Eye of the Storm (20 page)

"This time?" She slid to a stop, her eyes flashing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I let you back off last time. Disengage when it got too uncomfortable. But I'm not going to do it again. There aren't any secrets anymore, Simone. Nothing you can hide behind. It's just us, sweetheart, the good and the bad. And this time we're going to ride it through and see where the hell it takes us." He could almost feel the blood pumping through his veins, his anger rising to match hers.

"It's not just about what you want, Reece. I'm in this, too, remember?" The minute the words were out she realized what she'd said, fisting her hands in instant regret. But it was too late.

Reece smiled, the gesture tight across his face. "My point exactly. We're in this together. You accused me of thinking of our marriage as an extension of myself. Well, maybe you were right. But that's not the case anymore. My eyes are wide open now, believe me. And if you think I'm just going to stand by while you walk away, you've got another thing coming. Our past may be fucked-up. Hell, maybe if I'd known the truth I wouldn't have given myself the chance to fall in love with you. But it didn't happen that way. I did fall in love with you. And I'm pretty damn sure you were in love with me, too."

"I never said I wasn't. I only said you don't know me. D-9 is just one piece of my past, Reece. And facing the fact that I'm a trained operative isn't enough. It gets uglier. And I for one don't know that I want to go down that road again with anyone. Which means that—"

He waved a hand to cut her off. "Love is a funny thing, Simone. It's tenacious as hell. I don't know if we can find our way back together. But I do know that last night I remembered why it might be worth the effort to find out."

She stared up at him, her eyes narrowed as she considered what he'd said. Then with a sigh, she spun on her heel and headed for the car.

But not before Reece saw the flash of hope in her eyes.

*****

THE AIRSTRIP WAS really just a cleared parcel of land, a wind sock, and a long length of packed dirt. Simone wasn't certain what its original purpose had been, but clearly the place hadn't been used in a while. Weeds of almost every variety encroached on the so-called runway, giving the place a deserted, lonely feel.

But under the circumstances it was exactly what they needed. Bordered on three sides by mountains, its limited access gave them the added advantage of being able to easily watch for intruders. And more importantly, the switchback road leading to the airstrip was the kind that required someone knowing of its existence in order to find it.

If Tate hadn't been with them, she wasn't certain she would have realized the road was even there. So things were falling nicely into place. At least with regard to their attempt to get to D.C.

Her personal life, on the other hand, was about as muddled as it could possibly get. Last night with Reece had been amazing. There was simply no denying it. But in the cold, hard light of day, it was impossible not to face the fact that one night of hot sex couldn't possibly solve all their problems.

And even though he'd made it more than clear he wasn't going to let her go without some kind of a fight, she wasn't convinced that either of them was willing to go the distance it would take to repair the damage that had been done.

Damn it, she really had started letting emotions get in her way. Definitely not D-9 standard operating procedure. In fact, that sort of thinking was the kind that got a person killed.

She shook her head and got out of the car. Reece and Tate had already headed for the weathered Beechcraft at the end of the makeshift runway. Martin was gathering up his pilfered computer equipment. He'd spent the ride up reading over several documents he'd pulled off the Web, still trying to find something to tie Isabella or Carlos to members of D-9, most particularly Maurice.

"You ready?" she asked Martin as he slammed the door and slung his computer case over his shoulder.

"As I'll ever be." His response was colored by the skepticism in his voice as he eyed the plane in front of them. "You think that's big enough to get us all the way to D.C.?"

Simone shot a look in the direction of the six-seater with a laugh. "I've flown a lot farther in aircraft a lot smaller. Compared to them, this is the Ritz."

"If you say so," he said, obviously still not convinced.

She marveled at the fact that this was the first time he'd shown hesitation about anything. "Considering all that we've been through, a battered plane is the least of our worries, believe me. Besides, Tate knows what he's doing. If he arranged for this plane, then you can be certain it'll get the job done."

"All right, then." Martin grimaced. "Let's do it."

They started down the edge of the runway toward the plane. In the distance, Simone could see Tate and Reece loading their scant possessions onto the plane. The pilot had the engines started, the resulting hum saturating the air around them.

The rest of the meadow was still except for the occasional ripple of the tall grasses in the breeze. Simone followed the line of the foothills leading to the mountains, but like the meadow, everything seemed still. A stand of aspen off to the left rustled in the wind, the sound soothing in its own way.

She inhaled deeply, as if just by breathing she could clean away all the accumulated grit of urban life. Maybe someday, when this was over, she'd follow in Bea's footsteps and find a home out here. Begin again.

Even as she had the thought, she dismissed it. There was no such thing as a new beginning. If she'd learned nothing else from the lies that had brought down her marriage, it was that. Reece was right; if she was going to move forward, she first had to make peace with her past.

They were close enough now that she could see the pilot sitting in the cockpit, headphones protecting his ears from the roar of the engine. Tate had disappeared inside the plane, but Reece was still standing beside the ladder leading into the cabin. His hand shaded his eyes as he scanned the hills behind them.

She wasn't sure what alerted her first, a familiar tingling of her nerve endings or the sudden change in Reece's posture. Either way, she didn't stop to analyze, instead reaching for the Sig tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

"Run," she shouted, reaching out to give Martin a shove. He broke into a sprint, just as the ground at his feet exploded into dust, bullets cutting into the hard-packed clay of the runway.

In an attempt to draw fire away from her brother-in-law, Simone dropped to a crouch and moved away from the plane, all the while trying to find the source of the gunfire. There was a brief pause and then the shooter took the guesswork away, firing at her from the protection of the aspens.

"Simone." Reece was yelling. She could hear him even as her brain tried to sort through the best options. A couple of rusted oil drums lay about five feet to her left. Spinning again, she dove behind them, bullets slamming into the metal sending a cloud of rust into the air.

Martin had reached the plane and was clambering up the ladder, the shooter following his progress with another volley of gunfire. Reece had disappeared from view, hopefully already on board the plane.

Which meant that she was the only one left at risk.

The best possible solution was to make a run for the plane, but that meant crossing directly into the shooter's line of fire. And while the confusion of them splitting up had bought Martin the time to reach the Beechcraft safely, she wouldn't have the same advantage.

Nevertheless, she prepared for the dash, but before she could begin, the plane started to move, picking up speed as it made its way down the improvised runway. She followed its course with her eyes, working on the trajectory of distance to intersection.

Clearly, Tate had instructed the pilot to take off. The idea being that she make a run for it when the distance between her and the plane was the shortest, ideally, keeping the oil drums between her and the shooter.

The trick, of course, was going to be to board the moving plane. But she'd done it before.

A lifetime ago.

Still, there wasn't really an alternative, and so she tensed, watching the moving plane, allowing her senses to find the rhythm. Success would depend on her instincts and not her brain, so it was crucial that she release herself into the moment.

Seconds passed, and suddenly the plane was only feet from her decided trajectory. Moving into a crouch, she holstered her gun and then pushed off, running toward the plane with all the speed she could muster.

The roar of the engine covered any sound of gunfire, but she could see the tiny clouds of dust caused when a bullet sliced into the ground. Despite her brain screaming at her to run straight for the plane, she kept her pathway jagged, cutting to the right and left to keep the shooter from being able to target her. Her muscles protested the movement, but she pressed forward, knowing there wouldn't be a second chance to board.

The plane was moving fast now, the front tires already in the air. Two more seconds and it would be airborne.

She pulled parallel with the wing of the plane just as it took off. She could see Reece and Tate in the open hatch. Reece was lying on his stomach, his arms extended outside of the fuselage, something dangling from his hands. "Come on." He mouthed, his words carried away in the wash of engine noise.

She sprinted within inches of the bottom of the plane, the hatch now several yards above her head. She glanced up at Reece as he worked to release the object he held, her beleaguered mind telegraphing the image of a ladder—a rope ladder.

The fuselage ruptured in several places as bullets grazed the metal, a sure sign the killer was closing the distance. It was time. Pushing herself to the limit, she gained ground until she was parallel to the hatch, then just as the plane curved responsively away from the shooter, she dove for the trailing end of the ladder, her hands closing around the nylon rung.

Her feet cleared the ground as the plane rose. Holding tight with her left hand, she swung her right up until she grasped the next highest rang, continuing the process, alternating arms, until she actually had a foot on the bottom rung.

The plane lurched, and for a moment she thought she'd lose her precarious perch, the nylon jerking from her right hand. The rope ladder whipped back and forth, slamming her into the fuselage as she struggled to regain her hold.

In a shift of momentum, the ladder swung back out, her body weight snapping the rope, her left foot sliding off the rung, swinging free. The ground was falling away at an alarming rate, assuring her that if she fell now, she wouldn't be able to walk away from it. Which left only one alternative. Sucking in a breath, she concentrated on the rung above her, and through sheer force of will, threw her right arm upward.

There was no resulting contact with the ladder, but just as she started to swing out again, she felt fingers closing around her wrist.

Reece
.

Seconds later, he had her left wrist as well, and inch by inch he began to pull her upward. Abandoning the ladder, she used her feet against the body of the plane to help him, the wind still threatening to jerk her away.

She looked up, her eyes locking with his, concentrating on each movement. One foot and then another, and then she was there, halfway into the plane. With one last jerk, he pulled her all the way inside, their bodies tangling together as they fell against the floor of the plane.

"Didn't think you were going to get away that easily, did you?" Reece's breath was warm against her temple.

"Just at the moment, getting away wasn't exactly what I had in mind." She waited a beat, then rolled off him, feigning indifference, knowing full well that in all probability she'd just tossed a bloody steak to a starving tiger.

THE NIGHT SEEMED abnormally still. As if it were waiting for something. Isabella stood on the balcony of her room, looking out at the empty street below. Even the usually steady stream of traffic had abated. Nothing moved, not even the languid air. She shivered and fingered the crucifix at her throat.

She had learned long ago not to ignore her premonitions. Something would happen. Something tonight.

She walked into her room, turning back to grasp the shutters and pull them toward her, effectively sealing her room. It was an old habit, born of a lesson learned too late. But the presence of the heavy wood always made her feel safer somehow.

Her nightgown was made of the finest cotton. More threads than an Egyptian could count. And yet inside she was still the daughter of a peasant. A man of the people. A man who had been murdered for daring to dream.

She picked up a Baccarat bottle from her dressing table, pulling the cork, inhaling the soothing smell of perfume. It was her favorite. An expensive blend of vanilla and honeysuckle. Available only from a small perfumery in Paris. Her father had given it to her on her ninth birthday. Her mother had said it was too sophisticated a gift for a girl her age. But Isabella had loved it. Loved the way it made her feel. And she had never again worn anything else.

Her hand tightened on the bottle as thoughts of her father flooded through her. Memories of his face, his voice, his laughter. Isolated moments that, added together, created the man he had been. The man she would never forget.

Anger, hot and heavy, flooded through her, and she threw the bottle against the wall, the delicate crystal shattering on impact. The smell of honeysuckle filled the air as she knelt to try and reclaim the pieces, to make them whole again. But like her father, the bottle was gone, the scent already evaporating in the still night air.

She swallowed her pain and sat on the edge of her bed, reaching for the phone, her thoughts turning to her brother. She stared at the receiver, willing him to call, but the machine was silent, mocking her.

Manuel had been watching her day and night, his suspicions growing with every passing hour. She knew his men would be looking for Carlos, too, and that if they found him, they would kill him.

She sent a silent prayer heavenward, praying for her brother's safety, praying for a way out. Vengeance was within their grasp; surely fate would not be so cruel as to take it away. She dropped the phone on the bed, standing instead to pace back and forth across the room, her agitation built on a combination of fear and worry.

Ramón had been right. The house of cards she had so delicately constructed would not bear the weight should proof of Carlos's guilt be found. She bent to retrieve a sliver of the broken decanter, the edge sharp against her finger, wishing her father were here to advise her.

A soft knock at the door sent her pulse pounding, her ruminations igniting her fear.

"Who is it?" The question came out more sharply than intended, but at this hour it was not normal for someone to knock. The door opened, and she cursed the fact that she hadn't thought to bolt it.

Antonio Montoya entered, a finger to his lips. "Say nothing more." His whisper sent shivers running along her spine. Like Ramón, Antonio had worked for her father. His loyalty to the family absolute. Now he served as a palace guard, his connection to Isabella kept secret. "There are ears everywhere."

She moved to the portable player that served as her stereo. Pressing a button, the mellow sound of Frank Sinatra filled the air. Her father's favorite.

Antonio nodded his approval and moved closer, his gaze darting around the room, searching for anything out of place.

"Where is Ramón?" It was unlike him to have sent Antonio in his stead. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine. He has gone ahead to make arrangements."

"Arrangements?" Her fear blossomed to dread. "Is Carlos all right?"

"You misunderstand, it is not your brother who is in danger. It is you."

"Manuel." In one word she personified all of her fears.

Antonio nodded. "He has decided your presence here is a liability. Things have not gone well with the Americans."

"They know about my visit with Baxter?"

"They have not admitted as much, but they are nosing about. Asking questions that Ortega cannot answer. The trade negotiations have broken down. Ostensibly because the Americans do not trust him."

"A wise decision."

"Yes. But now he must find a way to turn the distrust elsewhere."

"To me." She saw the truth of it there in Antonio's eyes.

"
Si
. You are the one who will take the blame. He has told his advisors of your meeting, playing it as a betrayal of him and of the country."

"And they believe this?" There were many in the government who still followed her father in their hearts.

"It doesn't matter what they believe. They value their lives and their welfare more. You are nothing to them,
carita
. Especially if you threaten their well-padded lives."

"So they'll just stand by and let him kill me?" The silence hung heavy between them, her words taking on a life of their own.

"If it solves their problems."

She swallowed, squaring her shoulders. This sort of thing had always been a risk, but now that she was facing it, she found the prospect more daunting. "I take it there isn't much time."

Antonio shook his head. "We must get you out of here tonight. Ramón has made arrangements for you to be transported to
El Ojo de la Tormenta
. You will be safe there."

"And if Manuel follows me? We cannot risk another war." Shades of Sangre de Cristo filled her mind, sending shivers racing down her spine. She would not subject her people to such torture again. Not even to save her own life.

"We'll see that he doesn't. We are working now to create misinformation that will lead the Americans away from you and your brother once it goes public. Then when the pressure is off and the interest in Baxter's death dies down, I believe you will no longer be a target. But it is important, Isabella, that you tell me where Carlos is."

"I don't know." In actuality she had no idea. At least not for certain. And even if she did know, she would never give Carlos away. Not even to Antonio.

"Sometimes it is most difficult to do what is right." Antonio took her hands, his dark eyes knowing.

"I don't know where he has gone. I swear it."

He searched her face. "And the American? Did your brother kill him?"

"I don't know." She didn't, not definitively.

"Very well." Antonio dropped her hands, a shadow crossing his face. "But if you think of something. Anything he said that would lead us to him. Or if you talk to him again..."

"If he calls me, I promise I will let you know." Someone rapped again on the door, this time with force, no question of secrecy.

"Come. We must go," Antonio whispered, drawing his gun.

He pushed her toward the window. The knock sounded again as he opened the shutters and shoved her out on the balcony, pulling them closed again as he followed her.

Peering through a crack, he watched whoever it was entering the room, tension radiating from his shoulders. Isabella looked at the ground below her, trying to figure out how she was going to manage the drop in her nightgown.

"It's all right." Antonio said, his breath coming on a sigh. "It's only Ortiz."

Ortiz had been with her family for almost as many years as Antonio and Ramón. It seemed she was surrounded by old men. "He is alone?"

"
Si
" Antonio pushed the shutters open and stepped into the room.

"They are just behind me," the other man said. "We must move quickly."

"Is there time to change?" Isabella asked, glancing down at her nightgown.

In answer Ortiz shook his head and drew his gun. "It may already be too late. Use the balcony. I'll cover you as long as I can."

There was a finality in his words that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with her father.

"Someday you will command that kind of loyalty," Antonio whispered, reading her thoughts. "But to do that you must stay alive." He grabbed her arm and pushed her in front of him out to the balcony again. "There is a boat waiting. At the private jetty. Ramón will be there. But you heard Ortiz, we have to hurry."

She nodded, reaching down to pull the back of her gown through her legs, tucking the hem into the elastic of her panties. "I'm ready."

Antonio indicated a rose-filled trellis, snaking up the wall beside the balcony. "It won't hold your weight forever, but it will give you a chance to get closer to the ground."

"You are not coming?"

"I'll be right behind you." He flashed her a smile, and then helped her over the railing.

The trellis groaned under her weight, and she worried that it would not hold Antonio at all. But then there was no time for worry as shots rang out above her. Mindless of the thorns, she slid down the trellis, taking large chunks of the roses with her. The trellis groaned again, and she heard it crack.

Below her the ground was only feet away. And with a whispered prayer, she released the trellis. Seconds later she crashed into the ground, pain shooting through her hip as she landed.

Taking precious seconds to assess the damage, she realized she was essentially unhurt and jumped to her feet, already looking upward for Antonio.

She could see him silhouetted against the light from the open doors. One minute he was standing there and the next he was falling, arms and legs waving in the air like a cartoon she'd seen once as a child.

Frozen, she watched as he slammed into the concrete. Blood trickled from his mouth and ears, his legs bent at impossible angles.

She knelt beside him, aware that there were more figures on the balcony now.

"Go." The word was barely a whisper, Antonio's eyelids fluttering with the effort to speak. "Go,
carita
. Go." Life fled from his body as if ordered by his words, and Isabella choked on her tears.

Then, jumping again to her feet, she ran.

*****

VIRGINIA WAS uncharacteristically hot, the heat coming off the tarmac in waves as they stepped off the airplane. The landing strip wasn't much more advanced than the one in Montana, this one little more than a strip of asphalt in a field surrounded by a small forest of trees. Unlike its predecessor, however, it had no welcoming committee, and no shots were fired as they cautiously descended from the plane. Even though he hadn't really expected the gunman to find them again this quickly, Reece was relieved at the silence that greeted them, the only sound the cicadas singing in the trees.

The flight had been long and cramped. Simone hadn't said much of anything to anyone. Which he supposed beat the hell out of her singling him out for the silent treatment. Martin had slept almost the entire way. Which in and of itself was a concern. His wound seemed to be healing nicely, but his color still wasn't good. And if Reece were honest, he'd have to admit he was worried about his brother.

Still, there wasn't an option to leave him behind. The only place he could be certain he was safe was here with him. Anywhere else and he was a sitting target for whoever was hunting them. A surefire way to get Simone's attention. It was a rock and a hard place, but Reece couldn't see any way around it.

He could only hope that the arrival of Simone's Marguerite would mean that they would no longer have to handle things on their own, the additional manpower buying some time for Martin to rest.

Tate walked beside him, scanning the tree line. Like Reece, he had his gun ready. But except for a few birds adding their melody to the insect chorus, the clearing was quiet. Albert, the pilot, was staying with the plane. He'd wait until they were safely away, then move to another airport for refueling and the flight back to Montana.

According to Tate, the man was a consultant of sorts, flying for the CIA when requested, operating a commuter service the rest of the time. Tate swore he was trustworthy, but Reece wasn't completely convinced.

"Does Albert know why we're here?"

"No." Tate shook his head, his eyes still on the forest surrounding them. "I only told him we needed a ride."

"But he's bound to have questions. If nothing else, someone shot up his plane."

"It's not like it's the first time." Tate smiled, the humor not quite reaching his eyes.

"So he's not going to tell anyone?" He was being repetitive, but he wasn't even certain that he trusted Tate, let alone a complete stranger.

"He'll hold his tongue. Memories are long in this business. And traitors don't survive."

"Unless they're very good at what they do."

Tate shot him a sideways look, his expression inscrutable.

"If Tate says we can trust Albert, we can." Simone walked up beside them. "Besides we're a bit past the point of worrying about it, don't you think?" It was clear that she was talking about more than simply the pilot, but he let it pass, instead concentrating on his brother, who was just behind them.