Chapter 13
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"I think she is seriously ill," Fiona said softly, as they watched the elevator doors close in front of them.
That earned her a quizzical look from Michael. "What makes you say that?"
"Her wig."
"What wig?"
"It looks so real, I almost missed it."
He watched Fiona collect her thoughts. "We were talking about nothing, really, other than she was telling me how proud they are of their three sons, and she noticed your ring and asked when we were getting married. I told her after all of this is over and she said 'don't wait.' She said it twice, Michael."
"He mentioned they had three sons, too."
"Athletes and musicians. And then I noticed it, just a tiny thing anyone could have missed, because it must be a very expensive wig, but she moved it slightly. You know, if she's that ill, it could account for Raines uneven temper."
Michael looked down at Fiona and clasped her hand in his as the elevator door opened. "It could."
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"I think we need less conspicuous vehicles," Fiona said as they moved items from the Charger into her Hyundai.
"Not sure we can do much about the Charger except store it, but we could paint over the neon blue. Make it gray or white," Michael suggested then looked up to see the expression he expected to see on her face and hid a smile.
"But . . . I really like this . . . color."
"We'll park it in the garage; it'll be fine."
After visiting Raines and his wife, they'd returned to the loft to switch vehicles. Michael was certain the Charger would not fit into the small garage, so they decided to swap it for Fi's car which would fit.
The trip back to the loft also allowed Fi a chance to collect some more items that she wanted to use at their new house. She'd just finished loading the last of the items in the trunk when Sam pulled up and got out of his Cadillac. He had a fresh six pack in his hand.
"You're leaving?" he asked.
"Going home," Michael said.
"This isn't home?"
"It's a work place now, Sam."
Sam glanced at Fiona and Michael. "I can understand that. Where are you staying?" He watched as they exchanged a glance. "I get it. See you back here in the morning? Mind if I stay then?"
"Go for it, Sam. And thanks."
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He had been watching Dani Pearce sleep. It was disconcerting, knowing this woman who he had worked two ops with, and had an entirely professional working relationship with, had, without a thought, placed herself in front of him, between him and the guy with the .45 whose only objective was to kill them.
He'd nearly succeeded, too. If he hadn't been talking to Sam at the time about what they were seeing he's not sure either of them would be here. At least Jesse was satisfied he'd been able to get the drop on him before the shooter got his second shot off.
The building they were investigating looked like an abandoned distribution center for a trucking company with a span of loading docks, one after the other, on the other side of a weed-choked parking lot. Pearce looked up and pointed out the antennas on the roof. Jesse, crouched behind her, indicated they should move closer for a better view when out of nowhere, a camo-clad gunman popped in front of them. He was strapped with an ammo belt and black rifle, and was aiming his .45 at them.
Pearce read the seriousness of the situation instantaneously, and in a heartbeat, she thrust herself in front of him, shouting "no!" Jesse had been reaching behind his back for his gun when they both dropped. The bullet had torn through her upper chest, breaking her clavicle before chipping her scapula, passing through and lodging in his chest, missing his esophagus.
The bullet would have traveled farther than the superficial level where it stopped, but it met resistance in the form of the St. Christopher's medal he wore. It was not the first time in his life he had thanked his mother for the medal and the protection it provided.
The doctor who patched him up was amazed; for Jesse's part he was thankful he didn't have to endure surgery, unlike Pearce.
Apparently earlier in the day, she'd had some kind of medical emergency, but whatever had caused that apparently was not serious enough to send her to intensive care. Jesse was thinking that was a good sign.
After he'd been discharged earlier, he'd gone back to his townhouse, showered and changed and had checked in at his job for several hours. Without any fires to put out there, he'd returned to the hospital to see Raines and his wife as they were leaving Pearce's room.
Perhaps it was the greenish hue fluorescent lighting cast over everything in the hospital, or perhaps it was something else, but Raines' wife did not look well, he thought. Raines was all business, though, and arranged a time for his debrief over the shooting incident. He'd be meeting him in the morning at his office.
Jesse wondered about Pearce's family, to which Raines informed him that her only relative, her mother, was a cultural attaché who had been informed of her daughter's condition but was unable to leave her post to return to the U.S. to see her.
"Really?" Jesse asked.
Raines just shook his head. "Really."
"Then I'll be staying, unless there's an objection. I don't know her that well, but she did, ah, save my life. "
"I'm sure she'll appreciate it," Raines said.
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Porter," his wife said softly.
So when his phone vibrated and Mike called asking about an update on his and Pearce's status, Jesse was primed.
"Can you imagine? It's your only child, she nearly died and the woman is too busy to leave her diplomatic job to come see her kid. Okay, her adult kid, but still."
"Hey, Jess," Mike suggested gently, "sounds like you might be taking this too personally."
"Hell, yeah," Jesse said before he took a deep breath and repeated himself with a defeated tone, "hell, yeah."
"So you're staying the night? Is that what you're doing?"
"Seems like the right thing to do, Mike. I need to see Raines in the morning. Do you suppose you or Fi could stay with her then? I hate to leave her here by herself, know what I mean?"
He could hear Mike talking with Fi. "She'll be there," Mike said.
"See you tomorrow."
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By the time they got back to the house and moved a few more of their personal belongings into the kitchen and bath and bedroom, Fiona was feeling more settled, more at home. Sheltered. Safe.
Michael opened a bottle of wine and poured each of them small glasses. They went outside to share the night air and the wicker loveseat on the porch. He raised his glass to her. "To our new place."
"I love the loft, but I love the privacy we have here. Let's promise to have no harsh words here, Michael."
He tipped his glass to hers. "I don't want that, either."
Michael stretched out his legs and rested them on the wicker coffee table. Fiona slid her legs on top of Michael's as they sat in silence and listened to the wind through the trees and the occasional night bird chirrup. He stroked the soft skin on her legs absently, as she rested her head on the back of the seat.
After a few moments, she looked over to him. "I know I have seen that man somewhere."
"Raines' nemesis?"
"Is that what he is?" She was frowning, trying to stretch to reach for an old memory.
"He must be. If it was a choice between him and Raines and she married Raines, maybe he's been holding a grudge all this time."
"That's not rational."
"Fi," he said quietly and seriously, "when it comes to our hearts, we often are not rational. I'm pretty sure I'm recent proof of that."
She moved her legs and curled next to him. "I'm not either."
"What you did was logical," he said, looking down at their joined hands. "What I did . . . wasn't. I'm sorry."
Fiona set her glass down to slide her palm against his cheek and gently turned his face toward hers. "If our positions were reversed it wouldn't have been different. I know that." She sighed deeply. "Are you done apologizing now? It's unnerving."
He laughed. "If you want me to be done, I'm done."
"Yes," she said. "You're done."
A few minutes of comfortable silence passed, during which she could not stop rearranging information. "I wonder what happened between the three of them? It had to be something dramatic, since it's still affecting their lives."
"It's none of our business, Fi."
"I know that, Michael. I just can't help . . ."
"It's personal for them. Leave it that way."
He yawned and reached for her empty glass, took it then held a hand out to her which she took as he pulled her up from the love seat.
Inside, he slipped the wine glasses into the dishwasher, turned the lights off, locked the door and engaged the alarm. They were on their way down the hall to their bedroom when Fiona mumbled softly. "I know I know him somehow. From someplace else."
He stopped at the end of the bed to put his arms around her and pull her close. "Does this mean I won't be able to distract you tonight?"
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Fiona heard the sound of rain on the tiled roof, and fought against the chill of an old, unsettling dream, a dream that was more memory and experience than not, something she had buried a long time ago.
She shivered and inched closer to Michael who, when he slept, was the equivalent of her own personal furnace. His body temperature elevated while it seemed hers went the opposite direction. In sleep, he tightened his arm around her and drew her against him. Secure and safe now, she drifted away again, unable to stop her return to the theatre in her mind.
Her companions were out on the water, waiting for her signal.
She had gone to the docks to collect the arms shipment she'd purchased earlier in the day when she paused at the sound of angry voices.
A few feet ahead, a vividly roiling argument was being conducted in English and Italian and German. She could understand about half of it. When the Libyans arrived and the language changed, she lost the ability to understand the words, but she could clearly hear the disagreement escalate.
She started backing away from the scene with the intention of returning to base to collect her fluthered back-up, if he'd sobered up enough in the last hour to be helpful.
It seemed there were two different arguments in progress, and without knowing what else was going on, or even if the erupting gunfire could have been predicted, the solid male body she'd encountered on the dock when she ducked for cover behind a crate was a startling surprise. She had no awareness of his presence.
Before she could move, he wrapped one iron-clad arm around her shoulders and clamped his hand over her mouth, imprisoning her and her rifle sling, before lifting her off her feet and dragging her backward, to a kneeling position next to him behind another crate. He did not release his hold, but hissed in her ear. "Be quiet or be dead."
Within seconds the entire dock shook as it was lit with an incendiary device. Another explosion rumbled, her eardrums ached, and the thick, acrid smoke blanketed the scene and clogged lungs.
The late-coming Libyans who had argued so vehemently, were running toward them, as unaware as she had been of the SEAL team she now could see was monitoring the scene.
The soldier holding her tightly released her, and she turned to look back at him. His face was blackened, but his smile was wickedly white and his voice was familiar. "Be good now and don't get dead. Westen won't like that."
Sam Axe.
And then she saw what happened next.
One of the Libyans turned and killed the other; it was not an accident. The pistol he used had a silencer. She watched, frozen, as he turned back and found the others who had been there first and shot them, one at a time. Then he left.
It didn't make sense. Nothing about it made sense, not the SEAL team, not the murders. She found herself being drug away from the scene by Axe. She turned and attempted to free herself from him and delivered a vicious upward punch to his nose. His head snapped back, and he tightened his grip on her, as he continued to drag her away from the scene.
A second SEAL, his face also smudged so dark only the whites of his eyes were clear, approached. "Come on. We got to go."
Axe put her down. "Damn, woman. You need a new profession before you get dead. Get the hell out of here now." He shook her shoulders and wiped the blood coursing from his nose. "Now!"
He shoved her away as Fiona heard gunfire erupt and wisely took his advice and left the dock.
"Fi, Fi . . . it's just a dream. Sssssh, sssssh. It's just a dream."
Michael gently held her thrashing limbs still. "Fiona, please."
She sat up quickly and inhaled sharply as she felt her heart pound and her shuddering chest heave. She couldn't get enough air.
He brushed her hair away from her face, and pulled her back against his chest, running his hands up and down her arms. "It's just a dream. Just a dream."
When her breathing returned to almost normal, he lay down again, pulling her with him so they shared the same pillow.
"It's not a dream. I know who he is, Michael," she said, coldly serious. "I saw him murder a whole bunch of people in Libya. Sam saw it, too. He might be FBI now but he wasn't thirteen years ago. We need to talk to Sam."
"At 4:45 in the morning?"
"Michael, we need to talk to Sam."
They left the house ten minutes later, and got to the loft 20 minutes after that to find the gate open, Sam's car gone, the loft ablaze with light and the door at the top of the steps wide open.
Upstairs, the small television that sat on the workbench was still tuned to an ESPN channel, the beer carton Sam had with him was sitting on the counter, and one of the bottles was shattered on the floor. Sam's phone lay in a puddle of beer.
Fi picked up his phone and found a paper towel to wipe it off while Michael called Raines. "We have a problem, and we need help."
He looked over at Fiona.
"This is not good."