed again. I showed up earlier like you told me to do and this is the thanks I get?”

She punched him again with more force, and he was sure it was because of his smirk. “You aren’t supposed to be here, you big lout.”

He gripped her elbow, steering her away from the other men’s eyes and into the adjoining bedroom, lit by a single lamp. He kicked the door shut and turned her to face him.

Not done lashing out at him, she kicked his shin. “You ruined
everything
.”

“Ow,” he said, pushing her back out of kicking range.

She wrestled in his grip. “Peter is mine to take care of, not yours. And then you have that Lawson guy show up and kidnap me right in the middle of leading Peter into my trap. He picked me up and carted me off like a sack of potatoes. Scared me to death. And…and…”

Realizing he was smiling smugly at her attempts to break free, she stilled and narrowed her eyes at him. Took a deep breath, assessing him. “You’re hurting my injured arm.”

Since he was gripping her forearm and not her upper arm, he was pretty sure she was lying to get him to turn her loose. Instead of complying, he pulled her in tight, hugging her to his chest. “You put on a good show.”

Being shorter by at least six inches, she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Frustration still darkened her eyes, or maybe it was the low light of the room, but she sounded sad when she spoke. “It’s not a show. I don’t want you involved in this. It’s my mess. I clean it up.”

She smelled like the pub…fried food, boiled onions and dark ale. The pink in her cheeks set off her doll eyes. Her lips, even set in a firm line, beckoned to him. “What if I can take care of the mess
and
get your father back?”

Brigit’s pulse hopscotched under her skin. Not because Michael had mentioned her father or offered to take out most of her problems in one grand slam. It was the way he was holding her and looking down at her, like a kid with a secret so big, he was ready to burst.

In the hospital, he’d made the emotional walls between them fall like they were constructed of thin sticks. She’d confessed too much and now wondered if he felt the same way.

Yet, if there was any awkwardness, she couldn’t tell from the way he was hugging her against his body. His beautiful, powerful, hard body ignited a hunger inside her. All her anger, frustration and common sense dissolved like the Irish fog when it met sunlight.

As his eyes, devilish with amusement, invited her to ask about his plan, she tried to unscramble her brain. A nanosecond later, she gave up. Forget the plan. “I think I want to kiss you.”

Michael’s intensity ratcheted up a notch and Brigit had to remind herself to breathe. They stared at each other for a long moment, his gaze as intimate as the hand stroking her spine. “Now that’s the kind of thanks I was hoping for.”

She moved on him, going up on her toes and sliding her hands up his broad shoulders and solid neck to pull his face down to hers. Without resistance, he matched her boldness, taking her mouth with the same self-confidence he did everything else.

A knock made her jump back out of his arms. Conrad Flynn’s voice was muffled through the door. “We’re going to get food. You coming?”

The predatory look in Michael’s eyes made Brigit swallow hard and take another step backwards. The set of his jaw, the way he stalked toward her as he answered, continued to cause havoc with her pulse. “Bring us something back.”

Seconds passed as the men left. Michael was nearly on top of her, and the instant the door latch clicked, he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and brought her to him again.

Talk about crossing lines, sucking face with the Deputy Director of the CIA could only bring her more grief, but as his demanding lips parted hers, she didn’t care.

For this moment, grief was far away. Guilt and responsibility too. He made her feel sexy and alive like she’d never experienced, and damn if she didn’t want even more.

Enjoying his sensual lips on hers, she used her tongue to taste him. Coffee and a hint of spearmint. Power and control.

He returned the favor, meeting her tongue with his as he shifted her body around to press her against the wall. She sucked in a breath, amazed at his gracefulness, but he mistook it for pain and broke the kiss. “Is it your ribs? Did I hurt you?”

Brain muddled from an overdose of his lips, she shook her head in confusion. “My ribs?”

Michael’s fingers grazed her rib cage, sending an electrical charge through her chest. “Your bruised ribs, remember?”

She giggled, the sound almost a whisper. Had she really just been sticking her tongue in his mouth? “Oh, that, no. You didn’t hurt me.” Touching him in the same spot, she watched his eyes darken with desire. “I’m in tiptop shape.”

“You were almost blown to pieces two days ago.”

Two days ago was another lifetime she didn’t want to talk about. She didn’t want to talk at all. She wanted his tongue back in her mouth and his body pressed up against hers, trapping her to the wall. “I’m not done thanking you for today.”

With slow smugness, he smiled and slid his face so his cheek was next to hers and his mouth was by her ear. “What were you doing hunting Peter by yourself? I told you we would come to Belfast together.”

His low tone, the sound of pure sex in his voice, made her shiver. How did he do that? Talking about a terrorist and undressing her with his voice at the same time?

She struggled to form coherent words. “Killing Peter would ruin your career.”

He kissed a spot under her earlobe. “What about your career?”

“Gone already.” Leaning her cheek against his, she breathed in his clean-smelling aftershave and hoped it would rub off on her. “No career. No family. No life.”

“I told you”—he nibbled her lobe—“I’m going to get your dad back.”

Sinking her fingers in his short hair, she sighed. “How?”

“Peter’s the key.”

“Peter will be dead soon, or at least very, very sick.”

Michael’s lips stopped nibbling. “How do you know?”

Shut up
, she told herself.
You’re ruining everything
. But she couldn’t ignore his question, nor could she lie. “I poisoned him.”

“What?” Michael put his face in front of hers so they were nose to nose. “How?”

She let her hands fall to his chest. His sculpted-like-a-Roman-god chest. Now she’d blown everything. “The umbrella.”

Michael stepped back and held up his hands, looking at them as if they were diseased. “You put poison on the umbrella?”

“No.” She shook her head in earnest. “
In
the umbrella. It’s a Cold War technique. You use it like a gun to inject a poison pellet into your target.”

His brows drew down and then he strode out of the room, clearly irritated, taking all his magnificence with him.

Brigit slumped against the wall, deflated. Her luck hadn’t really changed after all. She didn’t belong with Michael any more than she belonged with her father or her sister or anyone else. She was alone. Totally alone.

“Show me.”

Her head snapped up at Michael’s command. The umbrella was in his hands and he was holding it out to her.

Taking it apart, she laid each piece on the bureau and answered his questions about how it worked. Keeping her focus on the umbrella, she tried to let his annoyance roll off her back, but his obvious disappointment in her couldn’t be ignored.

When his silence stretched into the painful zone, she peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest. “You built this?”

Returning her attention to the umbrella, she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, and I followed Peter to the bar and injected him with rat poison. Got him right in the calf.”

Silence again. Unable to stand it any longer, she turned to face him. “Say something.”

A light had entered his eyes. He rubbed his chin with his fingers and thumb. “I think I’m turned on.”

Relief slammed through her as he grinned wide, perfect teeth showing. In an instant, she was in his arms again. She wrapped one leg around his muscled thigh as their mouths found each other, and the next second he lifted her and swung her around to sit on the top of the bureau—umbrella parts scattering—all without breaking their kiss.

Her legs instinctively parted to allow him access, and he slid her to the edge of the bureau where their hips snapped together. The bulge in his pants teased her as mercilessly as his lips.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I don’t normally,” she said, feeding him short, hot kisses. “But every time I think of Ella and Tory and what Peter’s taken from me, I hate him. I hate him so much I want to kill him a hundred times over.” She pulled back and checked his response. “Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? That I hate my brother enough to kill him? Holy Virgin, I’m fucked up.”

“You have every right to feel mad, Brigit. Blood doesn’t mean shit in this case.”

God, she loved him for saying that. Leaning into him again, she teased his lips. “Thank you.”

He responded, speaking through her kisses. “Dangerous to go after him alone, though.”

“I laugh in the face of danger.”

One of his hands went under her sweater, raked her stomach. “Jesus, you’re my kind of woman.”