Of course Dylan had already deposited himself on the front seat of the SUV. MacGowan kicked him into the back, barely waited long enough for Beth to get her seat belt buckled, and then they were off, driving as fast on the almost non-existent roads as he dared, so that by the time the sun had fully risen they were miles away.
She’d taken one sip of his coffee, shuddered in horror and set it back. He could feel her eyes on him, and without turning he said, “What?”
“Your hair. Exactly what color is your hair?”
“Why the fuck do you care?” he countered. He hadn’t bothered trying to cut it, and it reached to his shoulders. He caught a piece and pulled it in front of his eyes, frowning. “It used to be brown, but I dyed it black when I came down here. What color is it now?”
“Why did you dye it?”
“None of your damned business.”
He wondered whether he’d shut her up, but after a moment she spoke again. “Well, it’s brown, I can see that. And there’s some red there too.”
“Yeah, that happens.”
“And bleached blond from the sun, and some black left from the dye, and an awful lot of white.”
“White?” he demanded, horrified. “Shit, I’m only thirty-six.”
“Three years,” she said.
“Christ.” He rubbed a hand through the long mass of hair. “I’m too fucking young.”
“How old was your father when his hair started turning gray?”
He felt the familiar coldness fill him, but he answered her question. “He died when he was younger than I am.”
A shocked intake of breath. “I’m so sorry. How did he die?”
“Starved himself to death in Maze prison as part of the hunger strikes.”
He’d managed to shock her into silence. “He was IRA?”
“Obviously,” he said flippantly. “Though not to begin with. He was put in prison for beating my mother to death, and decided to become a martyr when he realized he’d never get out. So he’s on a list of fucking heroes and I changed my name rather than live with that legacy.”
She was only silent a moment. “I think you do anyway.”
He almost drove off the road. He wanted to grab her by both arms and shake her, but he simply gripped the steering wheel so tightly he could have bent the steel, and kept driving. “Well, that’s my cross to bear, now isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Damn the woman and her utter calm. He’d wanted to shock her, and instead she’d listened with her quiet attention and refused to feel sorry for him. Which he would have hated, but her lack of pity pissed him off as well.
“So since you’re telling me this much, why don’t you tell me what you do for a living?” she said after a moment.
“I kill people.”
Again no shock. “I already noticed. What else do you do?”
His anger disappeared just as suddenly as it had come on, and he laughed. “I’m a spy, me darling. A super-secret operative who goes undercover to see what the real bad guys are doing, kills when ordered to, rescues hostages when the money’s good enough. You see, you couldn’t have come across a better man to get you away from the Guiding Light.”
“I agree. The question is, why didn’t you get away sooner? Or was that part of your undercover assignment?”
He frowned briefly. “They knew exactly who I was, and they weren’t taking any chances. I’d been sent down to take out their leader. I almost got away twice, but each time they brought me back. I have no idea why they kept me alive – as far as I know they never asked for ransom, and the Committee wouldn’t have paid any. That’s part of the deal. If things go south we’re on our own. Except that they’re supposed to make an effort to get you out, not just fucking forget about you.”
He sensed rather than saw her nod. “Well, then I just have to be glad you were still there when they brought me. Though maybe I would have been all right. After all, they could have gotten a very large ransom for me, and they would have wanted to keep me in good condition.”
He shook his head. “You would have been dead in twenty-four hours. Redbeard would have been furious, but Carlos and Izzy had plans, and I don’t think you would have survived. And if you had, you would have wished you hadn’t.”