Vincent Barringer looked at him with clear dislike. “It was never my original intention. I simply wanted Sully to take charge of you. Sooner or later Isobel Lambert would surface to make certain you didn’t terminate Peter Madsen, and Killian would come with her. I know I could convince her to hand him over rather than have you killed.”
MacGowan shrugged. “Maybe so. I never met the man. However, I know Madame Lambert quite well, and if she was capable of falling in love then she wouldn’t give up the man for all the tea in China and all the sorry-ass operatives she’d left behind. So why kill me?”
“Because you piss … you tick me off,” the man grumbled.
MacGowan reached for the sniper rifle, and Barringer did nothing to hold on to it. He knew guns, he was adept at dismantling them in the dark, by feel alone, and he did so, quickly and efficiently, feeling oddly light-hearted. This was over, not with a bang but a whimper. He wouldn’t have to kill anyone. The old man would be sent packing with his tail between his legs, Peter would make a few phone calls, and Barringer would be put out to pasture.
He was so tired of death. Tired of killing. Even more important, it would make Beth happy. He could give this life to her, like a present, see her radiant smile, the one that banished the shadows from her beautiful blue eyes. He wanted to see that smile on her bruised, gorgeous face, feel her hands on his skin, wanted to lose himself in her sweet, shy body with its fierce response. He wanted to lose himself forever, he wanted …
The old man moved so fast he didn’t have time to react. His hand was out, the gun pointing, and for a brief, motionless second MacGowan knew he was a dead man.
And then the old man’s head exploded, his arm jerked convulsively, and his corpse collapsed onto the cold ground, the stink of rapidly emptying bowels on the night air.
Peter Madsen appeared from above, looking at the dead man with indifference. His limp was more pronounced now, and it had taken him longer to skirt around to the back of the hillside to get here. A good thing.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, MacGowan?” he said. “Were you just going to sit there till he decided to kill you?”
Beth. Beth was what was wrong with him. He’d let himself get distracted, and it had almost killed him.
He wasn’t going to answer Madsen’s snarky question. “Looks like you saved my life.”
“Second time in an hour, mate.”
He wanted to tell him he wasn’t his mate. Old habits died hard. If a man who saved your life wasn’t your mate then who the hell was?
He uncoiled, rising to his full height. “What are we going to do about him?”
“Bury him, I expect. Easiest thing to do. There should be a couple of shovels in the barn.”
MacGowan rubbed the back of his neck and thought of Beth. “I don’t suppose we can
get Mahmoud and Dylan to take care of it.”
“No!”
“Dylan’s seen death before. He’s no pussy.”
“Mahmoud’s killed people before. They don’t need to be brought in. Beth will wait for you.”
It annoyed him that Madsen could see through him so easily. He nodded, stepping out of the way as Barringer’s blood pooled downhill toward him. “I’ll get the shovels.” He started down the hill, then paused and turned. “You do realize I know perfectly well whose fault it was that I was kept prisoner for three years, don’t you?”
There was a wary expression in Madsen’s eyes. The moon had come out, and he could see him quite clearly. And then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know that now. But from thousands of miles away, over the distance of years, I had no idea what you were thinking.”
“I always knew. It was my fault for getting caught, my responsibility. No one else’s. We all go into this business knowing that in the end it’s up to us and no one else. It was easier to blame you.”
Madsen grinned then. “You mean I didn’t have to save your life twice in one day? Now you tell me.”
“Wanker,” MacGowan said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Beth didn’t want to move. She lay curled up on the floor of the great room, lit only by the nearly guttered candles and the fire. She could see Mahmoud and Dylan over in the corner. Neither of them seemed particularly distressed that the cozy dinner party had been broken up by a sniper’s bullet but then, Dylan had seen a lot in his young life. If Mahmoud had seen as much then this was simply business as usual.
Would she ever learn to take it in stride? To be able to smile up at MacGowan as he took off after a gunman? She was going to have to learn.
She’d figured out something while she’d been curled up on the cold, tiled floor of the farmhouse, Finn’s touch, his kiss still lingering on her skin. She’d thought she’d stay with him as long as he’d let her. Take what she could and mourn later.
Fuck that. It was going to take dynamite to dislodge her. He might not have realized it yet, but it came to her clearly and solidly. He was hers. To keep. She wasn’t letting him go easily, not without a damned good reason. She wasn’t going to slink away when dismissed with her tail between her legs. She was going to fight for him, tooth and nail. Even if he was the one she had to fight.