Unable to sleep, she had gotten out of bed and gone out on the terrace. But Randall had no problems in that area, lying face down on the too-soft mattress, his long arms wrapped around a down pillow. She envied his self-discipline. All she could think about when she lay in the bed next to him was how much she wanted him, how in hell they were going to take care of Flynn and get out of there, and what was going to happen to them if and when they did escape.
Things didn’t look promising for their future. They’d never be a comfortable suburban couple. There’d always be anger and a passion so deep it bordered on dangerous. If she had any sense at all she’d run as far and as fast as she could.
But she didn’t have any sense. At least, none that would make her leave the one man she couldn’t live without. All she could do was lie there and want him, and that frustration only added to her nerves.
Now sitting on the floor by the terrace, she stared out into the African night, making her one allotted glass of brandy last. She knew what her problem was. For the first time in recent years she was out of control. She didn’t know the layout, didn’t understand what they were up against, and had no idea how they were going to escape once they accomplished what they set out to do. She was nothing but a dependent female, waiting for Randall to make the decisions, tell her what to do, take care of her. And she didn’t like it.
With Mack there’d been no question but that she was in charge. Oh, sure, Mack was stronger, had a helluva lot more street smarts, and a dead-sure instinct that had gotten them out of trouble more than once. But Maggie had the training, the contacts, knew how to get out of tight spots better than any civilian.
But Randall wasn’t a civilian. Randall had the same training, only more so, had the same contacts, only better ones. Everything Maggie knew, everything she could do, he could do better. It only made sense to let him be in charge, and she was being an egocentric, dangerously selfish bitch to chafe at the restrictions.
Name-calling didn’t help. The brandy didn’t help. She sat there, looking out into the deserted courtyard, and knew that no matter what her common sense told her, she couldn’t spend the rest of the night waiting for Randall to tell her what to do. She was going out on her own.
Her black denims and black cotton field shirt would blend with the night, and the tiny snub-nosed Colt tucked in her waistband would be scarcely noticeable. Besides, everyone she’d seen out there by the pool had been armed, with knives, handguns, and Uzis all within reach of their tanned, sweating bodies. No one would look twice at her if she happened to run into anyone. No one but Flynn.
When it came right down to it, she couldn’t bear the thought of cold-blooded murder, no matter how much Flynn deserved it. She didn’t mind for herself. It was for Randall she minded.
For all she knew he may have killed before, in such a formal, cold-blooded fashion. But she didn’t want him to have to do it again. There was already a layer of ice around his heart and soul. She wanted to melt that ice, not add to the layers, and if he performed such a cold, calculating execution, the bleakness in his eyes might never leave.
So she was going to do something about it herself. She’d seen the medical records Randall had tried to hide. Flynn was in suite 236J-5. As soon as she figured out where the hell that was, she’d find Flynn and just hope the element of surprise would be on her side in the confrontation she had every intention of forcing.
Randall didn’t stir as she slowly rose to her feet. Once more she tried to tell herself to stay put, but the adrenaline was already pumping through her veins. There was no way she was going to spend the rest of the night cooped up in this room.
The door clicked silently behind her as she stepped out into the hall. She waited for a moment, listening, but Randall slept on, oblivious to her escape.
She looked around her. Not a soul was in sight, no one to ask impertinent questions as she went in search of suite 236J-5. She reached behind her to touch the gun, to remind herself of its presence, for a twisted sort of luck and moved off down the hall.
Ian was covered in a cold film of sweat. The air was artificially cooled, and the faint hum of the system was a monotonous undertone to the silent night around him. He was so close, so damned close and Timothy Seamus Flynn was almost in reach.
Ian ran a hand across his sweating brow, ducking back into the shadowy corners of the living room. He’d been there for hours, walked in there cool as you please with no one to notice as he opened the unlocked door. There were no locks at Cul de Sac as far as he could see. Honor among thieves, he had to suppose. Well, who was he to complain? It made his job that much easier.
Flynn had been in the bedroom when he first crept in. It had been sometime after midnight, and Ian had headed straight for the door, his Beretta drawn and ready, when he’d heard the woman. He’d hesitated, listening and then he heard the other voice, that thin, rasping wheeze belonging to Lazarus.
He’d clearly interrupted a menage à trois. Though what the hell Lazarus could contribute from a wheelchair was beyond his comprehension. Probably just a pair of eyes.
The woman wasn’t faring well. Flynn hadn’t changed his habits over the years; he still enjoyed inflicting pain. The woman was crying, weeping and moaning, and for a moment Ian considered putting a stop to the perverse games going on beyond that white paneled door.
Considered, and then rejected the notion. He’d been truthful with Holly—he left no witnesses. If he killed Flynn in front of the others he’d have to kill them too. And while he didn’t doubt that Lazarus’s soul was far from blameless, he didn’t enjoy blowing away everyone who got in his way. As for the woman, she was probably no more than a high-class whore, used to nasty habits. She’d survive Flynn’s tender ministrations—she didn’t deserve to die at Ian’s hands.
No, he could wait. Sooner or later the others would leave, and it would be just the two of them. Him and Flynn. And he’d settle a score that was long overdue.
The noise in the bedroom finally ended. Flynn stopped his deep, malicious chuckle, his sighs and groans, the woman, her mewing and moaning and weeping. Finally the door opened and Lazarus rolled through.
Ian had only his instincts to help him. He’d managed to vanish into a corner of the room just seconds before Lazarus entered, and he held himself motionless.
Lazarus’s still, encumbered figure looked neither to the right or to the left. The electric wheelchair glided from the room, silently, and the door shut behind him, plunging the room into darkness once more.
Ian looked down at the glowing face of his thin steel watch. Quarter past four. Anot
her half hour, and he’d go in. If he was as good as he was sometimes afraid he was, he could cut Flynn’s throat without his bed partner even waking up. Though he’d much prefer Flynn to know who had finally caught up with him.
But he’d lost him before, just by letting such considerations distract him from his goal and many more people had died because of it. No, this was going to be fast and efficient. Then he’d round up the others and they’d be gone.
Fifteen minutes passed, and the cold sweat trickled down his backbone. He stayed where he was, silent in the shadows, just in case Lazarus decided to return. But there was no sound from the hallway, just the soulless hum of the air-conditioning.
The bedroom door opened again, and Ian steeled himself, the Beretta cocked and ready, the silencer long and deadly on the end of the barrel. A small, frightened creature scampered out, a skinny redhead with a pale, panicked face. She was bruised, and shaking, and the filmy white nightgown she clutched around her was splattered with blood.
He must have made an involuntary sound. She’d already closed the bedroom door behind her and was heading for the hallway when she stopped, whirled around and stared in his direction. He didn’t move. The bright moonlight glinted off the elongated barrel of his gun as a thick, dangerous silence filled the room.