Chapter 28
SIX MONTHS LATER
Delgado set the gun against the man’s temple. “How many with you?” He sounded bored even to himself, but his pulse slammed at wrists and throat even as he shoved a knee more firmly into the man’s back.
Outside, rain swept restlessly down. The winter storms were well underway. Soon the whole city would freeze, making Montreal a gigantic sugar cake. Light would glimmer on the snow—but if they’d been found, neither he nor Rowan would see this city again for a while.
Just when I was starting to like it here. She was beginning to relax, too.
Rowan, bookbag dangling from her slim fingers, closed the door quietly.
They’d taken this small, light-filled apartment not for economy’s sake, but because a house wasn’t safe.
He’d been feeling a little antsy for a while and Rowan had started to look pale and drawn again, no matter how many bookstores or lectures they visited.
Her dreams had gotten progressively worse, too. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in two months.
Of course, the fact that he liked to calm her down the old-fashioned way probably had something to do with that. Oh, well. Anything for the cause.
He pulled the revolver’s hammer, knowing the click would resonate through the man’s skull. Tall, dark-haired, reasonably fit and experienced, the intruder still had no chance against him. Sigma had simply trained Del too well.
Besides, the agent on the floor, whoever he was, was a deadhead. He couldn’t sneak up on two psions.
A small table lay on its side, the day’s mail scattered over the floor from the quick, vicious fight. The man gasped, probably winded from the shot to the solar plexus. Justin wondered how he’d gotten in. Probably the kitchen window.
He better not have knocked over the African violet. Rowan loves that plant.
“Unarmed! I’m unarmed!” The man almost squealed with fear.
A quick, thorough search proved this to be true, and five minutes later their visitor was trussed with duct tape to a solid kitchen chair.
Dark hair, leather bomber jacket, jeans, and a pair of good boots—he looked like miserably out of place here.
Nobody in Montreal wore a bomber jacket, for Christ’s sake. Not at this season.
Del saw with relief that the African violet was still on the windowsill, but the window had been expertly jimmied.
The kitchen lay under gloomy grey daylight, blue dishtowels set just so, breakfast dishes drip-drying in the rack.
Rowan hugged near the door, staring at the man with wide luminous eyes under a short, chic cap of sleek dark hair.
She was still fragile, and jumpy. If this sonuvabitch had set her back Del was going to have to see if he could get a little creative.
Del tossed her the man’s wallet. She caught with a sweet, natural grace, flipped it open. “Barry Holgrave, NSA. Looks real.” A toss of her head, still not used to short hair. I look completely different, she’d said mournfully, staring into the mirror.
That’s the point, he’d replied, and kissed her. A good memory, one he liked. “What’s the NSA doing here?” He looked down at the man, aching to wrap his fingers in the intruder’s hair and pistol-whip him a bit. “You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me I shouldn’t kill you.”
Barry was old enough to have been in the spy game awhile. His eyes widened, fine fans of wrinkles spreading from the corners, and his haircut was far too butch. A shoddy job of undercover. His Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed, wincing when Del tightened his hold.
Rowan’s hand dropped, weighted with the wallet.
“It’s about Sigma.” She shook her head. The green sweater made her skin even paler, and the blue scarf loose around her pretty throat heightened the contrast. Water clung to her hair and shoulders, little jewels of sleet.
She had largely lost the circles under her eyes, the nervous small tremble in her expressive hands.
Sometimes she even laughed. “Loosen up on him a bit, sweetie.”
You make a great good cop, you know, he told her privately, watched the gleam of amusement touch her eyes but not her solemn, beautiful mouth. She’d put on a little weight; not nearly enough. “I think we should kill him.” He used the soft pleasant tone he knew was the most terrifying.
Mmh. And you make a good bad cop. The amusement in her tone was tight and thin, a veneer over adrenaline and the sudden plunging of her heart.
Easy, sweetheart. We didn’t mark anyone on the street outside. We’ve got plenty of room to jump if we have to. He felt her reach for reassurance, answered silently with all the comfort he could.
“They’ve shut it down.” Holgrave almost choked in his eagerness to talk.
“Sigma’s shut down. There were closed Congressional hearings, Anton’s at a maximum security prison for the criminally insane.
All sorts of shit about what he was doing with the agency started to come out and everyone started to scramble, from the top to the lower echelons.
Goddamn mess, still not sorted out.” He took a deep, racking breath.
“In the living room there’s a briefcase. It’s got documents. Proof.”
“What does this have to do with us?” Del eased up on the man’s hair, just a fraction.
Rowan tilted her head. No activity outside, nothing I can feel. Want me to go check?
Her heart hammered; he could feel it in his own chest. I want you to stay right where I can see you, angel. Not letting you out of my sight, remember?
Oh yeah. Slow, lingering.
He had to swallow dryly, though his attention didn’t waver. Damn, the woman was dangerous to his self-control.
“Rehabilitated,” Holgrave gulped so hard his throat actually clicked. “You’re rehabilitated, your identities wiped clean. We want you to work for us, legitimately. No Zed, no electroshock, no torture.”
“And if we don’t want to?” Del felt his entire body go cold. It had to be a trick. Had to be.
“Then you’re free, so long as you don’t make waves or work for a foreign power, free as birds. That’s the deal. It’s all in the briefcase.”
Barry’s eyes were as round as plates. He wasn’t trying to struggle, but he did crane his neck to look at Rowan, pleading. He thinks she might stop me if I get crazy and decide to do a little murder.
“It’s true,” Barry said suddenly, shifting in the chair. Del hadn’t been gentle in taping him down.
Del uncocked the hammer, let go of ol’ Barry. “Ro?”
He’s telling the truth, so far as he knows, and I don’t think he’s been tampered with. A faint line etched between her eyebrows.
“What’s the catch?” And don’t lie to me. He kept the last bit from her with an effort. He paced to Rowan, took the wallet, and glanced through it. If it was a fake, it was better than any he’d ever seen. Lie to me, and not even your own mother will recognize you.
“Some of the Sigma infrastructure is still operating; lots of the operatives were taken by the private sector. We want you to hunt down whoever bought them. We’re recruiting Daniel Henderson, too.”
I doubt Henderson would give these guys the time of day.
Del didn’t bother to shield that thought from her.
He dropped the wallet, dispelling the urge to strip the cash.
They weren’t hard-up yet. And if they ever were, a few nights in the underside of any city, a few drug dealers relieved of their bankrolls, and they could move on to the next town.
Rowan didn’t like it… but she wasn’t the na?ve idealist she used to be either.
Get what you want, angel. We’re leaving.
Her shoulders slumped. I’m so tired of this. “So now everything’s supposed to be all right?” she asked, softly. “Now that you need us, that is. Where were you when Sigma was killing innocent people and turning others into animals?”
Holgrave didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. He simply blinked rapidly as if she was speaking a foreign language. “I wasn’t a part of it, ma’am. I didn’t know.”
I’ll deal with this, Del reminded her. Go on, sweetheart.
He eyed the man, heard Rowan padding away behind him.
She would get the bags packed for emergencies, but probably not the briefcase.
The risk was just too high. She moved very quietly, and he reminded himself she was armed and as well-trained as he could make her.
Besides, her mind was linked to his. If she ran across anything he would know.
“We’ll see if what you’re saying is true,” he said finally, tearing off another strip of duct tape.
Holgrave’s eyes widened. “We’ll even call the cops to come rescue you from your little throne.
You can tell them whatever you want, but you take this message back to whoever you run for, dog.
If I even sense another one of you behind us there won’t be any warning. Clear?”
“What are you going to—”
Del smoothed the duct tape over the man’s mouth. “You can breathe?”
Holgrave nodded frantically. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the rank smell of fear was suddenly overwhelming. Fear, and a sweet chemical scent he recognized. Idiot deadhead, thinking he could sneak up on wary psions. Just as idiotic to wear Aramis on a job like this.
“Now, do you fucking understand what I told you? Don’t send anyone else unless you intend to lose ’em. Clear?” Delgado grinned into the man’s face, a hard delighted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “‘Cause I want it clear as crystal.”
More frantic nodding. Delgado nodded as well, studying the man.
Holman obviously thought he was contemplating murder, because the agent shook his head frantically, sweat rolling down his face.
Pale gray light from the window fell over the entire kitchen, the dishes Rowan had bought, a copy of Leaves of Grass lying open on the table where she had been reading before leaving the apartment this morning.
Justin? Let’s go. She sounded sad.
He took the time to pick up the African violet from the sill. It might not survive the trip, but if anyone could keep it alive, she could.