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Mariel, who had scarcely said a word or looked up from her rosary, patted Molly's hand in comfort.

Molly silently cautioned herself against reading erroneous interpretations into Carey's tenderness toward Sylvie. Good Lord, she chastised herself, he loved Egon, and the next hours could see his young friend gone forever, could see Sylvie's only family disappear forever. They needed each other now, and she'd be the most unfeeling monster to deny them the solace they found in each other.

At last everyone re-assembled in the waiting room. While Molly, Sylvie, and Mariel sat and listened, Carey asked questions about Egon's condition.

The doctors didn't have much hope. Egon had been given last rites. Even if he survived, there was a possibility his paralysis would be permanent. A bullet had lodged near his spine, and was in too precarious a position to attempt removal. Continued pressure was aggravating the paralysis, but surgery now could be lethal.

“I'm so sorry,” Molly said softly.

Mariel cried without uttering a sound.

And Sylvie threw her arms around Carey's neck and wept.

They stayed at the hospital through the night. Carey arranged rooms for them, but no one could sleep with Egon near death. Carey, Sylvie, and Mariel took turns at his bedside.

When he wasn't with Egon, Carey prowled like a caged tiger. I'll kill him for you, Egon, he silently vowed, his need for revenge terrifying in its violence. And later, when he sat by Egon's bed again, watching him struggle to breathe, all his anger and frustration was directed toward Rifat. “Live, Egon, just live,” he whispered to the still, quiet form attached to all the machines and tubes and tanks. “I'll kill him, I promise.”

Rifat's greed had to be stopped, his senseless brutality brought to an end. Carey had never considered himself a crusader; he avoided politics and causes, always contributed anonymously to charities, not wanting the publicity. Even his impulse for soldiering in Vietnam had been inspired by family tradition, rather than patriotic zeal.

But now a black and savage vengeance overcame Carey, a murderous rage that demanded retribution for what Rifat had done to Egon. People like Rifat preyed on weakness and fear. They didn't take the chances themselves. They only gave the orders, detached from the human suffering, the unmitigated terror their greed imposed on other human beings.

For the first time in his life, Carey was a zealot. All he could think of as he sat at Egon's bedside was the retribution he would exact. Nothing else distracted his thoughts, no room existed in his mind for other emotions. His urge to kill was the only positive energy he felt.

The doctors held no hope for Egon.

As he waited, Carey planned every move: what he'd need, how he'd enter Rifat's house, the equipment necessary to avoid detection. “Come on, Egon,” he softly pleaded, bending near so Egon might hear him, “keep breathing.” Like an older brother promising to fight the playground bully, Carey said, “I'll kill Rifat for you.”

And he smiled when he saw a tiny flicker of Egon's eyelid. “Hold on, brat. I need you to make my life interesting.”

That afternoon the doctors made a cautious prognosis. Egon's kidneys had begun functioning, an improvement that moved him into the everyday miracle stage.

It was near midnight when he opened his eyes-only once, but he focused on Carey.

“Welcome back,” Carey said softly.

A dozen times Molly had begun to say, “I'm going back home.” But her declaration would seem tactless and disrespectful when Egon lay dying, so she stayed and watched Carey withdraw into himself.

Molly had had her taste of adventure. Now, in the shrouded gloom of Egon's death vigil, her swift journey into near extinction was enough to last her ten lifetimes. No longer exhilarated or impelled by a need for self-reliance, she only experienced an enormous despair. Disillusion had set in, and all she wanted to do was crawl into her sheltered cocoon and pretend men didn't kill other men over drugs and guns and money. She wanted to go back to Carrie and bring her home. Just before dinner, she told Carey her wishes.

“You can't,” he said bluntly. “Not until Rifat's terminated.”

“Terminated?” A sharp criticism was delivered with the single word. “Why don't you say what you mean?” They were standing in the hall near the windows overlooking the parking lot, where waves of heat rose from the asphalt in transparent vapor.

“Okay, killed. Better? I'm going to kill the mother-fucker,” he said with ruthlessness, his eyes black with hate.

She took a reflexive step backward. “I don't know you like this,” she whispered.

“The war was over when I met you,” he curtly replied.

“Have you…” she hesitated, not knowing why she felt impelled to ask, thinking maybe there was a simple answer to understanding this stranger standing before her. “Have you killed many people?”

“Lots,” he said in a voice devoid of warmth.

That wasn't the simple answer she wanted to hear. It was exactly opposite of the answer she wished for. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “I want to go back home,” she said. This time, he didn't argue.

“Fine,” he said, his voice level and empty. “I'll take you to my father's.”

“When can I go home?” Her words were determined.

“Afterward.”

“After what?”

“After Rifat's dead.”

CHAPTER 38

T hey left late that night, after Sylvie had been sufficiently placated and Mariel settled into the room next to Egon. They drove to the airport like two silent strangers, and once they boarded the plane Carey excused himself to join Jess in the cockpit. Egon was alive; at least their mission had been partially successful, though the extent of his injuries was grievous. Molly wasn't so sure her relationship with Carey hadn't suffered an equally unfortunate mutilation; he was not the man she thought she knew. He was disturbing and unfamiliar, and she was forced to face the very real possibility she had fallen in love with a memory, not the existing Carey Fersten.

Although Carey knew better, he couldn't make himself give Molly all the necessary explanations and assurances. He wasn't up to the argument of whom or what was more important. He was going to kill Rifat or die trying. That was just the way he felt, and he didn't want to have it analyzed or examined or negated.

Their arrival at Bernadotte's was subdued. Molly didn't argue when Carey suggested she go to sleep while he filled his dad in on the events in Jamaica.

Bernadotte was concerned for Egon's life, but more apprehensive about his son's intractable obsession with Rifat's death. Once he realized Carey wouldn't be deterred, sensible man that he was, Bernadotte took it upon himself to offer whatever help he could. The two men sat up that night planning the operation.

“He must be cordoned off from the world,” Bernadotte said. “He hasn't survived this long without the most sensitive security system, and he may be expecting you if one of his men got away.”

“I can't be certain if the man survived. There wasn't time to follow him. It's possible the third man is dead.”

“Nevertheless, Rifat will be alerted as well if his men don't return.”

“Fucker's always alert. You know what my first instinct was when Egon got mixed-up with the bastard? I thought: maybe a small missile through his bedroom window or a bomb under his chair in his favorite restaurant. But no, I'm too damned civilized now. A dozen years away from Vietnam and you begin acting normal. Your first impulse is no longer shoot first and check out the corpse's identity later.”