At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

His hand was already on the doorknob. “The only person who would know me is Flynn and I’ll see him before he sees me.”

“Surely you’ve run into other terrorists while you were in the army?” she persisted. “Someone who might have ended up here?”

Slowly Ian shook his head. “No.”

“No, you’ve never run up against terrorists?” Her voice was getting squeaky with fear and frustration. “Then what makes you think you can have any luck with—”

“I didn’t say I hadn’t run up against terrorists,” Ian interrupted her in a weary voice. “I just said they wouldn’t have ended up here. Whether I like it or not I’m too much like Tim Flynn. I don’t leave witnesses either. Any terrorist I’ve run up against is dead.” His face was bleak.

Holly just stood there, the sense of unreality battening around her aching head. “Seven,” she said, remembering their conversation in Northern Ireland.

“Seven,” he said. “And Flynn’s the eighth.” The door shut silently behind him.

“What do you mean, he went out to reconnoiter?” Maggie demanded, staring at her sister in baffled fury. The sun had set, but Cul de Sac was more brightly lit than Las Vegas, and the sounds beyond their closed door were festive.

She and Randall had been eating a late supper when Holly’s hesitant knock on the door interrupted them. When she’d awakened that evening it had been in Randall’s arms, and for a few short hours she’d been at peace, but the moment she saw her sister’s worried face the tension was back again.

“I couldn’t stop him,” she said, taking Maggie’s wineglass and draining it. “Do you have anything else to eat? I didn’t want to call room service and have them find out Ian isn’t in his room. I didn’t feel up to answering any questions.”

“I don’t think anyone would ask any,” Randall said. “The woman who brought our dinner was a Salambian native, and didn’t know any English at all. I think Lazarus and the previous innkeepers here have it that way on purpose.”

“Speaking of Lazarus, Ian went to see him.”

There was a sudden stillness in the room, one that Maggie couldn’t miss. Randall toyed with his wineglass, seemingly at ease, but she wasn’t fooled. She rose from the table, gesturing her sister toward her half-finished portion, and moved over to the terrace. The courtyard was still crowded, although no one was swimming. Everyone was dressed up, laughing, partying, enjoying their vacation in the sun. Only the proliferation of side arms clashed with the cheerful tableau.

“What did Lazarus have to say?” Randall asked with what appeared to be only desultory interest. But Maggie knew better.

“Not much, apparently. Just told him to make himself welcome, that sort of thing.”

“Did he ask about us?”

“Not according to Ian. As a matter of fact, Ian was disappointed. He was hoping Lazarus would be someone he knew.”

Randall shrugged, and Maggie watched the tension recede infinitesimally from his shoulders. “We can be grateful he wasn’t.”

“That still doesn’t solve our problem,” Holly persisted. “I’m scared half to death. Where the hell is Ian?”

“I imagine he’s looking for Flynn,” Randall said, his voice remote. “Or maybe he’s already found him.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Holly stopped with a forkful of fresh asparagus halfway to her mouth.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” The fork clattered onto the Limoges plate as she raised huge, desperate eyes to Randall’s shadowed face. Once more Maggie felt that small slash of jealousy, once more she stifled it.

“There’s nothing I can do right now. This place is teeming with people who know me far too well. If I put one foot outside this door, Lazarus and his crew would be down on me before I could sneeze. We’ve got the perfect setup for Flynn. I was right—he’s scheduled for the second round of surgery tomorrow. It’ll be easy enough to exchange his time with Mizal. A slip of the knife, something going wrong with the anesthesia, and Flynn’s death will be a regrettable accident. I’ll be too shaken to operate the rest of the day, and we can leave without anyone being the wiser.”

“What makes you think you can pull it off?” Maggie countered. “Or me, for that matter? Don’t you think the other medical personnel will notice if we start butchering the patients?”

“I can fool anyone,” he said, and his tone was matter-of-fact, not boasting. “All you have to do is keep quiet and do as I say.”

“Don’t you think someone—Mizal, for instance—might object if we kill Flynn?”

“No one gives a damn about anyone else here. They’re only concerned with their own skins,” he replied. “It’ll be quick, efficient, and more humane than he deserves. As long as Ian doesn’t blow it.”

“I don’t like it,” Maggie said flatly, turning away from him. “It sounds too … too callous, too cold-blooded.”

“You’d rather have high noon in the courtyard, wouldn’t you?” he mocked, but the mockery was gentle. “Give him a fighting chance and all that?”