He would send Sully, he decided. Sully was a crack shot, perhaps better than Killian in his prime. Once MacGowan made it down out of the mountains, Sully would find him, snatch him, and wait for Isobel Lambert to emerge to set the cat among the pigeons. And she wouldn’t come alone.
In retrospect he might have let the Committee know that MacGowan was a hostage, but he didn’t trust them. Peter Madsen, who’d taken over when Thomason had died in a so-called explosion and Lambert had disappeared, was too efficient, and he would have extracted MacGowan without Lambert ever knowing.
No, this was better. Enough people in the intelligence community had heard about it that he knew the word would get to Lambert. And he had complete faith in Sully. If MacGowan proved too hard to kidnap he could always cancel him. Lambert didn’t need to actually find MacGowan, she just had to believe that he was heading for Madsen. Killing him might even be easier. He would trust Sully.
Maybe he’d buy himself a sports car for his retirement. Drive fast, with the top down, except that his very expensive, undetectable hairpiece would probably get blown to heck and gone.
No, he was better with a solid American car, something large and comfortable but not too ostentatious. Too bad they didn’t make Oldsmobiles any more.
MacGowan really was a bastard and a half, Beth thought as she half-climbed, half-slid down the narrow trail after him. If she were feeling fair she wouldn’t blame him – by the looks of him he’d been held for a long time, and it was little wonder he was lacking compassion, sensitivity, or even manners. He was getting her out of there; that was all that mattered. Reluctantly, on his part, but he knew she was worth hundreds of millions of dollars at last count. He’d be well-paid for his efforts.
She hadn’t had a really good look at him. She knew he was tall, thin almost to the point of gaunt, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was weak. She’d felt the strength in the hard hands that had clamped around her arms. They’d probably added to the panoply of bruises on her tanned skin. He was nothing but hair and dirt and rags, and she found herself wondering what he looked like under those layers of grime. Ugly as sin and twice as mean, most likely. It wasn’t her concern. So she was feeling grateful, pathetically so. It was only logical. He was getting her out of here. No wonder she wanted to see him as heroic.
They walked on in silence. Her feet were sopping wet, she felt as if she’d been walking for days, her stomach was so damned empty it hurt, and she was frightened. It was taking everything she had to keep from panicking, and her reserves were running low. She would have given everything she had just to be able to curl up in a corner and rest, pull together the tattered remnants of her courage. But she had no choice. She would follow him, silent and uncomplaining. Anything else meant degradation and probably death.
She’d understood more than he thought. It hadn’t taken a linguistic expert to know what Carlos had in store for her, and the other scrawny rat had looked just as dangerous. He was right about the blonde hair, of course. The children she taught had loved it, loved to touch it and stroke it. She had very pale hair, thanks to her part-Scandinavian heritage, and it stood out. She should have dyed it brown before she got here.
She stumbled, going down on one knee, and she felt her pants rip. Her unwilling rescuer didn’t stop, didn’t even slow, and she scrambled to her feet, hurrying after him, keeping her curse between her teeth. She was at war with her own stamina, and she was at the losing end. If she fell and couldn’t get up, if he decided to abandon her to the Guiding Light again, she might just ask him to kill her instead. She was sure he could, quite easily, with those strong hands of his. It wasn’t a case of death before dishonor. It was more a question of death before rape, torture, and death. Might as well skip the uglier parts and get straight to the pay-off.
She wanted to laugh at her thoughts, but try as she might she couldn’t find the humor in her melodramatic musings. Because they weren’t actually melodramatic – they were based in fact.
She slammed into him again, unaware that he’d stopped. “Christ, woman,” he muttered. “Must you always fling yourself at me?” It wasn’t even a whisper beneath his breath.
“As long as you keep stopping without any warning,” she said back, not quite as soft as his but close. “You could . . .” The words were cut off, as he moved, fast as the strike of a snake, yanking her against him and slamming a hand over her mouth.
“Make a sound and I’ll snap your neck,” he breathed against her ear.
Well, that answered that question, she thought. He could easily kill her by hand. She stayed absolutely still and silent against his strong, bony body, waiting, though she wasn’t sure for what.
Two figures loomed up out of the inky darkness, and she felt a panicked scream bubble up. If she tried he’d kill her – better than having him hand her over to Carlos and the other one.
He must have felt her sudden panic, because his arms tightened for an uncomfortable moment. “You made it,” he said, and she realized he was talking to the newcomers. Newcomers who, as they approached, were definitely not the two feral kids.
Relief hit so hard she sagged against him, and he held her for only the briefest of moments before he released her. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he grumbled.
She almost fell again, but she managed to keep to her feet by sheer willpower. “I thought you were handing me back to Carlos and his new friend.”
He only grunted – such a charming companion, she thought. She was almost light-headed with relief as she looked at the two men - one middle-aged, the other a kid not much older than Carlos.
“Who the hell is she?” the older man demanded in a German accent. “We’re paying you to get us out of here. She’ll slow us down.”
She felt MacGowan’s eyes on her. “If she does we ditch her,” he said. “Miss Beth Pennington, this is Hans Froelich, who works for Deutschland Oil, and the brat there is Dylan Hamilton. He says his father is a movie star, and the two of them combined have mo
re money than God. As do you. I figure I get at least one of you down, I’m due a tidy sum. If I get all three of you down I’m set for life.”
A mercenary, she thought, vaguely disappointed. She kept trying to turn him into a hero. It was no wonder – she was counting on him to save her life.
“Nice piece of tail,” the teenager said. “You feel like sharing?”
“I’ll let you know,” MacGowan said, faint amusement in his voice. “In the meantime, keep your mouths shut and follow me. I want to get as far away as we can by first light.”
“Where are we going, exactly?” the German demanded, still eyeing her uneasily.
“If I told you it wouldn’t mean anything, exactly,” he mimicked. “And Junior, keep your hormones to yourself. She’s tougher than she looks, and she’s had enough of horny teenagers to last her.”
“Dude!” the kid protested, but a sharp gesture shut him off.
“Okay, darlin’,” he said. “You follow me, then Froelich, then Junior. I figure he’s not worth as much as the rest of you, and if his father has any sense he wouldn’t pay a dime to get him back, so he’s expendable.”