“What is it?” she asked. Her eyes carried worry for him, and for them.
“Marina. She is here.”
“Marina? Here? George and Bran … but I thought—”
Roman pulled away. “They are not with her. She is with a man, an agent of sorts—perhaps the CIA, perhaps the FBI, perhaps her lover. I will find out.” He stalked across the room, feeling Nora’s concerned gaze upon him; but she would not move to touch him again until he signaled he wanted her. She had learned that too.
Roman passed a hand over his scalp, back over the base of his skull, and massaged the back of his neck. The tension there had tightened across his shoulders, pulling them taut and leaving a pounding between his scapulas. “They found us somehow, and now everything is in jeopardy. I expect Varden back any day, any moment now. As soon as he returns, make sure I speak to him. We’re going to have to move more quickly—shift the Phase Two date to Friday.”
“Three days from now?” Nora caught herself as Roman turned to look at her. He watched her face as she calculated silently, waiting for her confirmation.
He didn’t care if it was possible; she’d find a way to do it. He could always count on her not wanting to disappoint him.
“But we’ll need to—Roman, the explosives aren’t completely ready. We only have two of them. And the detonators—”
“You’ll have to get them done, Nora. We have to. This is our time; our chance. I know you can manage it. You’ve never failed me before.” He moved across the room and took her hand to draw her to her feet. Pulling her close, he rested his cheek on the top of her head and inhaled her scent. Comfort, steadiness, sexuality … .all rolled into one piece.
One thing he was sure of, would always be sure of, was Nora. She loved him.
Roman shoved her toward the table and she fell forward onto its smooth glass with a loud slap of her hands. Bent at the waist, she steadied herself with her palms on the surface, elbows bent at her hips, feet flat on the floor as he came up behind her and shoved himself inside.
A sigh of relief escaped them both; a groan of contentment that dissolved into pants and gasps and the slap of flesh against flesh.
Roman allowed her to finish before he did, but just barely. He was not in an overly generous mood. A squeak of pain told him the edge of the table had cut into her thighs, but that was but a vague recognition in the midst of his mindlessness. He slumped over her from behind, covering her, trapping her, breathing heavily, and feeling as though he’d emptied himself of more than just his seed.
Nora would take whatever he gave her and make it work.
That was what she did.
Gabe swam to consciousness.
He didn’t want to; but a gush of cold liquid and a brilliant white light forced him into reality. It took him longer than it should have to remember where he was and what had happened.
Where was Marina?
He didn’t waste energy completing the thought; he had to focus on his environment.
A tall, bald man stood in front of him; the one who’d interrupted their interaction with the old man. There was no one else in the room; but the man didn’t appear to be concerned about facing Gabe on his own. They were about the same height; but Gabe, younger, he guessed vaguely, by at least two decades, had more bulk than the other.
Still, the added strength wouldn’t help him, as his wrists and ankles had been immobilized.
The man looked familiar.
“So glad you have awakened,” he said to him, forcing Gabe to sit up on the long, flat surface he’d been sprawled upon. “I am Roman. I’ll be your … host.”
“Why am I restrained?”
“A better question is … why are you here? How did you get here and who sent you?”
Gabe knew that his current discomfort was just beginning. He willed himself to calm, to grow cold … .to turn off his neurons and go blank and numb.
“Ah. I see that you understand me.” Roman smiled and he looked, for a moment, rather handsome, benign. Almost kind.
Then the pain struck, suddenly, from nowhere. Gabe snatched in his breath and closed his eyes against the lightning pain. It shot down his left arm, culminating somehow in the curl of his palm.
It stopped.
“Perhaps if I am a bit more persuasive you’ll be more forthcoming.”
Not bloody likely.
“Where am I?” Gabe forced his mouth to move and the words to come out clearly and smoothly.
The man moved, and the pain zinged suddenly—this time from beneath his left ear. Roman moved back and watched as Gabe pulled in a deep breath of relief. “Who sent you?”
“No one.” He drew in a wavering gulp of air, dragged it in and felt the oxygen flow through him. Soothing. He relaxed his fingers from where they dug into his palms. “We found a cave and walked in. There was a vehicle. We got in and came here.”
That was the truth, for the most part; but Gabe wasn’t confident Roman would buy it.
Indeed, when he pressed his handsome face near his, Gabe felt the disdain emanating from him like a palpable wave. “Why did she bring you?”
Unexpected and absurd. Gabe jerked, and then spasmed again, harder, as the pain shocked him at the base of his neck. He couldn’t suppress a cry of pain, but stifled it as quickly as he could find the ability to take a breath.
Focus. Focus.
The room swam before him and still the pain beaded through him in little shockwaves.
“Accident.” Gabe heard a voice groan, pitifully. It was his own.
The pain stopped. “We’ll see if that’s true. The rest of your tale leaves much to be desired.”
Gasping for air, reeling it in, he blinked rapidly as a drip of perspiration trickled onto his eyelid. “What do you want.” He couldn’t make it a question; it was all he could do to get the words out; to make his mouth and tongue move.
Good God.
What would they do to Marina? She was a civilian. She wasn’t prepared for anything like this.
Focus. Draw in a breath. Let it out. Draw it in. Let it out.
“I want … .” Roman stood upright, suddenly, away from Gabe. Something long, thin, and silver flashed in his hand. “I want revenge. I want … to be heard. I want … to be accepted.” An odd, quicksilver grin slashed across his angular face. “Very simple. Not so much to ask.”
Gabe’s mind swam. He wanted to ask another question; he wanted to feed an ego that he realized was starved. But his mouth wouldn’t move. The ache in his bad leg screamed. And the points on his arm, and shoulder, and neck pinged with sharp pains, over and over. He couldn’t focus on anything but the pain.
“What … why … ?” was all he managed.
“Because I can.” Roman, laughing, was the last thing he remembered before sliding into darkness. “Gaia wills it.”
-33-
July 11, 2007
The Western Coast of Ireland
The ocean surged onto the pristine beach, washing over Junie’s bare feet. Cold, but refreshing, and much more comfortable in this small dose than when she’d been hip-deep in it after the sun went down.
Incredible that just over a week ago, this same gold-sanded stretch had been black with oil.
Her short, cropped hair, the same color, almost, as that poisonous liquid, buffeted around her face, leaving her ears uncovered in the brisk wind. She stared out over the grey-blue water as she pulled up her hood.
If she hadn’t been here, wearing gloves slicked with residue, sudsing a sea bird in hopes of saving another fragile life, she would never have believed it. A tier three oil spill, suddenly gone, evaporated within hours.
And her own illness.
According to the medical professionals, she’d been very ill, unconscious most of three days, and then she’d suddenly recovered. From what, they didn’t know. They’d been unable to provide a diagnosis.
And then there was the faintest memory of a dream … of a green-eyed man, who’d come to her in the hospital.
Junie shivered, but not because the wind from the ocean was cold.
Suddenly she became aware that she wasn’t alone on this lonely stretch of beach, this three-kilometer run of sand studded by harsh grey boulders, and edged with foaming sea.
A man walked toward her. He was dressed inappropriately for beach combing in a dark business suit. His shirt beamed a pristine white, topped by a dark jacket, a long black duster, and dark pants. A matching dark tie striped the shirt, bisecting the white with its mark. His hair, nipped short, along with the neat beard and moustache, was as black as her own; but his skin was several shades darker than her ivory complexion.
“Hello.” He greeted her with a short bow, then thrust his hands into his pockets, winging the open edges of the duster behind them. “A bit chilly here today.” Though his English was excellent, she heard the accent that told her he wasn’t a native speaker.
“Yes, indeed.” Though they were alone, she felt no sense of alarm; no instinctive heightening of the senses. “Though not so cold as it was during the evening hours last week, when I was trudging through that water.”
The polite expression on his face morphed into one of interest. “You were here? Did you see the oil spill?”
“I was one of the people using liquid dish detergent to wash the gulls,” she told him. “It’s amazing that it suddenly … dried up.”
The man nodded. “I find it hard to believe myself. Oil just doesn’t dry up.”
“It never has in my experience. And I’ve worked on three other spills.” Sensing that his interest hadn’t waned, she added, “I’m a zoologist and when something like this happens … well, I have to be here. It was very strange. I was working with the others all day, and into the night—well past midnight—and then we went to bed. But I couldn’t sleep, and I came down here by myself … .and the oil was gone. And then … and then I became ill.”
“You’re the one, then. How fortunate that I should meet you here. My name is Inspector Hamid al-Jubeir,” he explained, and thrust out his hand. “I’m investigating the murder of the man who owned the ship that spilled, and the company that produced and sold the oil.”