twenty-six

EN ROUTE TO MARYLAND

Irish and Amy headed back to Washington and Chesapeake Bay. It seemed they had spent a lifetime beside each other in a car. The small space wrapped a deceptive web of intimacy around them.

They had stopped at a pistol range on their way. Irish wanted her to take another lesson, make sure she remembered everything.

She did. Though she handled the gun awkwardly, she held it safely, loaded it safely, and hit at least part of the target that was fifteen feet away. If she had to aim a greater distance, they would both be in deep trouble.

She placed the gun back in her purse, and he put his in the holster at the back of his belt, again wearing a sports shirt over it. They’d also stopped at an outlet store and bought a few shirts, and some dog food.

Irish knew that she intended to go with him, no matter what he said. But he had his own plan. He had no intention of letting her anywhere close to Eachan’s house. He had asked one of his friends to stay with her, to make sure she was safe. It was the best he could do for her. And Bojangles. Hell, he’d fallen for the damn mutt, too.

Dropping her off was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. And the most necessary.

They were setting a trap for a man or an organization with nearly unlimited assets. The only advantage on their side was that the bad guys needed to make things look like an accident. They could not spray bullets all over the place. He suspected they would send a team of three or four.

He and his friends could take care of that. Unless, of course, a woman and a dog stood in the middle of gunfire.

There was also the question of Dustin Eachan. They hadn’t shared the information they found in the desk. Irish still didn’t trust Eachan completely. His rise in the State Department had been a little too fast. He had friends. But he’d also seen the man’s concern for his cousin. His feelings obviously went a lot deeper than cousinly affection. Irish just wasn’t sure how far that went. Or, indeed, whether it was any of his business.

For a moment, he wondered whether he knew that because of his own feelings. Amy Mallory—practical, pragmatic—had insinuated herself so deeply into his life that he wasn’t sure he could ever let her go. He’d never felt … committed before. He’d certainly never felt that he couldn’t live without a woman.

He felt that way now. He couldn’t imagine returning to his solitary life. And that scared the hell out of him. Her profession and his just didn’t go together. She was about to get her fondest dream: tenure at a very good college. And he … well, he was used to traveling with only a toothbrush and a spare shirt in his duffel.

There was the ranch. He’d been thinking about that steadily now. But that wouldn’t solve her problem. There were no colleges and universities within commuting distance to his ranch. And if he retired now, he would have barely enough money to live on, much less make the ranch a self-sustaining proposition. Nor would she be happy as an officer’s wife. He shuddered every time he thought of her at a military wives’ club, explaining that her entire life had been antimilitary.

She would wither. He couldn’t do it to her.

Nor could he move to Memphis and give up both his career and the ranch. That would eventually destroy him.

That was, if he still had a career after this. He had not directly disobeyed an order, but his conduct had certainly been questionable. At least to the military. He’d probably ended any chance at promotion, and he knew that meant he could well be forced out eventually. You either went up or went out.

Regardless, their lives—his and Amy’s—did not mesh. So he treasured every moment he was with her, the feeling of companionship as well as unbridled lust. No one had ever ignited every sense as she had. No one had brought out the tenderness he hadn’t realized survived twenty years of his occupation. No one had ever given him a sense of home and belonging before.

But it would come to an end this week. It had to. Today was Tuesday, tomorrow was Wednesday. He had to have her back in Memphis by Friday, or she might lose everything she’d worked for.

Still, it was going to be hard leaving her. She would feel abandoned. Hurt. Angry. She might never forgive him.

Nothing else to do.

She didn’t have a car. And she had the dog. She wouldn’t be able to come after him.

But he knew that while he was plotting to leave her somewhere safe, she was plotting just as hard to find a way to stay with him. In the intense days they had been together, it was the first time their needs and emotions and desires veered in different directions. He didn’t like the distance it placed between them, the fences they both were building so that one wouldn’t know the other’s thoughts.

When they stopped for lunch—again fast food takeout—they ate in silence. There was little to say. The almost mystical bond of knowing what the other was thinking had faded. Bo watched them both carefully, and Irish realized the dog felt the tension. But he didn’t know how to cut it, how to bring back the camaraderie, the connection. He felt, in fact, that he was betraying her even while trying to protect her.

She didn’t want protection that way. She’d made that clear. She wanted to be a part of whatever was planned. After Jekyll Island, she felt prepared to cope with anything, but she still didn’t understand the impact of violence. Of causing another’s death, or risking your own. Then it had been thrust upon her, and had happened so fast, she hadn’t had time to think. This would be planned. Carefully plotted.

He knew he could—and probably should—bring in the police, but he feared Hawke could smell it out and then cover his tracks, only to strike later. He couldn’t take that risk, not without more evidence.

So they continued their journey. Five more hours and they would reach Chestertown. One of his former team would meet them there. Sam Reynolds would stay with her at a motel. Mike and Tag would go with him to the house.

“You said you had a ranch,” she said suddenly, surprising him. He’d thought she would argue about staying behind. New tack.

“Hmmmmmm,” he muttered noncommittally.

“Where is it?”

“The Cimarron Valley in the Black Mountains.”

She smiled at that. “I like the name.”

“My grandfather called it Flaherty’s Folly. Somewhat less poetic. It’s in central Colorado, nestled in the mountains.”

“Do I detect longing?”

“Probably,” he said, glad that the conversation had moved from the next day.

“Is it a cattle ranch?”

“That’s an exaggeration,” he replied wryly. “That’s why he called it Flaherty’s Folly. We have a few cows. A foreman. And two thousand acres, some of it public land we lease. The taxes and maintenance take most of my pay. But it’s damned good land for cows. And horses. When I leave the service, I’ll probably try to raise horses or turn it into a dude ranch. That’s the only way something like Flaherty’s Folly can survive.”

“Will you miss the excitement of your job?”

“Most of it isn’t excitement. Most of it is just plain tedious.”

“I’ve never been to that part of Colorado,” she said.

He wanted to show it to her. He wanted to share the grand mountains with her, the rich green valleys. He really wanted to be with her when she watched a sun glide behind a mountain, spreading a blanket of gold and orange and coral across the sky.

Irish could almost see the delight in her eyes, the sense of wonder and awe that always grabbed him.

She was silent, and he looked toward her. Her eyelashes were closing over her eyes. “Get some sleep,” he said softly.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she put her hand on a sleeping Bo. A drowsy smile crossed her lips. “Okay,” she said.

Something warm settled inside him. Not lust, but a deep sense of belonging. He took one hand from the wheel and briefly touched her cheek, then returned it to the wheel. In seconds her head drooped slightly.

Five hours later, he made a turn off the interstate onto another road. In a few moments, they would be in Chestertown, Maryland, about an hour from Eachan’s Chesapeake Bay home.

The sun was going down, and the air was humid. Dense and hot. It was smothering, and he smelled a coming storm. He didn’t know whether that would be a hindrance or a help. But then, with the weather on this coast, it might well be gone tomorrow.

CHESTERTOWN, MARYLAND

Irish drove up to the motel Sam had suggested. He was from the area and knew it well. In fact, he was a fisherman now, a far cry from the Special Forces member he once had been.

The others had gone into security work.

Irish found himself anxious to see them again. It had been years.

His gaze scoured the parking lot. Then he saw Sam perched on a chair beside a small swimming pool. He immediately rose.

“Hey, man.” Sam wore swimming trunks and looked as fit as always. His face and arms were bronze. His military crewcut, though, had been replaced by long hair tied back by a piece of rawhide. But his smile was as blinding as ever, revealing white, even teeth.

Irish raised an eyebrow, and his eyes lingered on Sam’s hair.

Sam grinned. “Middle-age rebellion.”

“I seem to remember you were always a rebel.”

“I tried being respectable for a while. Didn’t work.”

“Can you still shoot?”

“That’s something that never goes away,” he said, sobering instantly. “Like riding a bicycle.”

“Not exactly,” Amy said.

Sam turned all his attention on Amy. “Your lady?”

Irish liked the way that sounded. “Yes,” he said. “Remember it.” Then he turned to Amy. “Amy, this is an old friend, Sam. Sam, Amy.”

Amy held out her hand, and Sam held it a fraction of a second too long. “I’m glad to meet you, Sam.”

Sam looked at Irish. “A winner, my friend.”

Irish watched as his old friend eyed Amy with appreciation. Sam was four inches shorter than Irish, and had to look up slightly to meet Amy’s eyes, but that didn’t seem to faze him. For a moment, Irish regretted contacting Sam. Sam always had been a ladies’ man.

“How’s your wife, Sam?” he asked.

Sam’s green eyes twinkled. “Long gone. Thought fishing was as bad as the military. Never at home, she said.”

“Hell, and I thought you were the safe one.”

“I am, old buddy.”

Irish raised a warning eyebrow.

Sam’s grin immediately faded, and he nodded. He took a key out of his pocket and handed it to Irish. “Room one-twelve. I’m room one-fourteen. I checked you both in. Mr. and Mrs. David Saunders.”

“No problem with the dog?”

“I slipped the clerk an extra twenty.” Sam glanced down at Bo, who was slinking between Amy and Irish, and panting heavily. Panic attack. Well, he’d been dragged over hell and back.

Irish leaned down and picked Bo up. “This is a friend,” he said.

Sam held out his hand and let the dog smell him. Bo hesitated, then his tail started wagging slowly.

“He’s a little timid,” Amy offered.

“Not a good watchdog, huh?”

She looked at Irish and smiled. “He can be. When absolutely necessary. He just doesn’t like conflict.”

“Well, that’s perfectly okay. I like that kind better.” With those words, Sam won Amy’s heart.

Sam turned back to Irish. “The other guys are at the house. It should be ready by this evening.”

“All the sensors? The phone tapped? Rooms wired?”

Sam nodded. “Everything you requested, including the weapons.”

“I’ll go over there. Directions?”

Sam held a piece of paper out to him. “I wrote them down for you. Pretty fancy digs.”

“I want you to stay here with Amy.”

Amy stiffened next to him. “At least let me stay until you make the call. Then I’ll leave.”

Irish shook his head. “I don’t want you anywhere around there.”

“There’s two houses,” she reminded him. “Dustin Eachan’s and the neighbor’s.”

“Yeah, and our friends—if they’re any good—will probably check out the neighboring properties.”

“But not until you call them. I’ll be gone by then.”

“What about Bo?” Irish asked.

“I can take him with me.”

Seeing the plea in her eyes, Irish surrendered. It would be safe. At least for several hours. Then … she wouldn’t feel as left out. Sam could make sure she didn’t return. Reluctantly, he nodded.

Sam had looked from him to Amy and back again, obviously trying to ferret out the dynamics of their relationship. Then he shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll change. I thought this was the most unobtrusive way of watching for you.”

“Unobtrusive?” Amy said with a grin. With his tan and build, he would attract any number of stares from admiring women.

He grinned back, then walked toward the motel.

Amy watched him with more interest than Irish would have liked. He put Bo down and took her hand. “Let’s unpack,” he said. “Then we drive to the house.”

SEDONA, ARIZONA

Sally tried to dissipate the awkwardness. Her mother was no more the cuddly mother she’d always wanted than she had been during Sally’s childhood. Instead, she was hesitant and reserved. Watchful and wary.

Sally understood that. As she had grown older, she’d regretted not having a relationship with her mother, but she hadn’t known how to change it. Particularly since part of her heart died that hour she’d heard about her father’s death.

Dustin had tried to tell her that her father was not all she had believed, that there were reasons her mother left. He had been abusive when he drank, and he drank often. But Sally had never seen that part of him. Never. She had been his princess. He’d bought her her first pony and taught her to ride. He’d hadn’t always been there, but when he was, it was magic time. Her mother, on the other hand, had been silent and withdrawn. She remembered screaming at her mother, “You never loved Daddy. You took him away from me.”

But now, sitting in the office behind the gallery her mother owned, she felt an odd affinity for the woman whom she’d effectively cut from her life. She looked at the paintings and realized they shared more than blood. They both had a love of art and painting. Why hadn’t she realized that before? Was it because her mother hadn’t taken her in her arms and hugged her as other mothers did? She looked at her mother and realized for the first time that it might not have been lack of love, but her mother’s own reserved emotions.

In the first hours after arriving at Sedona, they had stopped at a specialty clothing store and bought some clothes for her, then went to her mother’s house, where they had tea. Sally once more had tried to get her to leave Sedona.

Her mother had flatly refused. “This is my home. No one is going to scare me away.”

Sally had been frustrated, but grudgingly impressed. She’d looked around the house, which was filled with western paintings, and saw her mother’s signature on them. “You still paint?”

“For pleasure,” her mother said. “I’m not good enough to do it commercially.”

But she was. Sally knew that from looking at the paintings, and instantly she knew they had something else in common. If they couldn’t be the best, they opted not to compete. She studied each painting. If there was a problem, it was control. They were technically wonderful, but there was no sense of freedom in them.

“You see it, don’t you?” her mother said.

“They’re very good.”

“Not good enough.”

After tea, they went into the gallery. It featured western paintings, both originals and prints. There were also sculptures, including one Remington. Sally fondled the sculpture with wondering hands.

She was aware that her mother was watching her, and she turned, offering a tentative smile. “You have beautiful things.”

“You used to draw, too,” Chloe said. “Do you still?”

“Not for a long time. But Dusty brought me some supplies, and I played with it a little.”

“I’m glad. You were good. You had talent I didn’t have.”

Stunned at the admission, Sally turned to her. “I always thought you were wonderful.”

Her mother shook her head. “I can draw what I see. I can’t go beyond that.” She hesitated. “That’s what your grandfather told me, and he was right.”

Sally was beginning to see an uncomfortable picture. She knew her grandfather was a connoisseur of fine art. She also knew how hard he was on people, particularly people who disappointed him. What had he done to her mother?

“I’m glad Dustin got you started again.” Her mother nervously played with a pen. “I remember you used to call him Dusty. No one else could get away with that.”

“He’s been a friend.” She realized she was biting her lip, something she used to do as a child.

But something in her voice must have alerted her mother. She sat up, and her eyes narrowed. “Nothing more?”

“He’s my cousin,” Sally said simply.

“Cousins have … married before.”

“Not in our family. Grandfather pounded it into us that it was a sin.”

“Do you love him?”

“Of course I do. He’s my cousin.”

“And if he wasn’t?”

“And if pigs fly,” Sally answered.

“Maybe pigs can fly under certain conditions.”

Sally stared at her mother. “What are you trying to say?”

“Dustin isn’t your cousin.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“You don’t know where they are?” The voice was laced with ridicule.

“They left no tracks,” came the defensive voice over the telephone line. He was calling from a cellular phone to what he knew was a safe line. It bounced off any number of satellites.

“Strange,” said the caller. “I know where they are. That should have been your job, not mine.”

Silence. “Where is he?”

“Flaherty called Eachan. There’s a connection between all three now. Exactly what should not have happened if you’d done your job.”

“If you tell me where.…”

“Then you would probably mess it up again. Destroying that house was sloppy. There were questions.”

“There shouldn’t have been.”

“Two strangers without names? You didn’t think there would be questions?”

A little desperation came into the voice. “Tell me where they are. I’ll take care of it My men.…”

“Are as sloppy as you. How many chances have you had now? Three? Four? You said you were the best.”

“I am. My men are.”

“I think they could be headed toward Eachan’s second home on the Chesapeake. I’m not positive, but we intercepted a phone call between the two. Since Flaherty maintained silence until now, it’s possible he knows we’re listening. However, he might also believe that Eachan is untouchable because of his position. His house would be swept frequently for bugs.”

Silence on the other end.

“Find out what it is,” said the caller. “A trap? Or has our Colonel Flaherty made a mistake?”

“How do I do that?”

“Do I really have to tell you your job? I thought I hired the best security people in the business. I would hate to discover I made a mistake. I want Flaherty and the woman dead, and I want it to look like an accident. Once they’re gone, I can handle Eachan. He’s a very ambitious man, and he has another weakness. So find his cousin as well.”

He slammed down the telephone.

CHESAPEAKE BAY, MARYLAND

Eachan’s house was everything Amy had dreamed about. Traditional and roomy and comfortable. A second-story balcony overlooked the bay. A sailboat was anchored just off a dock and boathouse. The house itself was more comfortable than imposing, and that surprised Amy. After meeting Dustin Eachan, she’d expected Architectural Digest.

Amy had driven with Irish to the house. Sam had followed. He was, she knew, to take her back to the motel. Irish would make the all-important call, then wait with his friends to see what developed.

But now she and Irish and Bo explored the house. She wanted to know everything about the house, about the preparations.

The home to its left was more elaborate, the landscaping more formal. She wondered whether that was the vacationing neighbors’ house.

Amy recalled the fire that ruined her own house. She shuddered to think the same thing might happen here. But Irish felt he had taken precautions against that happening. Brian Jordan, if he was the person behind all this, couldn’t afford another explosion.

Once inside, Bo followed her into the living room. Two men inhabited a cozy living room filled with overstuffed furniture and books.

They rose as she entered. Unlike Sam with his long hair, these two had short, neatly trimmed hair. They were clean shaven, and their bodies were obviously in extremely good shape. They had enough age that character was carved in their faces. They looked lethal.

Irish introduced the two just as Sam walked in. Mike and Taggart. Mike was a big blond in jeans and work shirt. Taggart wore expensive slacks and a dark blue sport coat over a blue shirt.

They both grinned. “Long time, Irish,” Taggart said.

“Thought you’ve given up all this for the ranch,” Mike said. “It was all you talked about.”

“I didn’t choose this,” Irish said. “It chose me.”

Mike looked at Amy. Raised an eyebrow. Then shrugged. “We’ve rigged the house. There are two separate telephone lines. We bugged both of them, as well as every room. Doors have sensors. Also installed sensors along the hall. You’ll know if anyone’s coming.”

“I appreciate it. Send me your bill.”

“You’re crazy, Irish. I’ve been waiting a long time to pay back a debt.” Mike, the big blond, looked at Amy. “He saved my life a long time ago. Whatever he wants, he gets.”

“You couldn’t pay my price,” Taggart, the dark-haired one, added with a grin.

“Things that good, Tag?”

“Executive protection is a big business.”

Amy turned her attention to Mike. “What do you do?”

“Worked with New York P.D. for ten years, then went into business for myself.”

“He’s a private dick,” Tag said. “Tried to get him to go in with me, but he would rather work for shyster attorneys.”

It was obvious to Amy that this was a frequent argument. The two men argued like old friends while they regarded Irish with some awe. She stepped back and looked at the four of them. Irish had always struck her as a loner, and the others made it clear they hadn’t seen him in years. And yet they came from God knew where when he called.

Still, he seemed separate from them. When she had first met him, her initial impression was that he kept people at arm’s length. In the past week, some of that feeling had faded. They had become close in so many ways. And yet, she realized, it was still there. Irish Flaherty was a man who never totally lowered the barriers.

She also knew, from looking at these men, that she didn’t belong here. They all lived on the edge of danger. It was as much a part of their being as academia was a part of hers. She looked away from them and toward the Chesapeake, which sparkled through the window. Distant sailboats danced on its surface, and the sun sent ribbons of gold rippling over the water.

If there had ever been a portrait of peace and tranquillity, the bay was it. If there had ever been a portrait of violence, the four men in the room represented it. The juxtaposition sent waves of anguish through her. While the past weeks had made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt in her life, she knew deep within her that she needed something else. Tranquillity? Safety? Normalcy? She had built her life around those goals.

“Amy?”

She turned around at the sound of Irish’s voice. Deep. Reassuring. Loving?

She closed her eyes against the pain she suddenly felt, then quickly opened them, hoping the others didn’t see that moment of weakness.

“I’m here,” she said. “I was just looking at the bay.”

“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” the one called Tag said.

She nodded.

Tag led the way, pointing out the location of the phones, the sensors, the tiny cameras hidden in heating vents. She was familiar enough with the concept. She knew that such technologies were readily available to the public now through catalogs and even through stores that specialized in ways to spy upon your neighbor. As a civil libertarian, she had been appalled. She had certainly never thought she would be involved in their use.

Still, despite the little spying devices located throughout, she fell in love with the house. Her opinion of Dustin Eachan, who’d seemed a little arrogant and pompous, ratcheted up a notch. There was a large kitchen with shining pans hanging from hooks around an island. Two large bedrooms downstairs. One large bedroom and balcony upstairs. It looked pristine. If nothing else, Dustin Eachan was a very neat person—or he had a very competent housekeeper.

Then they went down to the living area that looked out over the Chesapeake.

Irish looked at his watch. “Four-thirty. It’s time for the call. Hawke Jordan will be at home, and Brian Jordan should be at the office.”

Amy had listened as they discussed the best way to approach the Jordans. It was obvious that the older Jordan was the catalyst for what had happened. How much did his son know? That was the question.

Hawke Jordan was eighty years old now, but Dustin Eachan had said he still went into the office each morning, though now he left about 1 P.M. He apparently had been loath to entirely surrender the company to his son, although Brian Jordan was chief executive officer.

Irish picked up a cellular phone that had a tap inside.

Amy put her hand on his. “Won’t he wonder whether it’s a trap if he can trace the number?”

“Tag’s an electronic genius. This signal will be bouncing off several satellites. He’ll be able to find us eventually, but it’s going to be very, very difficult. I don’t think he’ll figure out that we really want him to know where we are. Or that it’s plan b.” Irish dialed the home number Tag had obtained from hacking into the Jordan Industries computer.

Amy moved next to him, close enough to hear. Bo curled himself around her feet in his possessive mode.

A woman answered the phone. “Jordan residence.”

“I would like to speak with Hawke Jordan.”

“That’s impossible. Mr. Jordan suffered a stroke several days ago. He cannot be disturbed.”

“He’s home? Not in a hospital?”

“There’s a nurse with him.”

Amy saw the look on Irish’s face. Disappointment. Did Dustin Eachan know about this? She felt the same disappointment.

Irish tried one last time. “Tell him an old friend wants to talk to him. Tell him that Flaherty is on the phone.”

“I don’t think.…”

“Just tell him.”

A pause, the sound of a telephone being laid down on a desk.

Several moments later, the woman’s voice came on again. “He’s sleeping. I won’t wake him. If you leave your number and location, I’ll give him your message.”

Location?

“Is his son there?”

Hesitation. Then, reluctantly, “Yes.”

“Then I want to talk to him.”

“He is with his father. He cannot talk now. As I said, if you will leave a message.…”

“Tell him I know about the gold. If he doesn’t talk to me now, I go to the police.”

An audible gasp. “I’ll … tell him.”

Irish winked at Amy and formed an O with two fingers for the others.

In a moment, she heard a deep voice rumble through the receiver. “Brian Jordan. What do you want?”

“I want you to call off your dogs.”

Amy inched closer so she could hear better. Her head and Irish’s were nearly together.

“I have no idea what you mean. My father is a very ill man, and I don’t want him disturbed.”

“You have more than disturbed my friend Dr. Mallory, and me,” Irish said in a voice that could form ice cubes. “And now I want something for our trouble, plus a guarantee that nothing else will happen to her.”

“You should write fiction, Mr … Flaherty, is it? Or perhaps visit a psychiatrist. And now I am going to hang up.”

“I have a number that might interest you,” Irish said. He recited the number that was found in General Mallory’s desk. Amy knew neither of them were sure whether it had any validity or any meaning to Jordan, but it was the best chance they had.

A silence again.

“I also have a written account from General David Mallory about what happened fifty years ago. I wonder whether the federal government is aware that Jordan Industries was financed with stolen gold.”

“About that psychiatrist, Mr. Flaherty, I advise you to visit him soon.”

“That’s very good, Mr. Jordan. But you might ask your father before you turn down my offer. He might have a reservation or two.…”

“Look, if you want a job with the company …” Brian Jordan was obviously being very, very careful as to what he was saying.

“I want a lot more than a job,” Irish said. “Perhaps we can make a small trade.”

“Again, Mr. Flaherty I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“All right, Brian.” He emphasized the last word. “Then I’ll take what I have to the FBI tomorrow.”

Pause again. “Your grandfather was a friend of my father’s,” he said. “I would like to meet you. What about my office?”

Irish laughed into the phone. “I don’t think so.”

“Somewhere convenient to both of us, then?”

“You’re in Baltimore?”

“Yes.”

“Annapolis, then. City Dock. There’s always a lot of people there.”

“And Miss Mallory?” Jordan said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. Or else I’ll wait until we can all get together.”

Irish started to say no. She shook her head. “I’ll consider it,” Irish said.

“Noon?” Jordan said.

“Noon it is,” Irish confirmed.

“Where do I find you?”

“I think you will recognize me,” Irish replied dryly. “I know what you look like. I think I can find you.”

“I’ll try to be there.”

“No, my friend,” Irish said. “You be there, or my next stop is the FBI. And, oh, Brian.…” Again the disrespectful familiarity.

“Yes?”

“I have insurance. A lot of it.”

Another pause, then a firm “Good day, Colonel Flaherty.” The phone went dead.

Irish switched off the phone.

“I’m going with you,” Amy said.

“No,” Irish said flatly.

“Yes, I am. Otherwise he won’t show.”

“He probably won’t show anyway. He’ll have his lackeys there.”

“We don’t know he’s involved with all this. It might be his father. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Then he wouldn’t have agreed to meet.”

“Won’t he believe it’s a trap?”

“I’m sure he will. But he’ll have someone there anyway, and hopefully we can either take them or identify them. They have to know what we have, and he’ll want to size us up. Hell, Jordan thinks he’s smarter than us. People like him usually do. Arrogance is a weakness. And from what Eachan said, our Brian Jordan is very, very arrogant.”

“Then what?”

“If he decides we don’t have anything, then I think we’ll continue to be in danger. We know about him. Either he or his father or someone working for them doesn’t want any loose ends.”

“And if he decides we do?”

“He’ll try to find some way to get it. Payoff, maybe. But he knows, and I know, that wouldn’t end the possibility of exposure. He’ll come after us.”

“So it’s a matter of sooner of later?”

He looked at her levelly. “Yes. Our best chance is to make him so angry he gets careless.”

“Then I have to go. Tag will be there. And Mike. Sam. I’ll be okay.”

Irish’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Tag. Mike. Sam. What about me?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Does it?”

“And I have my pistol.”

“Could you actually shoot someone?”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to lie. She simply didn’t know. Had she changed that much in these past weeks? Could she actually take a life?

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He leaned over and kissed her. “You are the most honest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Then I can go?”

“Absolutely not. Bo needs you. And Sam’s going to look after you both.”

Maybe. But not if she could do anything about it. But she didn’t say that. She would convince him.

Tonight.