But for some reason she nodded, and the approval in his eyes gave her more strength. “You first, Sister Beth, then Dylan. I’ll take up the rear, just in case they’ve sent out someone in advance.”
She looked at the narrow opening in the cabin. Beyond it she could see nothing but darkness and the strangling overgrowth of the jungle, and he expected her to take the lead. She swallowed her instinctive whimper – she could howl later. Right now she had no choice.
“Go!” he said, and she didn’t dare hesitate any longer, or she wouldn’t be able to do it at all. She dove out the window headfirst, the thick foliage cushioning her fall, and she rolled when she landed, ending up almost on her feet in the middle of a jungle so dense she felt trapped. A moment later Dylan was beside her, landing a little more clumsily, and she reached down and yanked him up while he shoved the fronds out of his mouth. They stood still and silent, waiting for MacGowan.
He didn’t come. Beth stood very still. The chill of the night was lifting, and the smothering heat of the day was moving over them with the growing sunlight. She was shivering anyway, from fear. There was no noise from the cabin, but no sign of MacGowan.
“How long do we wait?” Dylan whispered.
“As along as we have to.” Since when had she become the fearless leader? Then again, Dylan was younger than he seemed, for all his bravado, and she was, God, almost twice his age.
Had they managed to sneak up on MacGowan, slit his throat so quickly and silently that there’d been no struggle for them to overhear? Was he lying dead in a pool of his own blood, and it was a matter of moments before they were recaptured?
Or had he abandoned them, using the Guiding Light as an excuse, bringing them close enough to civilization to ensure they’d find help. But why – he wanted the money he could claim as a reward. No, the only reason he wasn’t there was because he couldn’t be.
She waited as long as she dared, and then stiffened her spine. “Let’s go,” she said finally. “MacGowan can catch up with us. He wouldn’t want us standing around like sitting ducks.”
“How can you stand like a sitting duck?” Dylan managed to reply.
“Stuff it,” she said, pleased with her gruff tone. She was channeling MacGowan, and she’d keep the two of them alive until he found them again. Because he would. They couldn’t have gotten that far only to . . .
No, she wasn’t going to think about it. Too many people she cared about had died. She couldn’t face the idea of one more. Not that she should care about MacGowan – he was alternately gruff and charming and about as sincere as an anaconda, not to mention as lethal. But he’d saved them, again and again, and he’d distracted her and made her laugh and she didn’t want him dead. Not him, too.
She pushed the heavy fronds out of her way, moving forward. The ground was too even, and she had no idea where the river was. The sun was rising to her left, which meant that was east, the direction they’d been heading as they moved down the mountain. Unfortunately that was where the cabin and the encroaching rebels were, so they’d head south, at least until the sun was high overhead and she lost all sense of direction, and . . .
He loomed up so fast it she couldn’t stifle her scream, as all she saw was a shadowy figure with the machete in his hand. She threw herself back at Dylan, flinging out her arms to protect him, and the two of them landed in a tangle on the jungle floor, Dylan using the opportunity to cop a feel as MacGowan loomed over them.
“Jesus, Sister Beth, you spook easily,” he said, pulling her up. “I had to find something to hack our way through the bushes.” He glanced down at Dylan. “You can get to your feet by yourself, boy-o.”
It was a good thing he’d diverted his attention to the kid. She would have flung herself into his arms in relief, and that would be very dangerous indeed. Not because he was wound so tight he was ready to explode, not because there was still a trace of wet blood on the machete, but because throwing herself in his arms was what she wanted to do more than anything in the world. And there was no room for that in his life or hers.
“We ready, my chickens?” he inquired in a deceptively mild voice.
“Ready,” she said, not hesitating. Exhaustion and safety were the best cures for the ridiculous feelings rushing through her. “Onward!”
His grim mouth, barely visible in the thick growth of beard, quirked in amusement. “Onward,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
Peter Madsen slammed his hand down on the ancient walnut desk, which had once graced a far nobler establishment than the covert offices of the Committee, and cursed, long and fluently. Things were getting stickier, and he was understaffed.
He’d hoped to send someone out to intercede with MacGowan and bring him back in without MacGowan feeling murderous. Rafferty was too new an operative to handle something so explosive, and he didn’t know if he could reach Taka in time. If he tried Reno, MacGowan would probably take one look at that flame-colored head and shoot first, ask questions later. The only person MacGowan would be likely to listen to was Isobel, and she was at the back end of beyond and she’d better damned well stay there. The CIA was too hungry for Thomas Killian’s blood, and they’d be alert for any sign from her.
He wasn’t particularly afraid of MacGowan – he was a hard man to kill, and he hardly considered Finn MacGowan a match in a fair fight. It depended how fair MacGowan was in the mood to be.
Isobel was already far too involved, even from her island paradise. The word from Isobel said MacGowan was out and heading toward Puerto Claro. Tomas would be there to meet him, and maybe the money would assuage some of MacGowan’s rage. But it wasn’t likely. MacGowan knew how to hold a grudge, and he’d always hated Peter, seeing him as the very essence of English power. He had no idea Peter’s bully of a policeman father had been the very epitome of working class. But it was still British class, and MacGowan held a grudge.
Not that MacGowan ever had anything to do with politics, despite his father. Doubtless the IRA had come calling, but MacGowan had turned his back on them to work for the international organization called the Committee.
Peter was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He had no choice but just to sit tight and wait until MacGowan got in touch with him. He wasn’t going to be happy at being left high and dry for all these years.
He shoved away from the desk, limping over to the row of cabinets. He had a competent young man in the outer office doing secretarial work, he had Taka O’Brien and Rafferty spearheading operations, much to Summer O’Brien’s annoyance, and Taka’s notorious cousin watching over the American branch of things. He had people he trusted, a wife he adored, two, no, make that three children if you counted Mahmoud. He shouldn’t be feeling restless.
But he was getting a very bad feeling about this, and he trusted his instincts. The CIA had been far too quiet. They were planning something, and he had no idea what, or whether it had anything to do with MacGowan.
It was probably the least of his worries. MacGowan was going to be so pissed off he’d kill him.
He poured himself a glass of single malt, the good bottle he kept for members of Parliament and very bad days, and held it up in a silent toast. “Enjoy your retirement, Isobel, you sodding bitch. And don’t you dare try to come back home.”