She wasn’t going to say anything else, he knew it. He’d offended her, pissed her off, hurt her fucking feelings, and she was going to retreat into a huffy silence. He leaned forward to switch on the radio when he heard her voice, so soft he couldn’t believe what she was saying.
“What?”
“I said thank you.” Her voice was still low. “Thank you for saving my life, again and again. Thank you for killing for me. I’m just sorry I made it necessary.”
He took a deep breath. “It had nothing to do with you. Anyone who’s dead because of me had it coming a long time over. I don’t feel guilty and neither should you.” Each man’s death diminishes me, he thought, cursing his memory for useless poetry. He did what he had to do. He needed to remember that.
“Are we going to get there soon?”
MacGowan glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “No. I figure another five hours, maybe a little more.”
“But you’ve been driving for hours already.”
“Don’t worry – I don’t need much sleep.”
“Do you want me to drive?”
This time his laugh was genuine. “I don’t think so. There are some twisty mountain roads up ahead, not to mention the fact that I have control issues. I don’t like being a passenger. People in my life have to learn to get used to it.” Now why the hell had he said that? What business was it of hers? It wasn’t as if he was wanting her to be part of his life.
She said nothing for a moment. “I think there’s another can of Red Bull back here if you need it.”
“Hell, no.” He was about to say he was shaky enough from all the ones he’d been drinking, but thought better of it. She didn’t need more to worry about.
The night was dark and still as the Audi shot through the countryside, and he stared at the winding road ahead of him. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. Hell, he wanted to tell her she was best lay of his life, but he didn’t think that would go over too well.
“What’s funny?”
He must have laughed out loud. “Me,” he said. “And you. Go back to sleep, baby.” The endearment slipped out, an accident, but there was nothing else he could say.
He heard her sigh. “Okay.”
Yeah, now she decided to be obedient, he thought grimly, as he heard her slide down on the leather seat. He could picture her, her long legs curled up, her hands tucked under her chin. He’d watched over her often enough to know that’s how she slept. Not just the night he spent in her bed, but all the other nights, climbing down that fucking mountain, ducking the Guiding Light and anyone else who seemed to want to take a shot at him.
At least they were out of reach of La Luz. They were too badly funded to have overseas operations, and the entire revolucion was falling apart.
The CIA, however, was a different matter, and they seemed to want his ass something fierce.
He just needed a few days’ respite at the farmhouse, to figure out exactly how he was going to deal with Vincent Barringer and his crazy-ass scheme, and how the hell he was going to kill him.
But first, whenever the hell they got there, he was going to rest. And not have to kill anyone at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Vincent Barringer enjoyed the comforts that money brought him, without a trace of guilt from his Puritan ancestry. After all, he worked hard in the service of his country, he’d devoted his entire life to his work, eschewing the distractions of family and friends. He deserved every penny he had amassed over the years.
He wasn’t enjoying flying first class. After years of hitching a ride on military jets, the almost lavish comforts of first class travel seemed almost obscenely indulgent, and he had to remind himself that he more than earned it.
He still couldn’t believe that the Gargonne brothers had failed. They were notoriously brutal, with a higher kill-rate than anyone else in Europe, with the possible exception of the Committee under Harry Thomason’s heyday. The Committee had never had to deal with Congressional oversight and budget cuts. Barringer could pride himself on the spectacular success of his sub-branch, given his handicaps. It was a legacy to be proud of. Too bad that legacy was buried in secrecy. Few people would know the hard decisions Vincent Barringer had made for the good of the Western World.
He folded the damask napkin, having made an excellent dinner of braised lamb and tiny peas. He’d refused the wine, of course. He never touched spirits – too many mistakes were made under the influence of alcohol. They would arrive at DeGaulle airport in another three hours, and he planned to sleep until then. He had enough of delegating the business of MacGowan. If he wanted the job done right he’d do it himself.
In fact, he’d lost his patience. It was a rare thing. He was used to unexpected glitches getting in the way of his plans, but he was steady, determined, and in the end had always triumphed. But the house on Chesapeake Bay was calling to him, and by now he no longer cared about getting Thomas Killian back. Finn MacGowan had become the enemy, with his cocky disregard of anything Barringer had sent his way. He wanted MacGowan dead, even if it put paid to the idea of finally returning Killian. It had become an obsession.
LeFevre would meet him at the airport, with a comfortable car and the weapons he’d requested. Once, long ago Barringer had been a sniper, one of the best in the business. He’d always been vigilant about keeping his skills, and he had no doubt he’d be able to blow MacGowan’s head apart from a distance of fifteen hundred feet if necessary. It was unfortunate that he needed to take out his companions as well, bu
t the Pennington woman and the movie star’s son had been on borrowed time the moment they set foot in South America.
He would get the job done and be back in Washington in forty-eight hours. And that very day he would announce his retirement. Enough was enough.