He grinned at her, and there was a sudden, odd lightness between them. “I’ll do my best.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The chunnel crossing was effortless. It was easy enough to jump the line with his kind of clearances, and while the speed limit tested Peter’s patience at the very least he was alone with his thoughts. He kept coming up with arguments, writing mental letters to Genevieve, then discarding them as stupid or maudlin. What was she going to do when he got back? Kick him out? Have one of those civil relationships that would rip him in two? Or would she understand? Forgive him?
The moment he hit France he had to stop thinking about her. His job was to meet up with MacGowan at the farmhouse he’d rented for him, face up to the threat and deal with the repercussions. He didn’t want to kill him, not after three years of hellish captivity. But he wasn’t going to let MacGowan kill him – there was a limit to guilt and nobility.
He stared straight ahead, grinding his teeth. He wasn’t a man who made many mistakes but when he did they were spectacular. The only way to ensure that Isobel and Killian didn’t leave their safe refuge was to deal with MacGowan directly, and she’d gotten that message loud and clear.
He breezed through customs, then set out inland, quickly becoming accustomed to right-side drive on left side roads. He’d been driving since he’d been a twelve-year old delinquent, and there was nothing he couldn’t handle, and he flew through the narrow back roads, avoiding major highways. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, but that was the reason he was still alive.
Not that he would be once he got home. Genny was going to kill him, and he didn’t blame her. He switched on the satellite radio, turned to French punk and shifted into a higher gear, when he heard something that froze his blood.
He slammed on the brakes, fish-tailing on the narrow country lane, finally coming to a stop up against a hedgerow. Grabbing his gun, he slid out of the car and headed straight for the back.
“I would suggest you stay very still back there while I open the boot.” His voice dripped ice. After the fight with Genny he very much wanted to shoot someone. “I’ve got my gun and I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later if you so much as move.”
He heard the muffled voice, a distinct, Arabic curse, and he swore himself, tucking his gun away before opening the boot. Mahmoud’s lanky body was curled up back there, his iPod still attached to his ears, looking up at him with lazy defiance.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded, hauling his by-default stepson out of the car.
Mahmoud shook himself free, brushing invisible dust off his shirt. “Keeping an eye on you. Genevieve says you won’t kill yourself if I’m along.”
He stared at the boy in astonishment. “She sent you?”
Mahmoud shook his head, his long hair dancing around his narrow face. “How stupid are you?” he asked with his usual lack of respect, a look that in better times amused Peter. Not today. “She had no idea I decided to tag along. I called her when we got to France to tell her where I was. Look at it this way, mate. Now she’s more pissed off at me than at you. As long as you don’t get both of us killed.”
“What do you mean?”
Mahmoud pulled out his phone, pushed a few buttons and tossed it to Peter, who caught it easily. The text message was clear. “Tell Peter he’s an asshole who better come home safe or I’ll never forgive him. And tell him I love him.”
“Looks like she forgives you,” Mahmoud said. “Not sure if I do – I don’t like it when something upsets her.”
“I’m her husband; I’m bound to upset her.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Mahmoud said. “Don’t do it again or I’ll kill you.”
“You and what army?” Mahmoud was all talk. There was no denying that he’d been a child soldier, and seen things no adult should have to see. No question that he’d kill for Genny and the children. But he’d kill for Peter too, he suspected, despite their cantankerous relationship.
Peter handed him back his phone, reluctantly. He couldn’t believe how his mood had lightened. Right now he felt as if he could conquer the world. That was the problem with falling in love, something he’d managed to avoid for decades before he fell afoul of Miss Genevieve Spencer. It left you far too vulnerable for this kind of work.
She was right, he wasn’t fit for field work anymore. This was the last one. It happened on his watch, and it was his mistake. He needed to fix it.
“We’ve got a few more hours,” he said. “You want to ride in the trunk or in the passenger seat?”
“Funny.” Mahmoud stretched. He was getting taller, brushing six feet and hadn’t stopped growing. Probably because he hadn’t stopped eating. Mahmoud reached into the trunk and pulled out a bag of crisps and three cans of soda, and wrappers littered the back of the previously spotless car.
Peter sighed. “You little shit. You’re cleaning this car when we get home.”
Mahmoud just grinned at him, strolling around to the passenger seat. “So, why don’t you tell me what our mission is?”
Peter sighed as he slid behind the wheel. “You’re staying out of it. Next thing I know you’ll be asking for a gun.”
Mahmoud gave him a pitying look. “Dude,” he said, “I brought my own.”
MacGowan checked the GPS. Probably a good seven hours until they reached the tiny village of Merrais-sur-le-pont and the old farmhouse that had served as a safe house off and on for the last decade. He didn’t need the GPS – he had a photographic memory. Once he travelled to a place he never forgot how to get there, and those five days holed up with Bastien, Peter, and Taka had been burned into his brain. Bastien had been bleeding, Peter had been his usual cold, bloody English self, and Taka had ignored their squabbles. In the end he hadn’t hated Madsen quite as much, but right now he was really looking forward to cutting out his liver and serving it to him.
He glanced over his shoulder. Beth was asleep on the back seat. She’d flat out refused to take the front seat and he wasn’t into arguing. He was better off without the distraction. He had a lot to think about.