Goddammit. I had five minutes to get to the area of LAX where I was supposed to meet Chili Valdez. I was cutting it close.
I strode through the concourse and shrugged my shoulders. I’d needed serious firepower, but the cannon under my arm—a Smith & Wesson Model 500 whose .50-cal cartridges could punch a hole in a brick wall—was going to take some getting used to. My Glock weighed only a fraction of the five pounds of the double-action revolver.
A woman stood observing the passersby, tapping her foot and drumming her fingers on her thigh. Her gaze slid past me, then returned, and she approached me. “Are you my passenger?”
“Are you Chili Valdez?”
“Yes.”
“Then yeah, I am. What gave me away?”
“Mr. Sebring told me to look for someone dangerous.”
“And you thought I....” I shook my head. “Here’s the first half of your fee.” I took an envelope from the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to her.
She peered into the envelope, nodded and put it in her own jacket pocket, and said, “Let’s get going.”
The first leg of our journey was over land, and I took advantage of it and slept the entire time—I knew I wouldn’t sleep once we were over the Atlantic—giving me the opportunity to catch my second wind.
Bryan Sebring was right. Chili Valdez was a good pilot, and we reached the East Coast in less than half the time it would take a commercial jet.
While she refueled and filed the flight plan to Charles de Gaulle Airport, I hit the head and then picked up coffee and sandwiches for both of us.
We caught a good tail wind, but even with that and with as good as she was, the Lear jet she flew wasn’t an SST. It took six hours before the coast of Ireland appeared to our left, and another hour before we landed in a small airport outside of Pairs. I’d instructed Ms. Valdez to alter the flight plan as soon as we neared Ireland.
We unfastened our seat belts and climbed out of the jet. “Do you want me to wait for you?” She looked into the second envelope I’d handed her.
“No, this was a one-way trip.” I’d fly home with Quinn. Neither of us could sleep on transoceanic flights, but we should find some way to amuse ourselves.
She met my gaze. “The last time I saw Paris was a few years ago. I think I’ll stay awhile.” She grinned at me and tapped the envelope against her palm. “And I hope you’ll consider flying Air Valdez again.”
I gave her a small salute, took out my phone, and walked away. “Hey babe,” I said when Quinn’s voice mail picked up. “I just wanted to let you know I’m in Paris. I’ll call you once this is cleared up. I… uh…” Damn. “I’ll see you.”
I hung up. I had to call Pete. He’d be waiting for me to get in touch with him.
Giuliani picked me up, driving the same black van I’d ridden in last May, when I’d come to get my spook away from the bastard who’d kidnapped him. This time they hadn’t bothered blacking out the windows—we weren’t going to Division headquarters.
Twenty minutes later we arrived at the building where Quinn had been held almost a year ago, to find the place like an anthill that had been stirred up.
Giuliani grabbed an operative who dashed by, pale and sweating. “What’s going on?”
“Reuben’s been taken.”
“What?”
“He went out on a recon operation and didn’t come back.”
“Shit!”
Yeah, Giuliani had that right.
“Where’s De Becque?”
“In Command.”
I gave him an impatient look. “Mind taking us there now?”
Turned out Command was the office Richard—who’d headed up Prinzip before Quinn speared him with a scalpel—had claimed as his own. Babineaux was seated at the huge desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his computer. Pete stood to Babineaux’s right, studying the screen.
He glanced up and then came around the desk and embraced me. “Mon cher m’sieur. Thank you for coming.”
I let him hug me. “I heard about Reuben just now. Any idea what happened?”
“Reuben went out to reconnoiter with two other operatives. None of them returned. And then Tactics called. He has Reuben, and he’s willing to make a trade.”
Sure he was. “What does he want?”
“Babineaux and Femme. As far as he’s concerned, they’re the most valuable.”
“And everyone else?”
“He says we may return.”
“All is forgiven?”
“Oui.”
“Do you believe him?”
His expression became blank. “Non. He’s giving us three hours to come to a decision.”
I didn’t pat his back; I’d have hated it like hell. “We’ll get Reuben back.”
“Of course we will. We’ll find a way to get into the Division. It’s an old building, and there must be passageways leading into the lower levels. Babineaux pulled up the Division’s architectural plans and is studying them.”
“Pierre, I’ve got it.” Babineaux looked tired, and he gave Giuliani a grateful smile when his lover went to him and began working the tension out of his shoulders.
“What did you find?” Pete returned to his place at Babineaux’s right.
“This antique shop on rue de Navarin? This passageway runs through the shop’s cellar, do you see? At one time it connected with the lower level of the Division, but that opening was sealed off when Richard and Lindsey took possession of the building.”
Pete nodded. “Can we gain entry?”
“A little plastique should do the trick.”
“It should also make enough noise to alert them they’ve got visitors,” I reminded Giuliani.
Pete tugged on his lower lip. “If there should be an accident just outside….”
“Do you honestly think they’re going to drop everything to run and see?”
“Perhaps not, but if the car should hit the front façade?”
“I have a friend who owns a Citroën he’s retrofitted,” Giuliani said. “If we fill it with explosives and then drive it into the building—that will definitely bring them running.”
“What happens to the driver? Your people may love you, Pete, but would they be willing to commit suicide for you?”
“I’ll be driving.” Giuliani met my gaze. “And I promise you I’m not suicidal.” Babineaux reached up and gripped the hand Giuliani had on his shoulder. “We all do what we need to do.”
Yeah, but this wasn’t a good idea. I’d known it from the moment The Boss had told me about Robert Lynx’s demand for help.
Still… if it was Quinn being held, I’d storm the fucking building alone if I had to.
“Okay, Pete. What do you need me to do?”
It worked, maybe because the operatives who stayed with Tactics were idiots, maybe because the fates decided we deserved a break.
I gazed down the corridor, which was littered with bodies. The operatives on both sides who’d been in Limbo were dead.
Well, I guessed that made sense, since if they’d been more competent, they wouldn’t have been sent to Limbo in the first place.
One interesting thing—no one from the Scarlet Chamber was identified. Was Kiska playing her own deep game, an attempt to wipe out the Division? More than one of the Division operatives had died cursing her name.
Pete came up beside me, the line of his mouth grim. “We’ve cleared every level. There’s only one place they can be.”
“They” were Tactics, Anacapri, and Reuben—if Reuben was still alive.
“Where’s that?” I wiped sweat off my brow with my forearm. I’d shed my jacket in the van before we entered the antique shop on rue de Navarin and made our way down to the subbasement.
“The Dungeon.”
“I always wanted to see Femme’s workplace.”
“Let me do the talking, Mark.” Pete and I had never worked together, and I observed him carefully. In spite of the fact that Tactics held his lover, Pete was cool and contained.
“This is your operation.”
“Bien sûr. Homme.” Pete gave him a signal, and Homme faded out of the room. “He’ll search the other rooms of the subbasement.”
It looked like Pete was getting into the delegating thing too.
We went into the room Femme called the Dungeon
Tactics stood behind a Plexiglas partition. The smirk on his lips made it clear this wasn’t ordinary Plexiglas.
“Where is Reuben?” Pete demanded. Homme was still searching the other rooms of the subbasement.
Tactics’s smirk broadened, and he waved a negligent hand. “He’s around somewhere. Why don’t you send your people to look for him? Oh wait. There’s just you and the American.”
“I’d prefer you tell me where he is. It will save us all time. Once we have him, we will leave, and the Division and Scarlet Chamber will all be yours.”
“Oh, they’re mine. And you’re all going to be dead. Why did you think I had you come to this chamber?” He raised his hand toward something that was out of view. “A press of this button, and this chamber will be flooded with carbon monoxide, as well as this entire level. You’ll all be dead.”
I ground my teeth. Tactics wasn’t suicidal—we couldn’t be that lucky. That partition must enclose part of this room; it would keep the son of a bitch safe.
“And Reuben?” Pete asked.
“His chamber is being flooded even as we speak.”
Jesus. Why did these idiots feel the need to go into loving detail about their plans?
“Pete?”
He’d turned gray, but he was still under control. “Yes, mon cher m’sieur.”
That was the only signal I needed. While Tactics was still yammering on, I yanked the Smith & Wesson out of its holster.
Dammit, it was too fucking long. The barrel snagged in the harness, and I lost precious seconds wrestling it out.
Tactics started laughing. With his attention focused on me, Pete slipped out.
I squeezed the trigger, and the Plexiglas erupted in a spiderweb of cracks angling out from the contact point just to the left of Tactics’s head.
He shied back, then sneered at me. “Asshole!”
“Come on, baby. Don’t fail me now.” I fired again, and this time the Plexiglas shattered.
Tactics’s amusement changed to dismay.
“Who’s the asshole now?” I snarled and fired once more. This bullet hit him square in the chest, punching a hole in it you could drive a semi through, and he dropped like a marionette whose strings had been sliced through.
There was a high-pitched keening. I knew it couldn’t be Tactics—he was dead. I wheeled toward it just as what sounded like a cap pistol went off, and a bullet clipped me in the meaty part of my right arm.
My arm went numb, and I lost my grip on the Smith & Wesson. “Son of a bitch!”
Carlyle was aiming a pistol at me. His hands shook, and the next bullet he fired went over my head.
“I loved Robert and he loved me. I only went with de Becque and his traitors because Robert asked me to.” Tears streamed down his face.
“He treated you like shit.”
“No. Powerful men do things their own way. He loved me!” He pulled back the slide, then cried out when it bit him—he’d caught the webbing between his thumb and forefinger in the slide.
A hole suddenly appeared between his eyes, and he fell like a stoned crow.
“Stupid boy,” Anacapri spat as she turned a .22 cal. Ruger on me. She fired again, and my leg folded under me. It felt as if a red-hot poker had been laid against it. I sat heavily, and gave a brief glance at the blood pouring from my thigh.
“Son of a bitch,” I snarled again. I sensed the presence of two people behind me, but I couldn’t let myself be distracted.
I grabbed for the handgun, but my right hand was useless. You are not going to die before you tell Quinn you love him, I ordered myself.
Two simultaneous shots were fired, one on either side of my head.
Great. Wasn’t this a kick in the teeth? An arm that was temporarily useless—I’d been shot before and recognized what was going on—a leg I was probably going to lose, just like Stanley had lost his, and to top it off, I’d be deaf as well.
I’d known this wasn’t a good idea.
Feminine hands pressed down on my thigh, and I lost consciousness.
***
Someone was holding my left hand. “Quinn?”
“Of course.”
I peeled open an eyelid. “It’s you?”
“Did you doubt it?” The grip on my hand tightened. “I thought I told you not to get hurt.”
“No, you said not to get dead.” I turned my head. Quinn was really there, sitting beside the bed I was in. He brought my hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss over it. “When did you get here?”
“I was at the Division.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Hardly, Mark. What do you remember?”
“Carlyle was a plant. He was working for the Division all along.”
“And?”
“That bitch Anacapri was getting set to blow my head off.”
“And?”
“And there were two gunshots in stereophonic sound. Hey, I can hear!”
“Had there been any doubt?”
“Before I blacked out, all I heard was ringing in my ears. The gunshots were close to my head.”
“I apologize, Mark. I should have.... I was so determined Anacapri wouldn’t put another bullet in you.”
“Where’d you shoot her?”
“In the hand, forcing her to drop her gun. Femme fired the other shot. She... she blew off most of Anacapri’s face.”
“Did she say anything about revenge being a dish best served cold?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. Femme is a very deadly woman.”
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” I grinned, thinking of the time she and I had spent together years ago, hunting Scarlet Chamber agents.
“Do you... do you love her?”
My grin faded. “She’s one of two women I’d put my life on the line for.”
“Who’s the other woman?” Was he jealous?
“Portia, Quinn.”
“Ah.” I could hear the relief in that one word.
“So how’d you get here?”
“That little something in my phone you connected to yours?”
Right. Last fall, when that asshole Holmes had screwed with Quinn’s cell phone and I’d made him buy a new one. I’d added all his contacts to my phone, but I’d uploaded a little program Romero had installed on my phone into his. I hadn’t said anything about that to him, but I didn’t bother wondering how he’d figured it out. He was a very smart man.
I shifted slightly in bed. “I know this is stupid, but where am I?”
“Not stupid.” He rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. “You’re in a little clinic in the Division.”
“That’s gonna piss off the powers that be.”
“Not at all. There’s no longer a Division.”
I felt cold, not for the antiterrorist organization, but for my friends. “Pete? Femme?”
“They’re fine. Your friend de Becque is taking the survivors and starting his own organization.”
“I wonder if I can talk him into joining the WBIS.”
“Becoming the Paris branch?” The corner of his mouth curled in a grin. “Calling it the Paris Bureau of Intelligence and Security?”
“Hell, he can call it whatever the fuck he wants.” I scowled. “What about the Scarlet Chamber?”
“I wish I could say it was finished also, but I’m afraid not.”
“No? That Kiska is one smart cookie.” For the time being, I’d let Pete worry about her. “Reuben?”
“He’s... no, I won’t lie to you. He’s not doing well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We weren’t fans of each other, but he made Pete happy. How’s Pete dealing?”
“He’s with him right now, and I think if you hadn’t blown Robert Lynx to shreds, de Becque would have taken great joy in taking him apart one piece at a time.”
I thought of what Giuliani had said. “We do what we have to do. Quinn... Thanks for being here.”
“Ass.” He squeezed my hand. “Where else would I be?”
“Uh... how long was I out?”
“Almost twenty-four hours. You needed a transfusion. Max had to operate on your leg.”
“Max? Max Futé?” I didn’t want to think about my leg. It hurt, but Stanley had told me about that too, and if it was phantom pain—if they’d had to take my leg—I didn’t want to face it just yet. Quinn was a good guy, but why would he settle for a crippled lover when he could have someone whole?
“Yes. He stitched up your arm as well. Trevor Wallace—he’s here too, by the way—”
“What? Who—how—” I groaned.
“Are you in pain, Mark? Do you want something?”
“No,” I groused. “I’m not in pain and I don’t want anything.” One or the other of us was supposed to be at the WBIS so it wouldn’t fall apart. “Why is he here?”
“He was concerned.”
“How did he know there was anything to be concerned about?”
“I called him. I felt he needed to know what was going on. Frankly, I didn’t expect him to put in an appearance.”
Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. And... I had to admit it was flattering. “What about Max?”
“Wallace flew him over on the Concorde.”
“Max never wanted to return to France.”
“No, but he felt he owed you.”
“Jesus.” That fucking annoyed me. “How many times do I have to tell him he doesn’t owe me anything? He kept you alive, and that cancels all debts.”
“Does it, Mark?” Quinn stroked my hair.
“You know it does. And if you don’t know—well, you should. I....” I couldn’t tell him how I felt, not until I knew what had happened to my leg. “Give it to me straight, Quinn. Do I still have a right leg?”
“You do.”
I frowned at him suspiciously. “Is it attached to my body?”
“Yes.”
“What about my left leg?”
“It’s fine.” He patted my thigh, then helped me sit up so I could see for myself. Yeah, they were both there, sticking out of the bottom of a hospital gown.
“Is there a bathroom in this place? I have to piss.”
“You’ll need to lean on me.” It was his turn to frown at me. “All the times you took care of me—looked after me. Now it’s my turn to look after you.”
“Okay, babe. Thank you.”
“You’re not going to give me a hard time?”
“Do I look like I’m stupid?”
“No, you were never stupid. Except when you tried to break up with me.” He came around to the other side of the bed and got his shoulder under my left arm—my right was in a sling—so I could hobble into the bathroom. “Max said something about getting crutches for you.”
“Any idea how long I’ll need them?”
“You’ll have to discuss that with him.”
“Well, as long as I don’t need a walker.”
“I doubt that. Now hold still.” He positioned me in front of the john and held the hospital gown out of the way so I could pee.
“Now, there are some people who want to see you.” He made sure I was settled on the bed, and then went to the door. “Come in, please.”
His mother entered first.
“Portia. Thank you for stopping by.”
“Of course I would, Mark.” She came to me and took the hand Quinn had held earlier. “When you’re well enough to fly home, you’ll stay at Great Falls with me and Gregor.” She patted my hand, her expression bland.
“I appreciate the offer, but really, that isn’t necessary.”
“Mark.” She sighed. “You aren’t going to make me get stern with you, are you?”
I wasn’t a fool. “No, ma’am.”
“Excellent.”
“Just make sure Novotny doesn’t put anything in my food.”
“No.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I’m very pleased you’re in my son’s life.”
“So am I.”
“Mark.” The Boss stood in the doorway.
“Sir?”
He came to my bedside and glanced at the other occupants of the room. “It’s a good thing you’re out of the field. Too many people know you. Portia, it’s good to see you after so long.” That was right, he’d had a soft spot for her back in the day. I wondered how Ms. DiBlasi felt about it.
“Trevor.”
“And this is your son.”
“Yes. I never travel alone, and he was so kind as to accompany me.”
“Portia, I know very well that your son is involved with my agent.”
She looked amused. Quinn simply looked cool—the Ice Man—and I kept my mouth shut.
“You should have joined the CIA, Trevor,” Portia said. “Your talents would have been appreciated.”
“Would that have given me a chance with you?”
“I’m afraid not. I’d already met Nigel.”
“Then the CIA couldn’t offer me anything to tempt me away from the WBIS.” The Boss patted my shoulder. “We’ll just keep that between us, Mark. As progressive as the WBIS is becoming, I don’t believe it’s ready to accept a CIA officer into the fold.”
“No, sir. Speaking of the WBIS, who’s watching the fold?”
“Stanley. I left Ms. DiBlasi with instructions for Gershom that if he does anything more than instruct his men to patrol the corridors of the WBIS, I’d personally see he joined Sperling in his plot in Prospect Hill.”
I almost hoped Gershom tested The Boss’s orders. That plot would be a little snug, but if ever three bastards deserved to spend eternity together, Robert Sperling, Anson Davies, and Donald Gershom did.
I decided to change the subject. “Was it a good idea to make Max come to France?”
“He’s safe enough with us. He’ll be by later to examine you. Right now, he’s looking after the injured operatives. Femme did an excellent job patching them up.”
“Well, thanks for talking him into it. I was afraid I’d wake up to find my leg sharing a shelf with Browne’s little finger.”
The Boss chuckled and patted my shoulder again. “And when you’re well enough to come home, I’ll have a jet waiting that will fly us all back to DC. That is, if you’re returning, Portia?”
“I am, Trevor. I stopped at Claridge’s so I could pack. The staff was very helpful.” She glanced from Quinn to me. “Trevor, I could use a cup of coffee. Do you suppose we could find one in this place?”
“Whatever you desire.”
Portia smiled at him, linked her arm through his, and urged him out of the room, talking about when they’d first met.
“Alone at last.” Quinn toed off his shoes. “Move over.”
I edged to the side of the bed, and he climbed on next to me and rested his head on my shoulder. Although my right arm was in a sling, I could still cradle his hip with my left hand.
“Quinn, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you.”
“You’re not using this as an excuse to break up with me.”
“Okay, babe.”
“You gave in too easily.” He angled up and looked down into my eyes. “What were you going to say?”
“I….” I cleared my throat. “I… uh… know it isn’t likely I’m your ‘one,’ but I love you.”
“Mark, did you hit your head when you lost consciousness? Why wouldn’t it be likely? I’ve been telling you for the past week I love you.”
“You have? No you haven’t. I’d remember something like that.”
“Obviously, you weren’t paying attention. I love you too, Mark. Forever, remember?”
Yeah. I made myself comfortable against him. I had Quinn in my arms and he loved me.
Life didn’t get much better than this.
Even with two bullet holes in me.