At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

“You don’t think Ian would have made certain?” She followed him into the suite, pausing inside the bedroom door and holding her breath against that smell she recognized far too well.

“Maybe.” Randall leaned over the collapsed bed, then straightened up again. “He’s dead, all right.” He moved away, his footsteps making squelching noises in the soaked carpet. “Why’d he have to shoot him in the waterbed?”

“I don’t think they had much choice,” Maggie said, backing out of the room. “What’s your other job?”

He looked up then, his blue-gray gaze even. “I have to take care of Lazarus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Randall. We know where Cul de Sac is, and we know it’s full of murderers and terrorists. Can’t someone just send a bomber? The Salambian army isn’t big enough to do anything about it.” She could hear the whirring noises in the background, the ones that had terrified her before, but she was too intent on Randall to pay them any mind.

“I expect someone will. But I’m not taking any chances. Ian had his destiny with Flynn, I have mine with Lazarus.”

“Who the hell is Lazarus?” she demanded, frustrated.

“Who do you think, sweet cakes?”

She didn’t want to turn. She didn’t want to have to look into that face she thought was long dead, she didn’t want to have to hear that barely recognizable voice. But she had no choice in the matter. Slowly she turned, her gaze dropping onto the shriveled figure in the automatic wheelchair.

Bud Willis. Lazarus, once dead, now alive. Or partly so. He had machines wired up to him, breathing for him, moving for him, pumping his blood for him. A clear plastic tube ran from the tanks on the back of the wheelchair into his throat, his eyes were bloodshot and cheerful, his skull and face a travesty of what they’d been.

“Oh, no,” she said, her voice sick and shaking.

“You can’t keep a good man down, sugar buns.” He glided into the room. “You should have known I don’t die that easy. Randall did.”

“I guessed,” Randall said.

“You two been having a good time?” he demanded, that wheezing, rasping voice a travesty. “How’d you like my little deathbed confession?”

Maggie was holding herself very still. “You bastard. To lie like that …”

“Who said it was a lie?” Bud said.

She didn’t dare look at Randall. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her, but she knew that if she turned she’d weaken. “Was it a lie?” she had to ask.

Bud grinned. “That’s for me to know, baby and I’m sure as hell not going to tell you.” He moved farther into the room with the faintest movement of his shriveled left hand. “How do you like this place? Some setup, eh? We can thank the Company for part of this. They subsidized my relocation over here. Not to mention paying my medical bills. God, it’s great to come up against bleeding hearts. They’ll bend over backward for their enemies and let their friends starve to death.”

Maggie stared at him. Then she turned to Randall, her face calm and still. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You mean you’ll go off with the man who hired me to kill your husband?” Bud scoffed.

“It means I wouldn’t believe a word you say.”

“It’s your funeral,” Bud said. “And believe me, it will be. I have a couple of male nurses who are on their way here right now. They’re not too good on TLC but they’re great with a submachine gun.”

“We’ll be long gone,” Randall said.

“They’ll find you. But cheer up, sweet lips. Your sister and her boyfriend will get away. I’m more interested in the two of you.”

“We’re all going to get away.”

“No, you’re not,” Bud offered cheerfully.

It happened so swiftly Randall nearly missed it: the infinitesimal movement of Bud’s withered hand, the tiny metal plates swinging back from the front of the electronic wheelchair. He had just enough time to shove Maggie, hard, before a hail of tiny darts sprayed the wall directly behind the spot where she’d been standing.

For a man in Bud’s condition he moved very quickly. With a tiny flick of his finger the wheelchair spun around, the arsenal of poisoned darts following Randall. But he wasn’t quite fast enough. Randall dodged, darting past him. His long arm shot out and ripped the plastic tubing out of Bud’s throat.

Willis screamed, a gargling sort of noise as bright-red blood began to spill down the front of his shirt. Maggie stood there in a daze, watching, as he tried to catch his breath. But there was no breath for him; the machine was disconnected and he was too crippled to reach it. He sat there in the chair, his eyes wide and furious, gasping, choking, struggling, and completely helpless. His maddened eyes began to glaze over and his struggles lessened, and then stopped altogether. His head sank onto his blood-soaked chest.

“Let’s go,” Randall said, his voice steady.