Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) (29 page)

“No, absolutely not,” Twyla snapped. “I ain’t givin’ up my George’s ring piece.”

“You foolish bitch,” Rousso spat. “Yours must fit with others to open safe and retrieve jewels.” He waved his pistol toward her.

Mara forced herself to breathe evenly.
In. Out. Easy now.
She watched Twyla. And Twyla’s pistol. Not Rousso. One gun was all she allowed herself to think about.

Hugo turned toward the one who’d been ordering him around. “Don’t you swear at my sister,” the big man ordered. “She’s been helpin’ you.”

“Sorry, Hugo,” Rousso said, in an oily tone that boded no good.

Would he shoot his two allies? As well as Cort and her? Her pulse pounded and her stomach roiled.

“You shouldn’t yell,” Hugo said. “I don’t like yelling.”

“I did not mean yell. We want to see crown jewels, all of us, do we not?”

Hugo nodded deliberately, in almost comical slow motion. Twyla scowled, still reluctant to give up her only insurance.

“Twyla, the ring, if you please.”

“Fuckin’-A,” she whined. “Reckon I got no choice. But you better not try nothin’. I got a share of that treasure coming to me.”

“Of course. Your share.”

She reached across her body with her left hand to her right-hand jacket pocket. The unnatural twisting motion compromised her right hand’s steadiness. The gun dipped. As she withdrew the ring piece, the gun wobbled. Slipped in her wet hand.

Mara took a deep breath and swung up her left arm against Twyla’s right arm. Knocked the gun loose. A loud crack split the silence. The weapon fell to the ground.

Hugo bellowed.

Mara blinked away the aftershock and fumes. With her right hand, she snatched the ring. Emitting a Serena roar, she executed a perfect serve.

The ring drilled into the lake with a sharp splash.

Mara’s ears rang from the gun’s report, but she heard Twyla screech like a wounded owl.
“My ring, my ring!”

Mara risked a glance across the clearing. Cort wrestled Rousso for his gun.

Yes!

The smaller man seemed to have some martial-arts moves, but Cort was bigger, stronger. Prison had taught him how to fight dirty, to fight for his life.

She dived for the dropped pistol. Had to get it before the behemoth came to his sister’s aid. She scrabbled around on the ground in the ferns and new grasses. Came up with the weapon, fumbled the wet metal but held on.

The screaming banshee recovered and charged her.

Panting, her heart racing like a greyhound, Mara pushed to her feet. Across the clearing, the cracks and thumps of hand-to-hand combat lured her to search out Cort, but she kept her eyes on her opponent.

“Stop right there!” She held the pistol in both hands. She willed her grip to be steady and firm, as if she knew what she was doing.

Twyla halted, her face a twisted mask of hatred, clown garish with rain-streaked makeup. “You slope-eyed bitch! You wade in and get that ring or I’ll kill you.”

Mara ignored the threat and prayed the widow had the good sense to stay put. The few Devlin employee self-protection classes she’d taken covered defending herself against muggers grabbing her from behind or coming at her with a weapon. Not against this spitting cat who would attack with tooth and claw. Twyla and her brother probably aided Rousso in murdering Falco. As repellent as taking a life was, she would shoot if she had to.

“Hugo! Help me!”
Twyla yelled.

“I... can’t.”

Hugo was no longer vertical. He lay on his back, a beached whale. Crimson stained the light blue fabric of his windbreaker.

Twyla spun toward his weak croak. She ignored Mara and raced to her brother. “Hugo! Baby brother, speak to me!”

When the pistol had fired, the bullet struck Hugo. Twyla shot her own brother.

Weeping and wailing in near hysteria, urging him to hang in there, she tore off her jacket and wadded it against the bullet wound. Hugo lay still, apparently unconscious. Or dead.

No reason Mara could think of to keep the woman from tending him. She kept the gun aimed at the pair while she circled to where she could also keep an eye on Cort’s battle.

Rousso stood spread-legged behind him. Cort kept Rousso’s arm trapped against his body. He gripped the man’s hand with both of his. Tried to shake loose the pistol.

Oh God, please let him be all right.
She wanted to help but allowed herself only brief glances his way. She couldn’t take her eyes off the other two. Twyla or Hugo might have another weapon.

Rousso kicked, sweeping Cort’s legs from beneath him. The men fell to the ground in a welter of limbs and guttural sounds. Cort maintained his grip on Rousso’s wrist. The pistol clattered onto the door of the safe, an arm’s length or more down in the hole.

Thank God!
Mara bit her lip. If she cried out, she might distract Cort.

Rousso yelled and swung a fist.

Cort blocked the blow and with his other hand landed a solid punch on Rousso’s chin with a thunk of bone on bone. His head snapped back. Cort pounded him again. Rousso lay still. Cort pulled back his arm for another blow. His chest heaved. He let his arm drop.

He sat back on his heels and looked at her. “Mara?”

Before she could answer, the clearing filled with a dozen men and women in black flak jackets. They carried enough weapons to supply an army.

“FBI. Stand down.”

An agent in a rumpled suit marched over to Cort and helped him up. Kaplan, she guessed. Another FBI agent relieved her of Twyla’s pistol.

“Thanks,” she said to the woman. “I don’t think I could’ve held that another second.”

A medical crew rushed in behind the initial invasion. And behind them, Thomas Devlin.

Her boss crossed to her as an EMT draped a blanket around her chilled shoulders. He clasped both her hands in his big warm ones. “Mara Marton holding a gun on anyone is a sight I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d live to see. How’re you doing?”

“I’m okay.” And to her surprise, she was. She wouldn’t let herself think about Cort. She couldn’t even look at him. Or the ache in her chest would become unbearable.

***

As if the weather gods knew the danger was past, the skies began to clear. The drizzle stopped and patches of blue appeared above the trees.

Things happened quickly after that. Cort stood to one side as agents cuffed and led away Rousso and a weeping Twyla Hauptman. The EMTs took Hugo away on a gurney. One told an agent the bullet had punctured the man’s lung but he’d probably live.

Live to stand trial, Cort thought with satisfaction. Hugo might be limited upstairs but he knew the things he’d done were crimes. Both Hugo and his sister would go to prison for a long time, nearly as long as Rousso.

He glanced at Mara talking quietly with her boss. She looked wet and dirty, and more beautiful than ever because she was okay. He’d known fear in prison, fear for his own life, how fear tasted and how it prickled his scalp and roiled in his belly. But that was nothing compared to the paralysis, the dry-mouthed cold sweats he felt seeing her held at gunpoint. The blanket the EMT gave him warmed his shoulders but the ice in his gut would take a long time to dissipate.

How the hell did she manage those fancy moves to save the day? He wanted to ask but she was better off if he left her alone. She’d said more than once he should trust himself. How could he trust himself when nobody else should trust him? Devlin had a clear field if he wanted her. Frozen barbed wire twisted in Cort’s gut but he forced himself to look away from them.

The FBI diver splashed out of the lake. He held up the ring piece in the sunlight peeking through the thinning clouds. This part of the lake had a sandy bottom. The gold would’ve sunk in and disappeared in mud. They’d have had to cut open the safe.

Kaplan handed him the ring. “You do the honors, Jones,” he said. “You been through hell to get this far. That million-dollar reward from Gramornia should go a mile or two toward making it up to you and Ms. Marton.”

Cort hadn’t known about a reward. That didn’t concern him at the moment. “How’d you find us? How did you know to come?”

“Thank Thomas Devlin for that one. And whoever put up a cell phone tower in these godforsaken woods. Ms. Marton pushed a link on her phone that sent Devlin a direct SOS with GPS coordinates.”

Cort shook his head, speechless. She must’ve sent that signal when Rousso first grabbed her. Fear hadn’t stopped her from acting, from using the same tactic that called him to her rescue more than a month ago.

A conflicting stew of emotions swirled inside him, made his eyes sting. He swallowed hard. He began this quest because he wanted freedom and a full life, but without her, his future looked empty. He would laugh at the irony if he didn’t hurt so much.

“Jones?” Kaplan asked. “You okay?”

“Fine, just fine. Let’s get this safe open. I want this over with.” The sooner he handed over the crown jewels, the sooner all these damn people would leave him alone.

He connected the new ring piece with the others, creating a six-inch tube of gold.
The key to the treasure.
If for once in his life Leon played it straight. Unless the crown jewels weren’t there. What happened then? He hoped the prince could be crowned with them. But for himself, it didn’t matter as much. The FBI knew he’d been honest with them. Now it was up to Leon.

He tossed off the blanket. As he lay on the tarp that spread beside the hole, he sensed the crowd gathering closer. Mara’s sneakers appeared at the edge of the hole. He didn’t look up.

The raised runes fit perfectly in the circular lock on the safe. He twisted it to the right, praying he didn’t hit another roadblock, like a combination. But the lock turned. The tumblers clicked. With his jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, he grasped the handle and pulled.

“The safe opened,” Kaplan murmured above him.

Inside the deep metal box lay a black duffel bag, the waterproof kind boaters used. With the FBI agent’s help, he hoisted it out and placed it on the tarp. When he began to work the zipper, Kaplan stopped him.

“Not yet,” the FBI agent said. “I promised the Gramornian ambassador I’d wait until the prince’s emissary could be here to witness the contents. He’s on his way.”

***

Mara huddled by the woodstove in Cort’s cabin trying to thaw her icy hands. The scent of wood smoke drifted in the air, and the snap of flames warmed her skin.

A technician had swabbed and bandaged her palms, which barely stung, and her cheek, which throbbed almost as much as her heart. Another EMT treated Cort’s knuckles but said no bones seemed broken. He’d have more scars. So would she, inside.

The duffel lay on the faded sofa, a homing beacon to everyone’s gaze. The wait for this damn emissary was taking too long. If she’d ever had a chance at a future with Cort, she’d lost it. She wanted to leave before she broke down.

Most of the FBI people had driven away, leaving only Kaplan, two other agents, and Devlin as buffers to the tension between Cort and her. The two of them gave a preliminary statement to the special agents while they waited.

Kaplan clicked off the digital recorder and folded his arms. “Ms. Marton, how did you manage to disarm Hauptman and toss the ring? Some self-defense moves?”

Mara felt her face heat. “Not exactly. I play a lot of tennis. I was hoping for a swing at the pistol but when she took out the ring, I came up with a better tactic. I threw up my arm like tossing up the ball—” she demonstrated “—and knocked the pistol loose. Then I grabbed the ring and served it into the lake. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” The agent scratched his balding pate. “You have my congratulations.”

“Thanks. I have no field operative ambitions, but after that, I think I’ll take more of the self-defense classes DSF offers.”

The laughter around the table—Cort even smiled—diffused her tension.

When it was clear no one had any more to add, the agent said, “Twyla Hauptman lost her bartending job a week ago. Boss wanted a younger, prettier face behind the bar. She could’ve fought the firing.” He continued tapping his pen on the table. “But that may have been the reason she became even more desperate for the money Rousso promised her.”

“He wouldn’t have paid either one of them a dime,” Cort said. “After killing us, he’d have shot them. No loose ends and more bottom line for Centaur.”

Mara shuddered, agreeing. “He deserves life in prison. Maybe he didn’t push Dante Falco off that balcony, but he ordered his death. And he killed Danita Inglish and that hired thug in San Francisco.”

“Rousso’s a stone killer, no question.” Kaplan barked a humorless laugh. “Rolf Radulescu—his real name—is a native Romanian. Grew up rough in the slums of Bucharest. Clawed his way out and up with various criminal enterprises. Seems he had ambitions in the Centaur hierarchy. As it is, he’ll be lucky to survive. Centaur doesn’t tolerate failure. Or betrayal. Word is he made a private deal with a West-Coast Russian Mafia boss for the crown jewels.”

“So I wasn’t far off ragging him about his Centaur boss being unhappy with his screw-ups.” Cort’s thin smile resembled Rousso’s noxious one.

The crunch of tires on gravel brought everyone’s head around. One of the FBI agents crossed to the door to admit the newcomer.

The man who walked inside was tall and movie-star handsome, dressed in a black turtleneck, pressed jeans, and a short black trench coat. The last man Mara expected to see.

André Rozmer.

So the French son of a bitch was the agent of the Gramornia prince, not that of Centaur. Bile rose in her throat as she rose to her feet. She wrapped her arms around her waist to keep inside the anger bubbling to a boil.

Like her, Cort remained at the table, his hands clenched into fists, his scowl shooting death rays at André.

André spoke quietly to the agents. He handed them a set of credentials. Then he held up a finger, asking for a moment. He approached her.

“I must apologize, Mara, for so deceiving you and your sister.” That too charming French accent now struck her as smarmy. “I attended Oxford with the new crown prince of Gramornia. From time to time, the royal family asks me to carry out little favors for them, you see. I had to know how close you were to finding the crown jewels and if you would really return them. I had no choice.” He dipped his head in a very small, very Gallic bow.

The little rush of adrenaline spurting through her had a calming effect. “You had a choice all right. You could have
chosen
to declare yourself to Cort or me. Instead you
chose
to seduce my sister. To make a fool of her before you tossed her aside like an empty wine bottle.”