Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (11 page)

Joe had experienced enough real
life scenarios to be impressed but Jarvis seemed enthralled with the
environment as he showed him around. Even though Joe had the highest clearance
available, as a DOS outsider, he was not allowed to venture through the
building unescorted.

At least the kid seemed to have
some enthusiasm for the job. Seemed to know where everything was in this whole
damn shop, every specialist by name.

Besides, it was better than
being trailed by the copper-haired woman whom he’d been assigned in the lobby.
Joe didn’t know what she did for a living other than follow people around.
Probably some non-essential function, one of those federal
employees who didn’t have to come in on snow days.
There’d been plenty
of days when Joe had wished he’d been non-essential. But it was always during
the ice storm of the century that his 'critical skills' were needed. Lucky for
him, it never snowed in Costa
Negra
. He shivered at
the thought of being penned in an igloo with her. She was probably not more
than fifty, with a slender build, but had obviously gotten too much sun. It
showed in her crinkly brow and the little lined bags under her eager eyes. He
even thought he’d caught her stealing a glance or two at his tail. But then,
maybe he’d imagined it. His
tush
wasn’t what it used
to be, after all.

'Come on,' Jarvis said. Joe
realized he’d been staring blankly at the same wall map for several seconds. '
Gonna
take you to my cubicle. Got
some road maps you and Mr. Neal might find handy.'

Joe shoved his hands into his
pockets and shrugged, walking after him. He did a little swivel with his hips,
stealing a quick glance over his shoulder. Maybe they could use a little tune
up but the buns of steel still carried their weight.

Denton was still in Mark's
office, browsing through the Washington Post. Cathy leaned into the file
cabinet behind him nursing a paper cup of coffee. He looked up from the
crossword puzzle as Mark entered the room and dismissed the secretary with a
nod of his head.

'Okay, Denton,' Mark said,
'you're in.'

'In what?'

'Part of the team – what
can I say?' Many things came to mind but he thought better of each of them.
Denton folded the paper and dropped it onto the coffee table, his expression
dazed
.

'We leave tomorrow at thirteen hundred
from Washington National. Get your packet from Cathy on your way out.'

Scott rose to his feet in slow
understanding. 'Whoa, hold on a minute. You've got this all wrong. I never said
I'd –'


Mark had started toward his
desk but whirled suddenly on his heels and shoved a finger in Denton's face
.

'You listen to me, you bleeding-heart
wuss
! The life of a woman, a woman you supposedly once
loved, is on the line. We're short-staffed and can use your connections.'

'Wait a minute. I was promised
–'

'Forget what you were promised.
This is not a question of choice.'

'Bullshit. I have rights. This
is America, for crying out loud.'

'No sir, this is the DOS. And
whatever rights you had,' Mark said with a jerk of his chin, 'you gave up when
you walked through that door.'

Scott tried to slip by Cathy
without retrieving his packet but she stayed on him, insisting Cromwell wanted
a minute of his time. A minute he could do. But the DOS seemed to be asking a
whole hell of a lot more.

They couldn't really do this,
could they? Scott had signed an agreement of confidentiality with the DEA and,
besides, that was over nine years ago. He'd get his father to call a lawyer;
that's what he'd do. If ever he needed his father's influence, it was now.

Cathy led Scott to Cromwell's
office and instructed him to sit in one of the empty chairs facing the large
mahogany desk. She waited there until a staid older gentleman entered and took
his seat.

Scott was immediately thrown by
his presence. What was driving his sense of imbalance?

Although he was sure he’d never
met George Cromwell, there was something eerily familiar about his eyes. Not
the color, the expression. It was an accustomed feel, a spine-tickling sense of
recognition.

No, that was ridiculous. It was
just that Cromwell made him feel inferior, like so many people did. And he
resented every goddamned one of them.

Scott waited a long while for
Cromwell to say something. He finally looked up from some papers on his desk
and began. 'I realize you're not too excited about accompanying Mr. Neal on his
mission.'


'To be honest, the idea
terrifies me. I care about Ana, really I do. But the thought of getting tangled
up in DOS affairs –'

Cromwell’s face was
mortar-like. 'What is it that troubles you most, Mr. Denton? The idea of being
shot at or having to pull the trigger yourself?'


Scott's pulse was racing; he
was finding it hard to breathe.

Where was this coming from?
What was the point in bringing it all back now? He cleared his throat but his
voice came out weaker than intended.

'I don't fire guns.'

Cromwell expertly withdrew an
envelope from his top desk drawer. His tone was steady. He seemed to know he
was in the lead.

'Ah, but once
you did.
And with quite disastrous results.'

Scott could feel his palms go
moist and clammy, the perspiration
build
at the back
of his neck.

'If you’re referring to the
accident –'

'I see. The accident.' Cromwell
looked up, squinting his eyes, as if trying to discern the truth. 'What a nice
way to put it.'

Panic gripped him by the
throat, throttled by the old man’s eyes.

'I was cleared of any
wrongdoing.'

Cromwell looked through his
glasses. 'That very well may be, my boy. Past is past, after all. At least
that’s how we like to keep things here at DOS. Now, some of those other groups
around town aren’t quite so discriminating. Take the Justice Department, for
example.'

Scott dug his fingers into the
arms of his chair. Maybe if he sat very still, it would all go away.

'Something bothering you?'

Scott could feel the pressure
building inside his head. It was a horrific tingling sensation beginning at the
base of his skull.

He sprang to his feet. 'Look, I
don’t know who you are or what this
fricking
DOS is
supposed to be. But, I do know one thing – I have rights!'

Cromwell raised his brow and
returned to the envelope on his desk, extracting some legal-looking documents.

'Rights? Hmm, let’s see. Oh,
yes. That’s something like when one no-good, drug-snorting college kid cops a
plea with Uncle Sam to inform for the DEA?'

The revelation sent Scott
sagging back into his chair.

Cromwell returned the papers to
the envelope and tightened its clasp. 'You are correct, Mr. Denton. U.S.
citizenship does afford you certain rights. In this case, I’m granting you the
right to choose.'

This old geezer thought he was
God.

'A: You cooperate fully, or B:
You wind up in jail, where your shameless tail should have landed ten years
ago.'

Ana lay motionless, the small
oxygen fan circulating just above her head. It would have been a blessing, she
realized, to still be blindfolded. The low wood slats of the ceiling hung
inches above her nose. She knew she couldn’t sit and that screaming would be
futile. The stinging cotton wedged into her cheeks made it difficult to even
breathe, much less swallow. The tiny battery-powered
lightbulb
at her feet was little consolation, serving only to make her more aware of her
dismal surroundings.

She was being smuggled.
A very big prize.

Through the walls of the crate
she heard dock noises clanking in the background: the unfettered sound of
steamships pulling out to sea. The slow steady whinny of a
fork
lift
shimmying its way across the floor.

The sound grew louder,
then
something hit the side of the crate with a bruising
force. Her torso slammed into the opposing wall on impact, then settled back
into place. She was again laying on her back, wrists fused together by the
snake-like rope that burned its way up her forearms. The light at her feet
flickered and went out. Then she felt herself moving up, up into the terrifying
darkness.

Mark sat watching Camille
across the tabletop at the cozy Middle Eastern restaurant near
Dupont
Circle. She had taken him here for a reason that had
far more to do with his return than the fact he was leaving here tomorrow.
Leaving again, as he always did when things got a bit too close. He’d never
planned it that way. He’d just been lucky. Lucky enough to preserve what they’d
had for the past three years.

The waiter poured Mark’s wine
and set the carafe down on the table beside the orange candle. Camille asked
him about Costa
Negra
, but there was so little he
could say. Their conversation had become awkward, both of them making stupid
jokes and remarking on the latest political scandal. He was usually at ease in
her company, but tonight there was an edge in the air that goose-pimpled his
skin as they dined outdoors under a quarter moon.

She suggested they go for
coffee. He agreed, hoping to leave that uncomfortable feeling behind him. But
it followed him to the upstairs book cafe where they dusted their Cappuccinos
with powdery cinnamon.

Camille introduced the topic
casually, talking about what a good three years it had been, especially this
last one. They’d gotten so close. He’d really opened up to her. She felt she
knew him now. Him, and what he wanted. She wouldn’t cling. Would never cling.
Had
her own
life and interests, after all. She knew it
wouldn’t always be easy with the two of them traveling. But they had something
– something worth keeping. Maybe it was time they thought about making a
commitment.

'Commitment?' Mark was taken
aback, and it showed
.

He flagged down the
waitress and ordered a second cup of coffee.
A sheen of moisture draped
across Camille’s soft blue eyes. Mark waited until his coffee was served, then
pushed the cup aside. He had to work to keep his voice from breaking
.

'Camille,' he said, taking her hands in his atop the
small porcelain table, 'I had no idea.'

'No idea?' She gently withdrew
her hands. 'How could you? The signs have been there for months.'

Signs? Signs? But, surely she
didn’t mean...
Mark felt guilty, responsible. He searched for the words,
wondering how he could have missed it. He had thought their arrangement
comfortable, mutual. But now he could see he was wrong, had been wrong from the
start.

'I don't know what to say.'

Her voice was low, hopeful, her
twisted lips trembling
.

'Say you'll marry
me?'
Even though the conversation had been building in this direction, he
was thrown. Marry her? How could he? He wanted marriage, longed for the freedom
its stability would bring. His heart was a sail flapping in the wind, a gale
really, and he’d searched a lifetime for that one woman who could tie it down,
make him sail straight.

He looked at her, his eyes
revealing the answer.

Camille lowered her head and
raised a napkin to the corner of her eye. She swallowed resolutely,
then
looked up, newly composed.

'Oh well,' she said with a
brave smile, 'nothing ventured, nothing gained.'

She swirled an extra packet of
sugar into her coffee, trying to act as if she’d expected this outcome all
along.

She was as beautiful as ever,
sitting there sipping her cappuccino with elegant aplomb, her artful fingers
placed lightly around the steaming cup. How much simpler things would be if
only he could lie to himself.

But honesty was the one thing
he had left
.

'Shall I drive you home?' he asked,
finally forcing the words.

'If you don’t mind,' she said,
her saddened eyes misting, 'I'd like to go to your place one last time.'

He escorted her to his car and
carefully ushered her into the seat.

It was a long, quiet drive
across the Potomac. He knew from her silence that she meant it. There was no
way to fix it. No turning back.

When they got to the door of
Mark's brick townhouse, Camille opened her purse and took out a slender key.

'Use mine,' she offered,
gracefully returning his key so he wouldn't have to ask for it later.

Camille always made things easy
.

Mark let them in and offered her a
drink.
'Yes, but tonight I think I'll take wine. Better yet, do you still
have that bottle of Cordon Negro I bought you?'
She didn't have to
explain what she meant. Mark knew. In many ways they shared an unspoken
understanding, a comfortable familiarity. But Mark didn't want to be
comfortable. He needed a relationship to consume him, excite him, in a way no
other one had. He’d been flying solo for so long now that on the bleak days he
wondered if it would ever happen. At times, he tried to convince himself that
he should give up the dream, stay with Camille and just settle. The only
problem was, he wasn’t the settling kind.

So they drank to the good times
and to each other, to the future and what – for each of them – that
might bring. And then, they held each other and danced a long while to the old
World War II tunes they loved.
Tommy Dorsey wailing soft and
low.
I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…
Bing
Crosby soliloquizing the moon.
Moonlight becomes you…