Relieved, she stuck the card back into her pocket and said, “Since we’re all about curiosity tonight, why don’t you answer a question I’ve had ever since you stepped into that doorway?”
“Which is?”
“Why are you pointing that weapon at me?”
Before he could answer, she dove for the bed. By the time he pulled the trigger, she had Deuce’s pistol in her hands.
Gérard fired three quick, wild shots as Alex raised the SIG and returned fire, answering with a larger number—
— one two three four five—
— all of which hit him in the chest and stomach and sent him flying backward into the living room, where he hit the floor and went still.
She got to her feet, keeping the SIG in her hand as she walked out to inspect the damage. With relief, she saw that Thomas Gérard — or whoever he was — would never be getting up again.
And then the pain came, spreading through her chest and side like white hot fire.
She looked down at her naked torso and saw blood.
How the hell…?
Gérard’s shots, she realized. They hadn’t been wild after all. All three had found their mark.
Suddenly the SIG felt very heavy in her hands, and the world around her began to tilt and spin and the fire in her chest grew hotter and hotter as her legs began to buckle and she fell to floor.
She stared up at the lights in the ceiling, which must have been put on a dimmer, because they were fading, getting darker and darker…
And a moment later she was gone.
CHAPTER 42
Images. Fleeting images.
And voices, too.
That’s what Alex remembered.
Voices she recognized. Shouts. Deuce and Cooper, both frantically calling her name as the images flickered through her mind…some real, some imagined, some dreamed.
Then hands on her body. Rough hands. Men’s hands.
And she began to float through the air, taking a magic carpet ride into the darkness, and back into the light.
Then the rough hands were gone, replaced by something smooth, like plastic or latex, and the lights were blinding, making her squint as the burning sensation in her torso sank deeper, seeping its way into her bones…and then the lights again began to fade.
She felt a pressure on her chest and someone shouted, “Clean!” or “Clear!” or maybe it was “Claire!” but she didn’t know what that meant or who that might be.
Were they talking to her?
Then the darkness came again. A black, empty darkness that seemed to wipe away her pain. Not just the pain in her chest and side, but the pain in her head as well. In her mind. Her heart.
It enveloped her like a mother’s loving arms—
— and she felt herself falling into nowhere…
She woke in a bed to find Deuce fast asleep in a nearby chair, and Cooper standing next to a meal tray, pouring himself a glass of water.
Feeling pain in her chest and side, she groaned. Cooper put the glass down and came to her, taking her hand.
He looked as if he hadn’t slept since Christmas.
“Welcome back,” he said. “We thought we’d lost you a couple times there.”
She blinked and glanced around the room. “A hospital?”
Cooper nodded.
“How did I get here?”
He raised a brow. “Did you really believe Deuce and I would let you go back to that hotel alone? We left Warlock to escort Valac to Key West and had McElroy meet him there with a team.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re as stubborn as I am,” she said. “When I saw these wounds, I was pretty sure it was over for me.” She eyed the room again. “What hospital is this?”
“St. Cajetan General, believe it or not.”
She tried to sit up. “What?”
“It’s okay,” he said, and gently urged her back down. “You’re here courtesy of Pappy Leo himself. All expenses paid.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“The police are saying you were attacked in your hotel by a stalker. Some guy you’d met in a Key Largo bar who became obsessed with you and followed you to St. Cajetan. They couldn’t find any identification on him, so they’re still trying to work that out, but you’ve been cleared for shooting him. They figure it was well deserved.”
“At least they got that part right. But why would Leonard Latham care about me?”
“After we left his estate, Hopcroft gathered the rest of Valac’s troops and fled. Latham played it all off as a band of thugs looking to rob his guests. There were a few people wounded, but fortunately none of the partygoers were killed.”
“Unbelievable.”
Cooper shrugged. “Works out for everyone, the way I see it. When he was briefed by Stonewell, Latham told them that Valac had barged into his life seven months ago and was slowly draining his funds. He was a virtual prisoner in that house, while everyone chalked it up to his eccentricity. The way he sees it, you’re one of the people who helped give him back his freedom.”
“Well, good for me.”
Cooper smiled. “McElroy and his bosses are very happy about the Valac acquisition. We told them your theory about Favreau’s head for numbers, and everyone agrees that the codes must have died with him. At least that’s what they want to believe.”
Suddenly remembering, Alex sat up again. “Shit. Where are my jeans?”
“What?”
“My jeans? Where are my jeans?”
“In a bag under your bed, I think. Why?”
“Get them for me.”
Her gave her a funny look, then bent down and retrieved the bag. She pulled it open and reached inside, squeezing the pockets of her bloodstained jeans until she felt the stiff plastic of Favreau’s key card. Then she fell back against the pillows and let out a long breath.
He looked at her. “Is that what I think it is?”
She nodded, deciding it was about time she was honest with him. “I know it was the main focus of the op, but I don’t want to give it McElroy. And I don’t want you telling him about it, either.” She gestured. “Or Warlock, or even Deuce.”
He didn’t even think about it. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he said. “All of them are, if you ever decide you want to share.”
“Thank you, Shane. It’s just that Hopcroft told me what’s on this thing, and I don’t think McElroy or anyone else at Stonewell can be trusted with the information. I’m not sure if I should destroy it, or hang on to it for a rainy day. Use it for leverage.”
“It rains a lot in our world.”
She offered him a wan smile. “I don’t deserve you.”
Then she squeezed his hand.
CHAPTER 43
Mr. Gray lived in a very tidy brownstone apartment in Georgetown.
Every evening at six o’clock, his wife of thirty years greeted him when he came home from work, and brought him a glass of Pinot and the day’s mail.
Two days after the operation in the Bahamas was completed, although not quite to Mr. Gray’s satisfaction, he found a postcard waiting for him.
The photo on the front was an oversaturated shot of the St. Cajetan hotel, with all those ridiculous old cars parked in front of it.
Curious.
When Gray turned the card over and saw there was no stamp or mailing address, he frowned.
Had this been dropped directly into their box?
As his gaze drifted to the handwriting that formed the short message, a small chill ran through him.
He knew that handwriting.
No one else made Ss like that.
And if there was any doubt, the initials at the end of the note made the identity of the sender quite clear.
The message itself was innocuous, but the implied threat was evident to Mr. Gray. He knew that from here on out, he would have to stagger his routine. Not be so predictable. Because you never knew who might be watching…