At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

“Which category do you fit in?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you a would-be soldier of fortune or a frustrated housewife?”

Maggie looked across at him. “You’re treading on thin ice, Randall. You should … Jesus, what’s that?” A figure loomed up in the gathering shadows, and Maggie dove toward the backseat with the guns.

Randall caught her halfway there, slamming the jeep to a stop and cursing. “It’s a goat, Maggie,” he said, and his hands were hard on her arms. “They wander all over the place. Now’s not the time to get spooked.”

She pulled back, away from him, sinking back into the front seat, the lethal little Uzi machine gun safe in her hands. “Sorry,” she muttered.

Randall leaned over and switched off the ignition, and the silence around them was deafening. Only the quiet sound of the goat, munching away on some of the sparse vegetation, penetrated the stillness. “I’m in charge,” he announced flatly. “You’ll do what I tell you, no questions asked, no arguments. Understood?”

“Who made you king of the world?”

“I did. I know the territory, Maggie. I’ve gone up against people like Flynn before—you haven’t.”

“How do you know?”

A weary smile lit his dark face. “Maggie, I know everything there is to know about you.”

“The hell you do.”

“I know you’re afraid of the dark, and I know why. Your stepfather raped you in a dark poolhouse when you were sixteen, and you’ve hated the darkness ever since. I know the names of every man you’ve ever slept with, I know your bank balance and your measurements and your favorite wine and your favorite kind of pizza. I know who you love and who you hate. I just don’t know why you hate me.”

She bit back the surge of rage. “I hope your informants are more reliable than Ian’s have been.”

“They’re worth the money I pay them. Are you going to tell me why you hate me?”

“Does it matter?”

His eyes met hers for a long, silent moment, and she had the uneasy feeling that they understood each other far too well. “Not right now,” he said finally. “Just so long as you do what I tell you, just so long as you trust me for the next couple of hours. Will you give me that much?”

She didn’t even argue. “Yes.”

He nodded, and she could see the faint trace of relief in his shadowed eyes. “All right. We’ll head toward the clearing and—” His voice broke off as a sudden rumbling trembled across the rough land.

“Hell and damnation!” Maggie said. “It’s a helicopter.”

Randall didn’t waste a moment. The Bronco roared into life, the headlights split the gathering darkness, and they were careening through the night. Maggie held on for dear life, the Uzi clutched in her grip, her mind and emotions numb. In the next few minutes she would have to fire the damned thing, and suddenly there was a hell of a lot of difference between a suburban firing range and a Lebanese night.

It was endless moments before they reached the campsite. The helicopter was already taking off, the wind from its huge propellers whipping everything in sight, and the bright lights blinded them as the Bronco skidded to a stop.

“Get down!” Randall shouted to her over the deafening noise as he rolled out of the seat and hit the ground running. Bullets were flying everywhere, spitting into the dirt around Maggie, shattering the windshield, thudding into the carcass of the Bronco. And Randall was firing back, toward the rapidly receding helicopter that was disappearing into the twilight sky.

Quickly Maggie spun around, on the lookout for any gun-wielding confederates Flynn might have left behind. No one, not a trace of life from the deserted building, the collapsed tent fluttering madly in the helicopter’s wake.

And then he was gone, Flynn and his cohorts, out of reach, out of range, and the noise of the copter faded into a gentle flapping and then into silence. Slowly Randall rose from his crouch beside the Bronco, rose and looked over at her.

“Are you okay?” The question was polite, showing none of the rage and frustration he must be feeling.

“Yes,” said Maggie. “How about you?”

“Fine.” The word was short, clipped.

It was getting darker. There was still the trace of a fire in the middle of the clearing, and there were piles of refuse scattered all about. Depression was settling over her. A logical reaction to a missed chance, she told herself, shivering lightly in the warm night air. She could smell diesel fuel from the helicopter, smoke from the fire, and something else, something she knew but refused to recognize. “Can we go now?” she said, and her voice shook slightly.

He just looked at her. “Not quite yet,” he said. “Do you want to stay in the Bronco while I take care of the bodies?”