Carey had to be sure. Even though Egon may be bleeding to death, he couldn't take a chance they were using Egon for bait. He stepped into the shadows of the trees and disappeared.
The minutes Carey was gone seemed like a thousand terrifying lifetimes as Molly sat huddled by the car, alone in the silent, moonwashed night. She strained her ears to catch some sound of Carey's direction, but it was as if he'd left her alone in an alien world, and she felt fear creeping closer like an unseen enemy.
It seemed like terrifying hours, though it was only minutes later when Carey reappeared, carrying two extra weapons. “Two dead,” he said, “and a trail of blood down the mountain. The third man.”
Egon felt like he was suspended in air, his whole body floating somewhere above his head. His collapsed lung only allowed slow little sucks of breath, and he waited for the blackness to descend-the kind he'd always heard described before death. The low murmur of Carey's voice drifted across the lawn. He tried to shout to him, but he couldn't draw enough air into his lungs. Then, as he lay there waiting to die, and no blackness or dazzling light appeared, it occurred to him that perhaps he wouldn't die. And a spirit of hope possessed him. He moved his hand slightly, feeling the damp grass. But when he tried to move his legs, they wouldn't move, and the effort brought choking blood into this throat and mouth. He thought with despair: I'm going to bleed to death. The silence became alarming instead of comforting. Was Carey dying, too? And Molly? Would Rifat's men find Mariel and kill her also? In agony he lay bleeding into the grass, unable to move, suffocating from lack of air in his lungs.
He closed his eyes. When he looked up again, Carey was kneeling over him, his face a mirror of despair.
“I can't feel my legs,” Egon said, but his voice was so weak Carey had to put his head next to his lips to hear him.
“It's all right, Egon,” Carey said. “You're going to be all right.” And he looked away so the lie wouldn't show in his eyes. Egon's right shoulder was torn apart, and the sound of his lungs was like so many he'd heard in Vietnam before the blood choked off all the air.
“I did fine this time, didn't I?” Egon whispered. “I stood up to Rifat.”
“You were great,” Carey said, tears welling in his eyes. “You saved my life.”
Molly knelt near Carey, tears streaming down her face. Wanting some miracle to make Egon whole again, she watched him struggle for air.
“You… owe me… now.” Egon's words were the merest whisper of sound, and the smile he attempted the most stirring act of courage Molly had ever seen.
Carey nodded, not capable of speaking.
“Mariel-” Agitated, Egon tried to say more but, gasping for air, he fell silent.
“I'll take care of her,” Carey promised. “My word on it.”
And the panic on Egon's face subsided. “Love you,” Egon whispered.
“I love you, too,” Carey murmured, his voice husky with emotion. As Egon's eyes closed, a strange anger overcame Carey… as though he could fight death or stay its hand. He wasn't going to let Egon die. He'd breathe air into his lungs if need be, and replace his blood with his own. But he needed a doctor most. Galvanized into action, he stood in an abrupt movement. “Stay with him,” was all he said as he ran toward the house.
He got a call through to Jess, and said, “Get a helicopter. Egon's wounded. Bring a doctor. He'll know where Le Retour is. Hurry.” And he hung up, slamming the receiver down and reaching for a drapery at the same time. Pulling the curtain down with a rough jerk, he tossed it over his arm. Grabbing a tablecloth off the dining room table, he ran back to Molly.
Outside, Carey tore the cloth into strips and began bandaging Egon's bleeding shoulder. Molly watched him gently pack the wound and bind it tightly until the worst of the bleeding was under control. Then he covered Egon with the heavy velvet drapery to prevent shock. While he dressed Egon's wound, he kept looking up, listening for the chopper, pausing for a second in the hope they'd hear the sound of its approach. “You'd better get Mariel. They could be here soon,” he told Molly.
When Molly brought Mariel down, she knelt beside Egon, took his hand in hers, and prayed. He was no longer conscious. His breathing was shallow and labored, his skin completely drained of color.
No one spoke.
In the aftermath of the horror she'd witnessed, Molly felt drained and lifeless. Carey held her in the security of his arms. She leaned back against his chest, letting the emptiness in her mind calm the memories of the awful destruction. When she began to shake, Carey's arm tightened around her, his voice soothing. “It's over. Hush, hush, it's over.” Carey placed his other hand over Egon's, as if he could pass his own energy into his friend, as if he could protect both people he loved with his own powerful strength.
He looked like some great white hunter in khaki jacket and shorts, both stained with Egon's blood. His feet were bare, his tanned body sweat-sheened from his exertions, his gilded hair in spiked disarray under the tranquil tropical moon. He was disheveled and bloody, but steady, and cool, alert for the sound of Jess's approach.
For a disquieting moment she thought: I don't know this man, this unflagging, proficient killer who can go through all this untouched. She sensed the inherent power he possessed, like some inhuman machine without feeling or sentiment.
But it wasn't true. His face ached from the powder burns, and he was exhausted now that his adrenaline had stopped pumping. And bloody images haunted his mind-all the killing ones from Vietnam.
He heard the faint rhythm first. “Jess is here,” Carey said. Releasing Molly, he bent low over Egon. “The doctor's here, Egon, You hear, brat? The doctor's come.” He thought there was a glimmer of movement beneath his eyelids, but when he looked again there was only quiet and the face of death.
Sylvie was the first one off the chopper. When she came within range, Carey shouted, “If you're not going to help, get the hell away.” He didn't want any scenes or screaming tears or questions. He didn't care why she was here or how she'd arrived. All that mattered was grabbing at the slim chance Egon had at life. “And if you know how to pray,” he added, as she halted in midstride, shocked at his brutal tone, “you'd better start.”
Continuing past her, he helped unload the oxygen and stretcher. He answered the doctor's questions in succinct phrases, and wordlessly aided the doctor when he eased Egon onto the stretcher.
Subdued by Carey's warning and the sight of Egon's grave wounds, Sylvie was remarkably quiet. She only said, “We'll follow you,” when Carey informed her he was bringing Egon to Miami. Her private jet which had landed in Montego Bay, was parked near Carey's.
The flight to Miami was funereal. Carey wouldn't talk, but sat with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands. Mariel had found a rosary somewhere, and the doctor and two nurses who'd joined them at the airport spoke in the hushed tones of a death watch.
Carey seemed remote from the man Molly had loved long years ago in their heated summer of passion. Even the sweet, caring man she'd rediscovered short weeks ago had disappeared. She found herself with a silent, merciless gunslinger, a competent killer who had taken control with quiet efficiency as though he stalked hired assassins every day of his life.
The flying bullets had been too real, as were the deadly tone of Carey's voice and the ice in his eyes. She felt a small shiver of fear travel down her spine. Did she really know him at all?
Their arrival at Jackson Memorial Trauma Center didn't alleviate her feelings of uncertainty and doubt. Carey Fersten, a VIP of the first magnitude, was treated with deference by everyone from the admitting clerk to the head surgeon.
Although Carey was concerned for her comfort, Molly found him curiously detached, as if he found it odd to see her still beside him as they entered the trauma center. And much later, when the team of doctors had stabilized Egon's shocked and damaged body, he'd said in a cool voice, “Would you excuse me for a moment, darling? The doctors want to brief Sylvie and me on Egon's condition.” And he walked away with his beautiful ex-wife. His head was tipped low in conversation, giving every appearance of being deeply attached.