His pulse was racing, just slightly, and he frowned. There was nothing wrong with looking forward to being in the field again, but he frowned on emotional reactions. He needed to get himself back under control.
According to LeFevre’s intel, once MacGowan landed at the Committee safe house, the one they thought no one knew about, he intended to stay put for a few days. There would be no hurry. In fact a day or two of downtime would be useful to lower his defenses. He thought he was safe at Merrais-sur-le-Pont. Big mistake. No one was safe from the reach of the CIA. At least, not from Barringer’s small, secret branch of it.
Someone always had to do the ugly work. The wet work, ridding the world of evil. And there were times when it wasn’t just evil that had to go. Complicity, whether innocent or deliberate, had to be rooted out as well.
The Committee understood that. His replacement wouldn’t have too much trouble with the Committee – even without Thomason the organization understood and accepted the needs of its allies. There would be a few heated conversations but in the end this would all settle like dust. Peter Madsen was too much of a pragmatist to do anything about it, and besides, MacGowan was gunning for Madsen. He was doing the man a favor.
The stewardess took his tray, offered him an aperitif, and moved away. No, they didn’t call them stewardesses anymore, did they? He preferred the no-nonsense care of the enlisted men who looked after VIPs on the transatlantic military flights. Clean young men who understood the value of discipline.
He moved his seat back. It turned into a pod-like bed, but he decided that was ridiculous. Perhaps he’d try out that configuration on his way home. For now, like a child on Christmas morning, he was too excited to sleep.
In ten years the farmhouse hadn’t changed much. The greenery was a little taller, a little more tangled, and they’d installed a sensor device hidden under the dirt road that led to it. If MacGowan hadn’t been driving a car equipped with the right piece of technology the road would have blown up beneath them, sending them all to hell.
Good thing he’d been in touch with Bastien instead of trying to make it here on his own. Then again, on his own he wouldn’t have driven up even the well-hidden driveway, he would have approached on foot, and he doubted they’d mined the place. It was too easy for a stray animal to wander by, and once an explosion marred the stillness of the area there’d be no using it again.
It was almost light when he finally pulled up to the remote old farmhouse, staring up at the shuttered windows. He hadn’t had time to have more than a brief conversation with Taka, so he had no idea what kind of shape the place was in. In the past they had someone on payroll who kept it ready at all times, but for all he knew Isobel might have changed it. Now it was up to that sodding bastard Peter Madsen. Hell, he might even be walking into a trap. It was something he’d be capable of doing to a man who wanted to kill him. Madsen was just as ruthless as he’d ever been. Maybe more so. He would never have left someone to rot in the jungle of South America, no matter what the cost.
But Taka wouldn’t stand by and let him walk into a trap. No, he could be relatively sure they were safe for at least a few days, long enough for him to figure out what to do next. Whether he needed to kill Peter Madsen or Vincent Barringer first.
He pulled the car up in front of the stone house and put it in park. He could hide it in the cul-de-sac later – right now he just needed to get his charges indoors. Funny, that he’d kept them with him. Funny, that Beth had chosen to come. That was something he could think about in the next few days, after he’d managed to get some sleep. Assuming he even could sleep. She was right – he’d killed too many men. There were some things you couldn’t walk away from, and that was one of them.
He opened the back door and scooped Beth up. She was too thin – she’d lost weight in the last week, which was no surprise, and despite her height she was an easy burden. She woke for a moment, and he half expected her to start fighting him, but she simply looked at him, closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder.
The farmhouse even smelled the same. Lemon polish and centuries-old French cooking. Nothing had changed, though he saw they’d put a new cover on the sofa. A good thing – Bastien had bled all over that sofa while MacGowan had removed a bullet from his leg. Good times.
In the end he didn’t really think about it. He carried her up to the pretty room on the second floor, holding her as he tried to pull down the covers. That was when she reacted. “No,” she mumbled. “Too dirty. Just put me on top of the covers.”
He didn’t bother arguing. She was covered with dust and dirt, and he could see the streaks her tears had left on her face. She’d faced death before without crying. Had she finally reached overload, or had she been crying for something else? “You’re not dead,” she’d said dazedly when he’d hauled her back out into the sunshine. Had she been crying for him?
He found a throw and tossed it over her. She was sound asleep again, and he stood over her in the stillness of the morning air. The closed shutters let in only a trace of sunlight, but he could see her quite clearly, and he reached out and pushed a strand of her silver-blond hair away from her grubby face.
He wanted to climb into bed with her, hold her in his arms. He wanted her arms around him, he wanted to press his face against her breasts and god help him, he wanted to weep. He really had reached the end of his tether. Time to give it up. He hadn’t cried since his bastard of a father had starved himself to death. Why would he want to cry now?
He closed the door quietly behind him and went back down to find Dylan stumbling sleepily through the kitchen. “Hey, dude, there’s a bedroom down here. Mind if I take it?”
It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Privacy with Beth? Or the last thing he needed, temptation? It didn’t matter. “You can stay in any room you want, though Beth is already asleep in one on the first floor.”
“First floor? Or second floor? I can never get used to that,” Dylan said sleepily, opening the refrigerator and peering inside. From his vantage point MacGowan could see that it was well-stocked, including his favorite Guinness.
“Your second floor, my first,” he clarified. “You’re on the ground floor now, brat.”
“No, man, I’m in bed,” Dylan said sleepily, grabbing a Coke and heading back in the direction of the room he’d chosen.
MacGowan hid the car, then slipped back into the house, making sure all the doors were unlocked. A lock wouldn’t slow anyone down, but it could make the difference between life and death if they needed a quick escape. He grabbed a Guinness, pried it open, and then headed up the narrow stone steps to temptation.
She was sound asleep. Of course she was. And he could take the bedroom he’d been planning to give Dylan, at the end of the hall and around a corner, down two steps and up three. Enough distance that he’d have to think long and hard about going to her, with plenty of things to slow him down and help him change his mind.
He could take the room three doors down, close enough to save her ass if someone managed to find them, far enough way that he could maybe shut her out of his mind.
He opened the door to the adjoining room and closed it behind him, going to sit on the double bed with its utilitarian cover. He’d never run from anything in his life and he wasn’t about to run from Beth Pendleton. He’d already ensured she wouldn’t let him anywhere near him. If he decided to change her mind, and he’d have to be incredibly stupid to do that, then it wouldn’t matter where he slept, and this was closest to the bathroom.
He took a quick shower, finishing the Guinness when he emerged. Hot water was still the most wonderful of all the pleasures of civilization, and he could have stayed under there forever if part of him didn’t feel he was still on the job. He shoul
d have sent them away with Taka, he thought again. If he had, he’d be alone in this rambling old house, alone with his memories, and it wouldn’t matter how much hot water he hogged, how much time he spent there, or who was sleeping in the next room. He should have said no.
He had nothing to sleep in. Taka had provided him with old men’s boxers, a joke on his part, and MacGowan was tempted to throw them out the window. Instead he put the ridiculous things on, just in case Beth woke in a panic. He took one last look out the shuttered window, into the broad light of early morning, climbed beneath the cool sheets of the double bed and fell asleep.
“So who the hell doesn’t carry a spare tire?” Mahmoud demanded, leaning against the side of the Porsche. It was cold, with the promise of winter on the air, and not only did Peter not have an extra spare, he didn’t have gloves, a hat, or an extra coat. He’d forgotten how infernally cold it could be in this part of France.