Out of the Shadows (Tangled Ivy #3) (19 page)

I froze, my breath caught in my lungs, staring at the muzzle. But to my amazement, he didn’t fire. He smiled in a slow, sneering way that made my skin crawl. He said something to me, but I’d only had freshman Spanish in Kansas, so it was completely lost on me. I could gather the meaning, though.

He saw the hammer I held and laughed outright.

I knew with a sick feeling in my stomach that he wouldn’t be standing there if Devon had anything to say about it. I prayed my husband was only hurt and not dead. I couldn’t think about that right now, though, because this guy was walking toward me, and whatever he had on his mind, I didn’t want to have any part of.

My hand gripped the hammer. It was all I had. And by God I’d go down swinging.

I backed up as he approached, until I hit the wall. He laughed again, sure I was cornered. I waited until he was close enough that I could smell the sourness of his breath.

He reached for my hand holding the hammer, which I’d hoped he’d do. It distracted him from my other hand, which held the pair of scissors Devon had used to cut the duct tape. Gripping them tight, I struck, not stabbing overhead, which would only cause the point to hit his breastbone. No, instead I went down low on his side, aiming upward.

I wasn’t prepared for what it felt like to actually stab someone. The resistance of the flesh and muscle made me falter, a mistake as it turned out. Only about an inch of the scissors made it in, which basically just served to piss him off.

He jerked around, cursing, his automatic response was to backhand me. My teeth rattled at the force of the hit and I slumped to the side. It hurt. It hurt a lot. And it made me angry. I channeled that rage and when he grabbed my hair and yanked me back, I came up swinging.

The heavy steel head of the hammer caught him right underneath the jaw with a sickening crack of bone breaking. Blood flowed from his mouth as he fell backward, his eyes wide in shock and pain.

Fury propelled me forward, hammer in both hands as he tried to get his rifle up. But we were too close for him to get a good angle and I swung again, using both hands. My teeth were gritted in a grimace of rage, and I felt an unholy satisfaction as the head of the hammer caught him at the side of the head.

He went down, and then I was on top of him, hitting him again and again, barely aware of what I was doing. He’d hurt Devon, I was sure of it, maybe even killed him. And he’d been going to hurt me, too, the same way I’d been hurt too many times before.

The hammer grew too slippery to hold and I dropped it before I realized blood covered the handle. His blood. I stared, aghast at what I’d done. He was dead. Very dead. I began to shake, but I didn’t have time to fall apart.

How many of them were there still? How many of us were still standing?

Swallowing down my nausea, I leaned down and took his rifle. I didn’t know anything about how to fire a rifle like that, and I prayed it was as easy as point and shoot.

The door was closed and it was quiet outside. I went to open it carefully, not flinging it open but just easing it a scant few inches.

The dead men from Devon’s jury-rigged bomb were still on deck, as was one of the CIA crewmen. I hurried over to him, crouching down and praying he was all right. But to my dismay, he’d been shot in the head. His eyes stared sightlessly at me and the back of his head was gone.

I couldn’t keep the nausea down and crawled to the railing, vomiting over the side into the ocean. All I could picture was Devon’s face with sightless eyes. I didn’t know if I’d find that or not if I kept looking, but I had no choice.

I’d just stood up when a noise made me turn. Devon stood a few yards away, having come around the gatehouse.

My relief was so overwhelming, I felt like I’d be sick all over again. Scrambling to my feet, I ran to him, throwing myself in his arms. He held me tight.

“Oh God, I thought you were dead,” I managed to get out.

“Not today,” Devon said, and I could hear pain in his voice. Hurriedly, I stepped back, my gaze surveying him for injuries.

“What’s wrong? Did they shoot you?” I asked.

“It degenerated into a brawl,” he said. “Think they broke a couple of ribs, dislocated a finger. But they’re gone now.”

I was relieved to hear he hadn’t been shot, breathing out a sigh. “What about the others?”

“Only one casualty,” he said, indicating the man on deck. “Though Alexa’s been injured.”

“What happened? Is she all right?”

“One of them had a knife, which she ended up using on him, but not before he sliced her. Beau is taking care of her now.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, his expression turning anxious. “What happened to you? Why is there blood all over you? Are you hurt? Did someone get in? I left no one up here, or so I thought.”

“A guy came in, but I took care of him,” I said. “It’s his blood. Not mine.”

“His blood.” Devon looked pained. “Darling, I didn’t leave you with a weapon.”

“I found a hammer.”

I swear Devon grew pale.

“I left you alone and you had to defend yourself with a hammer,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m the worst fucking husband on the planet.”

“Stop,” I said. “It’s not your fault. You defended us, didn’t you? They’re gone. I’m fine. I did what I had to do.”

He shook his head slightly, staring at me in something close to stunned disbelief. “You’re amazing,” he said. “And calm.”

I didn’t know how calm I was, not on the inside, though maybe outwardly I seemed that way. I was reminded of when I was a kid.
How do you keep going after a traumatic event?
The answer was: You just did. You do what you have to do . . . and that’s what I’d done, before, during, and after the man had attacked me.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Devon said.

He took me back inside to what I called the bathroom and he called “the head,” assiduously washing my hands, then taking a cloth and wiping splatters from my arms and face. I tried not to think of how all that blood had gotten there. We’d skirted the body coming in, Devon taking a long look while I averted my gaze.

“Wait outside,” Devon said. “I’m going to run up and see the captain.”

He waited until I was out the door before climbing the short set of stairs to the top. I gazed off into the blackness that was the ocean at night, listening to the sound of the engine and waves. I didn’t look at the body of the crewman. I couldn’t. Tonight had turned into a nightmare.

The boats were long gone, thank God. As I was waiting, Beau and Alexa came around the corner. The other crewman was walking behind them. He stopped when he saw his partner’s body on the deck, but I couldn’t tell what he thought by looking at his face, which remained blank.

“How are you?” I asked Alexa.

Her face was creased in a grimace and white with pain. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” Beau said. “You need stitches.”

“I’m not going to bleed to death,” she retorted. “Stitches are to prevent scarring, and I don’t really care if it leaves a scar.”

“You don’t have to prove to me you’re tough,” Beau said. “You held your own tonight.”

“Like I care what you think of me,” she said. “And you can bet your sweet American ass I held my own. As if there were any doubt.”

Beau grinned a little, not as much as he usually did, but it was enough for me to see that he liked Alexa. He liked her a lot.

The next couple of hours were spent with the men cleaning the deck while Alexa and I stayed in the gatehouse. She argued that she would help, but Devon told her in no uncertain terms that she was to stay with me. She opened her mouth to protest again, but then caught sight of the mangled body of the man I’d killed.

“Bloody hell, Devon,” she said. “Did you run out of bullets?”

“Ivy took care of that one,” Devon said.

She didn’t say anything as Devon dragged the body out. We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Ever killed anyone before?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“You’ll get used to it.”

I didn’t know if that was sad or if it should make me feel better. Both, I thought.

“How many people have you killed?” I asked her.

“Too many.”

That sounded ominous. “And was the first time hard?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s like your first time having sex. You never forget even the smallest details.” She paused, staring off into space as though she were remembering. “He was an informant. Within our own government. A citizen turned spy.”

“That must’ve been hard,” I said. “It being one of your own countrymen.”

She turned to look at me. “Not just my countryman. My fiancé.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed. She looked away again.

“I suspected something was amiss, but I didn’t want to believe it. We were happy together, or so I thought. In the end, both of us were lying to each other. It was sad and tragic and all those adjectives they use in Nicholas Sparks novels. Only for us, there was no happy ending. He looked me in the eye when I shot him. He made his choice, and I had no alternative but to make mine.”

It sounded awful and horrible, and though she talked about it so matter-of-factly, I couldn’t imagine how an event like that had scarred her.

“Since you left the Shadow, have you just been running?” I asked. “Always looking over your shoulder in case Vega sends someone to kill you again?”

She shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but I’m still alive. Perhaps once Devon has done what he needs to do, I can stop running.”

“Will you help him?”

“I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But ultimately, only Devon has the power to take down Vega. No one else.”

I frowned in confusion. “Why do you say that?”

She looked at me, studying me as though trying to decide whether I could be trusted. She opened her mouth—

“All done,” Beau said, walking in the door. “And we’re almost there. Another ten minutes and we’ll meet our escort that’ll take us into Gitmo.” He walked up to Alexa. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, I said.” She huffed in exasperation. “For a CIA spook, you sure worry like an old woman.”

“I just don’t want British MI6 crawling up my ass because you got yourself killed. They want you to work for them.”

Alexa snorted in disgust. “Like I want to sacrifice any more of my life for the noble cause. I’m through. I just want to live my life.”

“The CIA could help with that.”

“I’m sure they could.” The disbelief in her tone was obvious. “But I prefer my freedom. I answer to no one.”

“And there’s no one to know or care if you live or die.”

I wondered at the worry on Beau’s face and the stubborn set of Alexa’s delicate jaw as they stared each other down. Devon was taking it in, too, but where I was fascinated, he was impatient. Our gazes caught and he rolled his eyes. I hid a grin.

The military escort got us in to Gitmo and I was sorry it was still dark as it was hard to see much of anything. I was nearly dead on my feet from exhaustion and the adrenaline, not to mention the mental shock that still hovered on the edge of my mind from killing someone.

Little was said to us as Beau spoke with the guards who met us at the gate. We were taken to some kind of bunkhouse where I promptly flopped down on a semi-comfortable bed. I was out in minutes.

W
e left around mid-afternoon the next day, flying out on a private military plane, which bordered on luxurious. One of the men acting as a flight attendant said the plane had been confiscated from a drug lord, which explained the plush leather furniture. I felt better after some sleep and put what had happened on the boat from Key West to Cuba out of my mind.

Alexa was with us, after having been sewn up and given antibiotics by the medical officer on the base. And to my surprise, Beau came with us, too.

“I didn’t realize you were coming along,” Devon said to him. “Is this a recent development?”

It didn’t take a genius to hear how sardonic his tone was as he eyed Beau, then Alexa, who’d elected to sit in the last of the seats.

“Thought you could use another set of hands,” Beau said with a careless shrug. “I got authorization, and my boss wouldn’t mind a set of American eyes on events over there as they unfold.”

“I see. All very valid indeed.”

“Yes.”

The two men stared at each other, but neither one broke. It was interesting to watch Devon interact with another man, a friend. I hadn’t seen that before. Devon’s lips twitched slightly and he gave Beau a nod, then took the seat next to me. Beau hesitated a moment, then went back and sat in one of the two seats facing the rear directly in front of Alexa. I saw her raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t stare. It’s not polite,” Devon said mildly.

“I think they like each other,” I said.

“Of course they do, but they haven’t decided to admit it.” One of the two military stewards came by, offering us water.

“I think they’d make a good couple,” I mused. “I like her.”

“She’s dangerous and a bit unpredictable,” Devon said. “Perhaps a bit too emotional.”

I rolled my eyes. “Isn’t that a typical man? Anything a woman does means she’s ‘too emotional.
’
”

His brows lifted. “It’s true,” he said. “Men can put emotion aside much more easily than women.”

“And who decided that’s a
good
thing?” I asked. “Men did, that’s who.”

“It’s obvious it’s a good thing,” he countered. “Decisions must be made on facts and logic. Not feelings.”

“So you coming back for me, quitting the Shadow, that was logical?”

“Of course not, but then again, I never said it was.”

“So you
are
saying it was
ill
ogical.”

Devon eyed me. “I’m not going to get into a semantics argument with you, darling. Love isn’t logical. It just is. It happens, sometimes in spite of all the many reasons why it shouldn’t. And there are many, many reasons why you and I should never be together. But despite them all, I wanted you. And you wanted me.”

I couldn’t argue with that, not when every word of it was true.

“So where are we going?” I asked. “London?”

But Devon shook his head. “No. Edinburgh, actually.”

I frowned. “Scotland? Why?”

“Because that’s where Vega’s from,” Alexa interrupted. She’d walked over to us, sitting down in the row facing us. The leather chairs were plush and comfortable, though I saw her wince slightly as she sat down. She’d refused pain medication other than a local anesthetic for the stitches and some over-the-counter pills.

“How do you know where she’s from?” I asked. Beau followed Alexa, looking slightly disgruntled, and settled in beside her.

“It comes out in her accent,” Alexa said. “When she’s angry.”

“And you’ve heard this?” Devon asked.

“Oh, she’s been angry with me a lot. Usually, her accent is posh. But when she’s upset, when she’s absolutely livid, you can hear it. It’s indigenous to certain parts of Scotland the way a southern American accent can tell you if someone is from Alabama or the Carolinas. I knocked on a lot of doors, spoke to a lot of people, and eventually, I tracked her down to a small village in northern Scotland called Inverbervie.”

“After we land in Edinburgh, we’ll drive there,” Devon said, his gaze on Alexa. “And you’ll show me what you won’t tell me.”

“Yes, I will.”

I didn’t understand what it was that she was so adamant Devon see, but I had a gut feeling that I wouldn’t like it.

The drive from Edinburgh to Inverbervie was more boring than I thought it’d be. I was in Scotland, of all places, and the scenery looked exactly like Middle America. The only exception was that the cars drove on the opposite side of the road.

“Stop here.” Alexa’s order to Devon took me by surprise. We were in the middle of a small village and I could see the ocean from where we’d parked.

I got out of the car and followed Alexa to the top of the small hill. Tombstones marked our path and I lingered, reading the inscriptions. Cemeteries intrigued me, to read of men, women, and especially children, dead often before their time. The words of love and loss carved in stone were bittersweet and poignant.

It was chilly and I wrapped my cardigan around me, wondering how I’d come to this place from where I’d been. A farm girl, born and raised in Kansas, meeting and falling in love with a man no woman should. A life filled with danger and uncertainty. Who wanted that? And yet, I couldn’t turn my back on Devon.

“Here,” Alexa said. I glanced over at her, silhouetted against the setting sun.

It was a beautiful cemetery, set high on a hill overlooking the water. The grass was green and the grounds well tended. It was peaceful and serene, though that’s not how I felt at the moment.

Devon and I clasped hands, as though we knew something bad was coming.

“This is what I wanted you to see,” Alexa said, pointing at a tombstone carved in granite.

The words were hard to make out, the weather having worn some of the letters away.
Dillon Clay McGewan. Beloved Son. b. Feb. 22, 1956 d. August 15, 1985.

I stared, wondering at the name. I looked at Devon, who was also staring at the headstone.

“What is this?” I asked Alexa. “Who is this?”

“Dillon McGewan was my father,” Devon answered instead. “Vega thought it would be best to use my middle name—the same as my father’s—as my surname rather than McGewan. August 15th, 1985 . . . it was the day of the bombing.” He looked at Alexa. “How did you find this? Vega claimed she never knew where my parents were buried. And where is my mother’s headstone?”

“Vega didn’t care about your mother,” she said. “Just your father.”

“Why? Is this some kind of trick?”

“No trick,” Alexa said, a little sadly. “I came here and found this grave. Then I went searching for exactly who Vega was. I think you should find out, too. Come with me.”

Devon and I glanced at each other as Alexa walked away. His hand tightened on mine. Even if we were heading into the unknown, we were doing it together.

We followed Alexa down the walkway to the sidewalk, then down the street. Beau followed at a discreet distance, but it felt surreal, as though our every move was preordained.

Alexa finally came to a stop in front of a small home along King Street. She rapped her knuckles sharply against the door.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “Who are these people?”

“Someone Devon needs to meet,” was Alexa’s cryptic reply.

A woman answered the door, and she was as old and gray as I’d expect from someone who most likely lived in the same village from the day they were born until the day they died.

“Yes?” she asked as she answered the door. “Can I dae somethin’ for ye?”

Her accent was so thick, I had trouble understanding her. But Alexa didn’t seem to have the same issue.

“Elva, it’s me. Alexa,” she said. “It’s been a while, do you remember?”

The woman peered at her, then her face cleared. “Och aye, Alexa dear! It’s been a fair while. Whit are ye dain’ here?”

“I brought some friends to meet you,” Alexa said. “This is Devon. He has some questions I thought you could answer.”

“Hello,” Elva said, giving Devon a sweet smile. “I’d be fair chuffed to help if I can, though my mind is no’ as fleet as it used to be.”

“I’m looking for some information,” Devon said. “About a woman named Vega. Would you happen to know anything about her?”

“Vega?” the woman asked. “No, I’m sorry. I dinny ken anybody ca’ad that.”

“He means Elizabeth Percy,” Alexa said. “Do you remember her family?”

Elva’s face cleared at that. “Och, aye,” she said. “Elizabeth Percy. Such a sad tale. Aye, I ken the story well.”

“Who are you again?” Elva asked Devon.

“He’s a distant relation,” Alexa said. “He’d like to know what happened to the Percys. Elizabeth grew up here, remember?”

I could see why Alexa might need to jog her memory. Elva had to be in her eighties.

“Aye, aye she did,” Elva said. Whereas before she’d been eyeing Devon warily, now she seemed relieved to have something in common to talk about. “She was a sweet girl. It’s too bad how things turned out.”

“What do you mean?” Devon asked.

“Och it’s a long tale,” she said. “Come away in and I’ll pit on some tea. It’ll take a while to tell ye properly.”

We followed her inside the tiny house and into a painstakingly neat parlor. Two cats lounged on a sofa covered in a busy floral upholstery.

“Hae a seat and I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, bustling out of the room.

Devon shooed the cats off the sofa, who didn’t look happy about that, then sat. I took the spot next to him with Alexa at my side. Beau sat in one of the two matching pink wingback chairs.

“I’m going to have cat hair all over me,” Beau muttered.

“Really, that should be the least of your worries,” Alexa said with a snort.

“What do you know of my worries?” he snapped back.

“I don’t. Nor do I care.”

They continued to bicker, and after a while, seemed to notice we were staring at them.

“What?” Beau asked.

“Really?” Devon replied.

Beau’s face flushed, but he didn’t argue further with Alexa.

Elva returned, bustling about with a tea tray and table, setting out cups and saucers. It was obvious she’d gotten out her best, the delicate china probably a family heirloom. I wanted to help, but I knew nothing about how to properly pour tea from an English tea service.

“Here, let me help you,” Alexa said, jumping to her feet.

“Thank you, deary.” Elva handed her a cup.

Before long, we all had matching cups and saucers. A platter of cookies sat in the center of the coffee table. Shortbread. Yum. I tried not to eye them too closely.

“So you were going to tell us about the Percys,” Alexa prodded, taking a tiny sip of her tea.

“Och aye, right enough.” Elva settled back in her chair. “They fowk have bin in the same hoose in the village fur as lang as ourselves. I used to see Elizabeth when she wis just a bairn. A sweet wee thing. I wis devastated when her dear mither passed.”

“How did she die?” Devon asked.

“Cancer,” Elva said. “Took her right quick. Neither Elizabeth nor her faether, William, e’er got ower it. Yid think faether and dauchter wid hiv foond comfort in one anither, but William changed whin dear Annette died. He drank mair than a Scotsman shid, which is a fair bit.

“Elizabeth wis a proud wee girl, and though I think he might’ve beat her, she ne’er breathed a wird. She endured. Went to school and grew up. William kept a tight leash on her, sendin’ her tae St. Mary’s, though they could’ney afford it. Rarely let her hae friends as he thoucht most of ’em were scunners . . . Malarkey o’course.

“Then one day, a new family moved to the village,” Elva continued. “And that’s when the trouble started . . .”