“Is he dead?”
“Bodies usually are,” he replied. “Did you find us a pilot?”
“I found us a pilot. Clean-cut, sober, intelligent. Let’s just hope he didn’t send a friend out to investigate the Jeep.”
“I guess we have no choice but to find out, do we?” Mack said, hoisting the knapsack over his shoulder. “Come on, Maggie May. Let’s go.”
“Don’t we need to cover … ?”
“I just said that to get your attention. He’s taken care of, kid. You look like you could use a little taking care of yourself. I didn’t know you were so squeamish about death.”
Only when I thought it was yours, she thought. “It’s not something one should get used to.”
“You’re right. It’s also not something one should dwell on when there’s no choice in the matter,” he said, and she had to agree. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Sweetheart?” she echoed, stunned. The endearment came from out of the blue, suggesting all sorts of unexpected things like commitment and happy-ever-after.
Mack managed a white, shaken grin. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” she said, lying. “See that it doesn’t.” And they headed toward the plane.
eighteen
Luis lived up to Maggie’s initial impression. He’d just finished his check of the engine when the two of them arrived back at the tin shack, and they took off immediately. The flight was peaceful, smooth, and completely uneventful. Maggie couldn’t resist giving Mack a look of smug satisfaction, but it was lost on him. He slept the short flight to La Ceiba, woke up long enough to be uncharacteristically surly while she made arrangements for a flight to take them to New York, and then proceeded to sleep during that flight too.
She sat beside him on the 727 sipping at her Bloody Mary and trying to concentrate on the clouds outside the window. But her glance kept straying to Mack.
He hadn’t shaved, and his chin was stubbled. His eyes, now as they lay closed in sleep, were still ringed with shadows that showed purple against his tan. He’d managed to wash his hands and face in the men’s room, but there was still no denying the fact that the two of them were incredibly grubby, covered with dirt and sweat and dust. And, God help them, dried blood.
The thought of her huge old apartment awaiting them at the end of their flight made her almost dizzy with anticipation. Not that it was necessarily awaiting both of them, she reminded herself. Mack was proving stubborn and withdrawn today—she wouldn’t put it past him to refuse to accompany her into Manhattan for the respite they both so desperately needed.
She leaned back against her own seat and crunched on the celery stalk from her drink. If only they hadn’t had to toss their guns, she thought wearily. She’d feel a lot better if she still had that heavy, nasty piece of machinery tucked in the waistband of her jeans. But they really had no choice in the matter—no airline in the world would let them on carrying that kind of hardware.
If they could just make it to her apartment, they’d be all right. She had two handguns there, with licenses, ammunition, the works. Though of course the problem would surface again—Swissair was unlikely to encourage armed passengers in this day of skyjacking.
Well, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Right now all she wanted to do was get home and stand in the shower until she used every drop of hot water in her huge, prewar building. Maybe she’d leave enough for Mack, maybe not. Her own trip to the La Ceiba Airport ladies’ room had disclosed an impressive bruise on her strong chin. She almost regretted washing away some of the grime when it made the purple and blue stain so spectacular. She owed Mack one. And sometime, somehow, she was going to collect on that debt. He hadn’t had to hit her quite that hard.
She leaned back in the seat, wishing she could close her eyes and sleep as Mack slept. But her nerves were strung too tightly, too much was hanging in the balance. Mentally she went over the things she’d have to procure. New clothes again, tickets to Switzerland, more money and/or credit, the name of a contact in Switzerland who could get them guns. And somehow or other she was going to have to get in touch with Third World Causes, Ltd. and see how they were faring in the wake of Peter’s death. And she had to do that without running afoul of the informant. If there even was one, she thought wearily. It seemed as if it had been half a century ago when she’d walked in and found Mack leaning over his body, but in fact it had been only five days ago.
Van Zandt, the evil genius behind all this, was safe in Switzerland, awaiting them, but that didn’t mean all the other forces he’d sicced on them wouldn’t be lying in wait. They’d be doing well if they just made it safely in and out of the city without Mancini and his hoods or the CIA and the FBI closing in on them.
Mack stirred in his sleep, and she abandoned her worries to watch him. It was an indulgence, and one that she deserved, she thought, tilting the seat back and staring at him out of gritty eyes. Every now and then she could see a trace of Snake in the sexy curl of his mouth. It must be strange for him to have another identity hidden in his past, cropping up at unexpected times.
She’d been like most adolescent girls and experienced her share of pubescent passion for Snake. But when it came right down to it she preferred the man next to her, with his surprising gentleness, his quirky humor, his warmth and tolerance. Not to mention his quick mind, his bravery that was simply an accepted fact, not something he had to prove. She liked the way he teased her, the way he let her be when she needed it, and the way he helped when she needed it. She liked the way his mouth felt on hers, the way his body fitted to hers, and she liked the slow, deliberate way he made love. And the fast, savage way he made love, she thought, remembering those moments on the floor of the Holiday Inn and feeling her pulse race. What would it be like to make love to him in her own bed, a bed she’d never taken any man to?
She was looking forward to it. Hell, that was putting it mildly. The very thought of it made her heart race and her palms sweat. Right now Maggie felt that if Mack just touched her, she’d ignite.
Down, girl, she told herself. It’s a logical reaction. You’re finally, temporarily, out of danger, and your body’s just reasserting its natural prerogatives. With a sigh she turned away, looking across the aisle to the other sleeping passengers, to the clouds beyond. In a matter of hours they’d be back in her apartment. And then, whether he liked it or not, she would have her wicked way with him until they were both in a state of passionate exhaustion.
She shut he
r eyes, trying to ignore the gritty feel of the dust and too many disturbed nights. A few more hours, and then peace, God willing. She could hold out that long.
If she’d hoped Mack would wake up in a more cheerful mood, she was doomed to disappointment. It was a dark, gloomy day when they landed in New York, and the runways were wet with soaking rain. Mack awoke when the plane touched down, and his expression was abstracted, distant, and shadowed.
They sat there as the people around them rushed for the exits, neither of them saying a word. It had been almost a month since Mack had been in New York, longer than that for Maggie, if she didn’t count the short time at the airport when Peter had sent her off on her current quest. It was home to both of them, Maggie thought. So why didn’t they feel any relief?
“We’re going to my place,” Maggie said in a low voice.