At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

Maggie smiled, a faint, distant smile that held a trace of her old humor. “I can take care of myself.”

“But—”

“No, Holly. Besides, I’ve got my reservation on the midnight flight to London, and I’m already packed. I don’t want to wait around for another flight while you pack half your wardrobe.”

“But—”

“Miss Bennett?” The green-suited doctor who appeared at their side took the customary moment to stare at Holly before turning to Maggie. “Your mother’s regained consciousness. She’s asking for you.”

The doctor’s definition of consciousness and Maggie’s differed. Sybil lay in the big white hospital bed, a small, huddled figure attached to tubes and machines that brought Bud Willis back to mind no matter how she fought it. Her mother looked small and old, her famous aquamarine eyes sunken, her black hair lifeless. And she’d said only two words before sinking back into a coma.

“Get him,” she said, and her eyes closed once more.

And Maggie had touched the oddly frail flesh. “I will, Sybil,” she said softly, knowing she was beyond hearing. “I will.”

LAX was still busy, even at eleven o’clock at night, but Maggie felt a curious, welcome sense of isolation as she waited for the boarding call. Her mother’s words still lingered in her mind as she sat in one of the orange plastic seats, waiting. She’d get him, all right. The Colt 380 pistol was hidden in its special pouch in her makeup bag, makeup that had been touched far less often than the gun during the last four months. It would go through with the checked baggage safely enough, and she had only customs to worry about.

She was leaping blind, with only minimal information. The L.A.P.D. had been scarcely helpful, and she’d had to rely on her boss for what solid information she had. Mike Jackson had taken over as head of Third World Causes, Ltd., when Peter Wallace had been murdered. She’d worked with Mike during her short tenure at the CIA, and they’d always shared a mutual respect. He’d been able to con some stuff out of Interpol, not a hell of a lot, but enough to give her a start.

She had no choice. She’d head for London, then fly on up to Ireland, Flynn’s next likely destination according to the information Mike had given her. She was adept at getting what she wanted, and she could always use her short-term association with the CIA if nothing else worked.

She sighed, pushing a slender hand through her hair. Her luggage, including the gun, should already be safely aboard, and as soon as they dealt with the piles of matched lavender luggage that had just arrived …

Maggie sat there, just across from the check in counter, watching with a dawning sense of foreboding. The first load of lavender luggage was followed by a second, and a slender female dressed in the same unlikely shade of purple. Maggie waited as Holly checked twelve pieces of luggage, took her boarding pass, and turned to flash her patient sister a brilliant smile.

“Twelve suitcases, Holly?” she greeted her mildly enough.

“It’s less than I usually take,” she murmured sweetly.

“How’s Mother?”

“Still in the coma.” The smile vanished. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for coming?”

“To tell the truth, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not good for you, but I’m glad I don’t have to do it all alone,” she said. “Considering nobody even knows what the man looks like, we’re going to be up against it. I’ll be glad to have some help.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“I tried to tell you in the hospital but you kept cutting me off. I saw him one afternoon at Sybil’s, when he didn’t realize I was there.”

Maggie felt a sudden dawning of hope. “Could you recognize him again?”

“I think so. Unless he’s using a disguise, and according to what little they know about him, he doesn’t use disguises. Too egocentric, apparently. And since most people don’t know what he looks like, he wouldn’t need to.”

“You’re sure he doesn’t know you saw him?”

“Sybil may have mentioned it, but I doubt it. From what I know about him, he doesn’t leave witnesses. If he knew I saw him I expect I’d probably be in the hospital along with Sybil. Or in the morgue.”

Maggie shivered at the thought. “Maybe. We’ll still have to be doubly careful.” She rose, gathering her paraphernalia. “They’re boarding, Holly. You sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

“I’m sure. Let’s go.”

The flight was by no means full. There was no scramble for boarding, no need for hurry, so it was surprising that the man should bump into them like that, just as they were heading down the winding passageway to the jet. His mumbled apology was in an impeccable upper-class British accent that was at odds with his rough appearance. Maggie’s eyes were sharp as she watched him hurry on ahead of them, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his head ducked down.

He was about average height, with a tough, sturdy body that might almost be called stocky. His clothes were rough, nondescript, and his face was infinitely forgettable. If it hadn’t been for his eyes.

“Bad tempered, wasn’t he?” Holly said lightly, her own eyes trained on the figure ahead of them.