But the shuffle of moist leaves just beyond the perimeter of the clearing indicated something big. Gundersson forced himself to remain casual. If a double agent was involved, or someone wanting Roland and Wendy all to themselves, then Gundersson would likely be already dead. One shot with a silencer and no one would be the wiser until Harding made his scheduled call the following night.
The NCS was clustered inside CIA headquarters four hundred miles to the north, but it might as well have been a million light-years. Harding would have to watch his step researching the CIA’s involvement, since the agencies maintained an uneasy and oddly competitive relationship despite fulfilling the same basic mission. Harding had his own neck to protect. Gundersson was on his own.
He sat back down by the fire, keenly aware of the Glock thrust in the pocket of his windbreaker. He put his hands in his pockets, as if he were cold, and then realized that would look suspicious, since the fire was a better source of heat. He rubbed his hands over the flames, realizing how difficult it was to keep such a mundane gesture casual when you had to force it.
Depp and DiCaprio, you officially have my admiration for a change.
But good old Leo wouldn’t sit there with a bull’s-eye on his back. The script would tell him to do something cool like roll to the ground and come up firing toward the noise, squeezing off a chest-high line of lead that would result in a cry of pain.
Except he had no idea who was stalking him. It could be a real hunter, someone poaching deer out of season, or even a lost hiker. And killing the guilty was one thing. Killing the innocent was a lot harder to cover up, even for the National Clandestine Service, whose core mission was still officially classified. If Gundersson was the one who ended up tipping off the world that the NCS was involved in domestic actions, Harding would have him crucified, and the deputy director would make sure the nails stayed in place until the carcass rotted.
Gundersson opened the tin of pork and beans he’d warmed on a rock. He had no appetite but forced himself to eat a bite anyway. The syrupy odor immediately masked all the earthy, green smells of the woods.
He heard another clumsy footfall, a little closer and to the left, and he forced himself not to turn his head. He chewed slowly, staring into the fire, calculating distance.
Maybe I should casually stand up and saunter into the bushes as if I’m taking a leak. Except, if I assumed no one was around, I’d whip it out right here, wouldn’t I?
Plus, I can’t very well saunter when my fucking foot is about to fall off.
A night bird let out a piercing call, and it sounded a lot like a secret signal someone might make. Maybe there were two of them in the woods, closing in on him and cutting off any chance of escape.
The noise came again, and Gundersson decided it couldn’t be a pro. Nobody with any level of training would be so careless.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the thin, fleeting flicker of a penlight beam. His stalker didn’t have night-vision goggles, either.
Gundersson tossed the sardine can into the fire, the oil causing it to hiss and spit. He leaned back and worked his hands into his pockets, maneuvering the Glock so he could fire through his windbreaker if necessary.
Then the leaves parted and there she stood.
Her bathrobe hung open and she was naked underneath except for rubber flip-flops.
“You almost got yourself killed,” Gundersson said after swallowing the lump in his throat.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve been killed before.”
She waited at the edge of the clearing, twenty feet away, and she was unarmed. She was “un” a lot of things.
Gundersson rose to his feet, remembering Roland’s earlier rage. What if he’d tried to hurt her again? If Seethe had altered them the way Roland had claimed, then their behavior would be unpredictable even a year after exposure.
He had to admit, Wendy’s behavior was certainly unpredictable at the moment.
“Are you okay?” Gundersson asked.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were distant, but they held an animal cunning. “Can we talk?”
“Uh…I guess. Can I get you a blanket?”
“No. I know how to stay warm.” She came toward him and knelt by the fire, spreading her legs as she crouched. The cool air had hardened her nipples to dark, blunted points. Gundersson forced his gaze away.
“Besides,” she said with a girlish grin, tapping the penlight on her knee. “You don’t want to be hobbling around on that sore foot of yours.”
“I’m better now,” he said, even though he was feeling much worse. What if Roland was after her, and was even now watching them from the woods? He might get the wrong idea.
But what was the right idea?
“Roland’s going to be worried,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
“What he told me…about the Monkey House, and what happened to you…”
“I let him do all the talking because he thinks he remembers. But there are some things he always gets wrong. Like what happened between me and Sebastian Briggs.”
Gundersson gulped. He didn’t like meddling in other people’s relationships. And he didn’t need any new complications.
“Your husband is a jealous man,” Gundersson said, choosing his words carefully. “And I don’t know enough about Seethe and Halcyon to judge anyone’s behavior. I’m just here to help.”
“Why don’t you start by helping me?”
She eased around the fire toward him, and Gundersson couldn’t move. Her body moved with an animal grace that mesmerized him, and he involuntarily tightened his grip on the Glock.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “Roland and me were separated at the time. So I could be with anybody I wanted, right?”
“Wendy, we have reason to believe that there are powerful elements-”
She reached out and placed a delicate finger on his lips, the touch of an artist. “Shh. I know.”
She leaned closer, and her body heat was now rivaling the radiation of the flames. Her robe fell open wider and she let it.
“But you and Roland are back together now, right?” he found himself saying.
“Does it matter?”
He wasn’t sure. He’d never been a cheater, but he’d never faced the opportunity before, either. And morality was a sliding scale based on current conditions and needs. He’d learned that particular lesson well in government service.
“We’d better get you back to your cabin, before…”
“Before what?” Her breath was on him, and the soft finger trailed from his lips to his cheek. The fire reflected in her black pupils, hell dancing against a deep, soulless night. Her Asian skin was radiant, and her frame, which had appeared skeletal beneath clothes, now seemed lush, soft, and rounded.
She gently pushed him backward until he was on the ground, the soles of his feet pointed toward the fire as she climbed along his length. His Glock jabbed into his kidney but he was afraid to move.
“You have to help me.” She unbuttoned his shirt as he held his breath, and then she rubbed her breasts against his bare skin.
“I…I’ll try.”
“Sebastian Briggs wanted me to save Seethe. I can’t count on Roland. So I need you.”
“Is it Seethe that makes you this way?” he whispered, hoarse, feeling like a predator himself now, surging, hungry, utterly without remorse.
“Does it matter?”
It didn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I was worried,” Alexis said to Mark, who was peeking through the curtains.
His sudden appearance had made her feel she’d done something wrong, that she was sneaking around behind his back. Of course, she was, but probably not in the way he thought.
“You ought to be worried,” he said. “With your old pal Wallace Forsyth involved, it’s hitting close to home. But I can’t figure out what he wants. I mean, why would he have me kidnapped when he could have just killed me?”