At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

“What?”

“Never mind,” Randall said with a weary sigh. “Come on, Maggie. Miles to go before we sleep.”

“Miles?” she echoed unhappily.

“Miles.”

“And we can’t drive?”

“It wouldn’t be wise,” he said.

Maggie stopped complaining. There was a heavy fog lingering over the hills and valleys as they tramped in silence. The dampness crept beneath the cape and sweater, and Maggie shivered in the darkness. She’d been fool enough to wear her new leather boots, and her feet hurt like hell. Next time she’d stick with her Nikes.

In complete silence she followed Randall down the deserted roadways, the mist clinging to them like a malevolent ghost. Several times she opened her mouth to complain, to challenge, to break through the still night air. Each time she closed it again, trudging onward in silence.

They were approaching a town—the lights glowed eerily through the fog and the muffled sounds came and went, bouncing off the thick mist. Randall had come to an abrupt halt, and through the shifting light and shadows Maggie could see the pub not more than a hundred yards away. The door opened, and noise and light and laughter spilled out for a moment, then disappeared like the closing of a tomb.

Maggie ignored the shiver of apprehension that swept over

her. She wanted that light and warmth, not the cold, deadly darkness around her. “What the hell are we waiting for, Randall?” she demanded in a heavy whisper. “It must be after midnight by now. Let’s go in and find O’Banion.”

“Not yet.” His voice was low, emotionless, and brooked no possibility for argument. Maggie once more contemplated bloody vengeance as she stood behind Randall in the alleyway.

“You want to tell me what you’re waiting for, Randall?” she inquired with ironic courtesy. “Or am I just supposed to stand here all night and freeze to death while you decide whether it’s safe or not?”

“Stop bitching,” he whispered, not bothering to glance in her direction. “I may be saving your life.”

“You may be giving me pneumonia. What—” Her voice stopped abruptly, not even needing his sudden, furtive gesture. She could hear it as well as he could, the sound of booted feet moving stealthily down the cobbled roadway.

She edged closer to him, forgetting for the moment her distaste at his nearness. In the cold damp air his body heat was curiously comforting, and she didn’t even notice when he put an arm around her, half in restraint, half in protection.

He was intent, listening, and she tilted her face up to his, curious. The footsteps drew closer, and in the shadowy night she could see the silhouettes of half a dozen men edging toward the pub. And then, through the darkness, came an eerie clicking noise. The sounds of weapons being readied. She watched with horror as they moved in on the pub, and she opened her mouth to scream a warning to the people in the pub. A warning that never came.

six

Randall slammed her back against the side of the building, hard, and his hand crushed her open mouth. The scream died to a gurgle in her throat as she kicked at him, struggling as he subdued her. From the corner of her eye she could see the light once more flood the dark street, hear the noise and laughter. And then there was no sound but the thunder of machine guns, drowning out everything, drowning out screams and pleas and weeping. As suddenly as it began, it was over, and there was silence once more, silence and darkness. Any light in the pub had been smashed by the storm of bullets.

“Well done, lads,” a voice said. It wasn’t O’Banion’s voice, and Maggie wondered if their informant was lying dead in that pub. Randall’s body still held her immobile against the wall, and the two of them scarcely breathed.

“You want to see if anyone’s left?” another voice questioned. A woman’s voice.

“No need. We’ve been thorough enough. I think we’d better move fast. The villagers know well enough to stay behind closed doors, but we don’t want to risk running into any witnesses.”

“What about the Americans? Shouldn’t we make sure … ?” Again the woman’s voice, cool and businesslike.

“Faith, don’t worry, Maeve. They swallowed Flynn’s tale, hook, line, and sinker. They’re there, all right. And Flynn’s on his way to Beirut by now. It’s been a good night’s work. Stop looking for trouble.” They were moving away then, six or seven dark-clothed strangers on a walk in the damp night air. Their voices drifted away, then back, bouncing off the fog, and then faded away entirely.

Slowly, slowly Randall lifted his hand from her mouth. His body kept her pressed against the wall, and in truth, she was glad of it. For the moment she didn’t think her legs would support her.

“I couldn’t let you scream, Maggie,” he said, his voice low and grim. “You couldn’t have saved them, and they would have killed us too.”

“So instead we had to watch. It’s a hell of a choice, Randall,” she said quietly.

A bleak smile lit his face. “Be glad you didn’t have to make it.”

She nodded. He was warm in the chilly winter air. He was a few inches taller than she was, and broader, and his body covered hers, protecting her from the wind. She could feel his thighs pressed against her trembling legs, the bones of his hips, the warmth of his torso and strength of his arms around her. She knew she should push him away, but she didn’t have the strength. She used her mouth instead.

“You want to let go of me now?” she said. Her voice didn’t come out the way she’d planned it. Not terse and laconic, it sounded almost wistful.