Shepherd buttoned his shirt. ‘If it wasn’t for Geordie, I’d have died in the desert. Like I said, I owe him big-time.’
The Major came out of the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’ he said.
‘Spider was just showing me his war wound,’ said Bosch.
‘He does that with all the girls,’ said the Major. ‘I don’t want to sound like anyone’s father but it’s getting late and we’re up at five tomorrow. I’m heading up.’
‘I was about to turn in too,’ said Shepherd, standing up.
Bosch raised her bottle. ‘I’ll finish this first. Sleep well, Spider.’
‘You too.’
Bosch blew him a kiss. Shepherd and the Major walked together to the stairs. ‘You okay?’ the Major asked.
‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be happier once we’re under way, that’s for sure.’ They went up the stairs together.
‘You’ve got a good team behind you,’ said the Major. ‘The best.’
‘I know. It’ll be fine.’
‘I’m supposed to be the one giving the pep talk.’
‘I don’t need one,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know what the risks are, and I know what I have to do. We just roll the dice and see what happens.’
They arrived at Shepherd’s room. The Major held out his right hand, clenched into a fist. Shepherd banged his own against it. ‘See you tomorrow,’ said the Major.
Shepherd went into his room. He had just finished showering when there was a knock at the door. He assumed it was the Major and frowned as he wrapped a towel round his waist. He opened the door.
It was Carol Bosch, with the bottle of Jameson’s. ‘I thought I’d come and show you my scars,’ she said.
‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Really.’
She ran her hand down her left thigh. ‘I’ve got a really interesting knife wound here that I think you’d find fascinating.’
‘Carol…’
Bosch pushed the door open and slipped inside. ‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.
Shepherd closed the door. ‘You’re impossible,’ he said.
‘Here they are,’ she said picking two glasses off the bedside table. She poured two slugs of whiskey and handed one to him. ‘Nice towel,’ she said, and clinked her glass against his. ‘To being shot,’ she said, ‘and surviving.’
Shepherd sighed, but drank to her toast.
Bosch put her glass down on the bedside table and began to undo her dress.
‘What is this? A condemned man’s last request?’ asked Shepherd.
‘This isn’t about you,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a half-decent man out here?’
‘Surprisingly enough, no,’ he said.
She stepped forward, slipped her right hand behind his neck and kissed him. For a second Shepherd resisted, but her tongue probed between his teeth and he felt himself grow hard. She ran her other hand down the towel and between his legs.
Shepherd broke away. ‘Carol-’
‘What?’
‘There’s something you should know.’
‘Well, we’ve already decided you’re not gay. And you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’
‘I work undercover,’ said Shepherd. ‘Undercover cops don’t wear wedding rings.’
‘If you’re married, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m not asking for lifelong commitment. I just want to have sex with you.’
‘She died,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three years ago.’
Suddenly Bosch looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I loved her.’
‘Okay. I loved my husband, too, right up to the point I found him in bed with our maid. But this isn’t about my ex-husband or your wife, this is about you and me.’ She grabbed him and kissed him again. This time Shepherd kissed her back. Bosch pushed him towards the bed.
Shepherd put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Carol, wait-’
‘Now what?’
‘I haven’t had sex for a while.’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘How long?’
‘A while.’
‘A month?’
Shepherd shook his head.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘A year?’
‘A bit longer.’
‘How much longer?’
Shepherd swallowed. ‘Since Sue died.’
‘Three years?’
‘Thereabouts.’
Bosch’s jaw dropped. ‘Wow,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘Three years?’ she repeated. ‘Thirty-six months?’
‘Or thereabouts.’
‘You must really have loved her.’
‘I did. I do. I always will. Just because she died doesn’t mean I stopped loving her.’
Bosch looked into his eyes, her hand still between his legs. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she said. ‘This isn’t about love. It’s lust. That’s all.’
‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.
‘And you’re okay?’
Despite himself, Shepherd laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’
Bosch kissed him, then pushed him back on to the bed, holding the towel. She tossed it aside and took off her dress. ‘Three years,’ she said, in wonder. ‘Fasten your seat-belt. This is going to be one hell of a ride.’
Mitchell lifted up his shirt and examined his damaged ribs. It hurt if he took a deep breath but he was sure that they weren’t broken. He thought a couple were cracked, but other than that he hadn’t been badly hurt. He had urinated into the plastic bucket and there had been no sign of blood so at least his kidneys were unscathed.
He sat down slowly, then lay back. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to do a sit-up. The muscles in his side burned but he forced himself up.
He didn’t care about the pain. It meant nothing. For the first time since he’d been snatched he didn’t feel alone. Somewhere out there his friends were on the case. Mitchell was sure that Spider Shepherd would have been behind the kidnapping, probably with Billy Armstrong, Martin O’Brien and Jimbo Shortt. And, if he’d been able to get himself away from the Increment, Major Gannon would be running the show. Mitchell grunted and lowered his shoulders back to the floor. It hurt a lot more going down than it did coming up. It had been worth the beating for Mitchell to discover that his friends were fighting to free him and, from what Kamil had said, they were fighting dirty. They had kidnapped the brother of a man who was holding him hostage. That meant they knew the identity of at least one of his captors. And if they knew one they might be able to identify the rest and there was a chance they would locate the basement. It was an outside chance, but it was a chance. He took a deep breath and did a second sit-up, faster this time. It still hurt, but not as much.
When Shepherd woke up he was alone in the bed. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The last thing he remembered was curling up with Carol in his arms and kissing her shoulder. She had been right. It had been one hell of a ride. She was passionate and aggressive in a way that Sue had never been, and vocal with it, at times screaming his name, at others cursing him, alternating between kissing and biting. Afterwards, as she had lain in his arms, Shepherd was surprised at the lack of guilt he felt. As he stared up at the ceiling he realised it was because he loved Sue, and knew he always would. What had happened between him and Carol had been purely physical.
He got out of bed, shaved and showered, then dressed and went downstairs. O’Brien was in the kitchen, frying eggs. The middle-aged Iraqi woman who normally cooked for the occupants of the house was hovering at his shoulder. ‘Fry-up, Spider?’ asked O’Brien.
Shepherd didn’t know when he’d be eating again so he nodded. ‘Please.’ He poured himself a large mug of coffee and added a splash of milk.
‘They can’t fry eggs out here,’ said O’Brien. ‘They just heat them from below so the yolks don’t cook.’ He used a spatula to splash hot fat on to them. ‘It’s not going to be a full fry-up. They haven’t got any bacon and the sausages are lamb.’
‘She’s a Muslim,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the cook. ‘She can’t touch pork.’
‘She doesn’t have to touch it, just cook it,’ said O’Brien.
‘You’re missing the point,’ said Shepherd. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee.
‘You okay?’ asked O’Brien.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘Sleep well?’