The Dark Hour (42 page)

“The greater good . . . That’s what my father always said.”

“It’s not the greater good, Olivia.”

“It is,” she said, suddenly facing the crowd and drawing her hand back to throw the vial.

Marc fired. The swan sculpture burst. Olivia jerked back, a look of shock on her face.

Her hand flew open. Time seemed to fragment. The rest of the room seemed to disappear. And all he saw was the vial falling to the ground.

Chapter 71

December 12

Château d’Montel Winery

Outside Paris

S
ydney stood in the shadows at the arched entryway that led from the ballroom to the foyer. Her phone vibrated at the very same time she was pulling it out to warn Giustino that Luc had walked in the door. The call was from Giustino.

“The safe is empty. The drive’s not here.”

“Well, Luc is,” she said. “Get out. Now.”

She looked toward the gallery, but couldn’t see Griffin or Becca from where she stood, and so she moved to the other side of the arch, giving her a better view. Luc and the stranger beside him still stood in the entryway, Luc shrugging out of his coat. Several guests mingled about in the foyer, perhaps waiting for coats. Suddenly Luc glanced up.

Sydney followed his gaze and saw Becca first, walking toward the stairs, and behind her, Griffin, followed by the man Becca had been dancing with. He walked closely behind Griffin, a coat draped over his right arm, undoubtedly covering a gun.

“Griffin’s in trouble,” Sydney whispered into the phone, then disconnected.

The longest two minutes of her life stretched into eternity, as she watched the byplay on the stairs. The expression on Griffin’s face confirmed Sydney’s suspicions when he looked down, saw her just inside the arch, and gave a slight tilt of his head, warning her off. As if she was going anywhere without him. She unsnapped her purse, dropped her phone inside, drew her gun, and held it to her thigh out of sight. At that same moment someone grabbed Sydney by the shoulder, and her heart skipped several beats.

“It’s I,
amica
,” Giustino whispered, watching over her shoulder as the three continued down the stairs. “This will be
difficile
. . . Too many people milling about. We need a distraction.”

She glanced at the fire extinguisher on the wall, partially hidden by the potted palm. “How about that?”

“Brilliant,” he said, then casually stepped around her, lifting the extinguisher from the wall mount. He held the canister behind his back, then took Syd by the arm, and the two strolled through the arch into the foyer, as though they were merely a couple of guests on their way out.

Becca was about halfway down the stairs, Griffin and the other man several steps behind her. “I don’t understand, Bertrand,” Sydney heard Becca saying as she looked back toward the man. “What on earth is wrong?”

“Wrong?” Bertrand said. “I recognized him from Amsterdam. I think you were right, Luc. She sent the package. Not that guard you suspected.”

“She had nothing to do with this,” Griffin said.

“Indeed?” Luc said. “And who are you to say?”

“The man who stole the data from your safe.” He held up the flash drive, looked right at Sydney and Giustino.

Giustino hurled the fire extinguisher into the foyer. As it clattered across the marble tiles, drawing Bertrand’s attention, Griffin pivoted. He rammed Bertrand’s gun arm, the weapon flying from his grasp. Griffin jumped down several stairs, grabbing Becca’s hand, taking her with him.

A gunshot shattered the air, echoed across the foyer. And Sydney couldn’t tell where it came from or who fired. Or whether it was Becca or Griffin who stumbled. Or who pulled who to the ground. But Griffin was on top of Becca, clearly protecting her.

Sydney saw Luc with a gun. Guests screamed, ran out the door, blocking Sydney’s aim. Giustino swore, unable to get a clear shot. And suddenly Bertrand was back on his feet, his gun in hand. Two guards burst through the front doors, both with weapons drawn. “The man on the ground,” Luc cried. “Get the flash drive from him.”

They were outgunned. And then she saw the fire extinguisher on the ground. She aimed. Fired. It went spinning, spewing forth a white cloud that instantly filled the room.

Giustino darted in, dove through the vapor toward Becca and Griffin, dragging them back to the ballroom.

And as Giustino helped Griffin and Becca to their feet, and to the hallway that led to the kitchen, Sydney kept her gun trained on the haze-filled room, hearing the screams, hearing Luc shouting, “Find them!”

She turned, hiking up her dress as they raced through the kitchen. Donovan had parked the van right next to the kitchen door, the engine running. Giustino threw open the cargo door, helping Griffin and Becca in. Sydney covered them, her gun out, aiming it toward the front of the house, then to the kitchen as she backed to the van.

And as she climbed into the passenger seat, she looked down, and saw a dark trail of blood.

Chapter 72

December 12

Washington, D.C.

O
livia Grogan lay sprawled on the floor, moaning as she pressed her hand against her right shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. Marc kept his gun trained on her, ready to shoot her again if she reached for that vial that had fallen just a few inches away from her. His sole purpose had been to keep that vial from the crowd, and as much as she probably deserved to die, he wondered how they’d even render aid to her if she was contagious. From his peripheral vision, he saw Ennis and the other agents still moving the guests down the hallway. Marc switched his radio to the main channel, called for an ambulance and a hazmat team, then ordered Ennis to continue evacuating the guests.

He would have given anything to avoid exposing Lisette. For all the years they’d worked together, he could never have asked for a better partner, and that included the heartache of their brief relationship and the breakup that followed. “You okay?” he asked her.

“Yes. I just didn’t expect this. Not in a million years.” Her sigh was one of resignation, a bittersweet sound that nearly broke his heart, especially when she reached out, touched his arm, whispering, “No regrets, though.”

“No regrets,” he said, wondering how long it would take for the first symptoms to appear if they were infected. Fedorov died within a week. A very long week, undoubtedly. Time seemed to be at a standstill and he looked around, saw that everyone had been cleared from the room. “Where the
hell
is that hazmat team?”

Lisette didn’t answer, and he wished he hadn’t sounded so harsh. He glanced over, saw her studying the scene, probably determining how best to keep contamination down to a minimum. “Oh my God,” she said, dropping her hand, and taking a step forward.

“Lisette?”

“It’s still intact.”

“What is?”

“The vial.” She took another step forward. “The top’s still on.” Her gaze swung to Olivia, still lying in the same spot. “You didn’t remove the stopper.”

“I couldn’t,” Olivia said. A sob escaped her throat. “I told you . . . Everything . . . w-went wrong . . .”

Chapter 73

December 12

Château d’Montel Winery

Outside Paris

G
riffin, his arm around Becca, felt as if his limbs were made of lead, trying to balance upright in the back of the van as Donovan sped up the hill and away from the château.

“Giustino?”

“Amico?
”

“Take it,” he said, holding out the flash drive.

Giustino was at the back of the van, giving them space. He leaned forward, took the flash drive. “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine . . .” Becca said.

But Griffin saw the blood pooling beneath her, and he pressed his palm against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. He didn’t want to say how bad, didn’t want Becca to know. He’d seen men go into shock with less serious injuries because they thought it was worse than it was. “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“I’ll call Dumas. He can arrange for an ambulance.”

Griffin pulled Becca closer, trying to get more pressure on her wound.

Her mouth parted as she took a shuddering breath.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“No.” But he knew she was lying. He knew that every bump they drove over as Donovan raced to the hospital had to be agony. “Zachary . . . ?” He waited, and she said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked.

“Not . . . telling . . . you.”

Griffin leaned his head against the side of the van, and for some reason glanced over, saw Sydney watching him, her face filled with worry. He turned back to Becca, willing for her to hold on. He didn’t want her apologizing. He wanted her to be fighting, and he took a deep breath, wondering if a prayer at this late date in his life would have any hope of hitting home. “None of that matters now.”

“What color?”

He looked at her, trying to see her in the dark. “Color?”

“The kitchen . . .”

He closed his eyes, wishing he could take back so many words. “It’s still yellow. Just like you left it.”

She was quiet for so long, then, “Thank you . . .”

“For what?” he said, looking down at her, telling himself that the pool of blood beneath her was
not
getting larger.

“For getting me out of there . . . I didn’t want to die alone . . .”

“You’re not going to die.”

She made a sound, a laugh, he thought. “Always were a good liar.”

“Don’t . . .”

“Promise me . . .”

“What?”

“You’ll finish this. LockeStarr . . . the Network . . .”

He tried to answer, couldn’t, and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I will.”

He held her closer, bent down, breathed in the scent of her hair, trying to remember the good times of their marriage before it had disintegrated. All he could think of, recall, was that photo on his desk, of them skiing. She loved the thrill, reveled in the competition, the very things that made her a great agent. But when it came to relationships, she was clueless—not that he was much better—and as he looked back, he realized there weren’t very many good moments during their time together. Even though he’d tried to deny the fact, they both knew early on that the marriage was doomed.

That didn’t make this any easier, he thought, stroking her cheek, telling her to hang on, help was coming soon.

Her breathing seemed labored, shallow. It was too dark to see her face. But he knew he was losing her. He’d seen death, heard it, and right now, he could feel her life slipping away. And all he could do was sit there, hold her, be there for her. Eventually the pool of blood below her stopped spreading. She took her last breath and he didn’t move.

And Donovan kept driving.

Chapter 74

December 19

ATLAS Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

T
here was no funeral for Becca. Griffin wanted to say good-bye alone, and so he’d taken her ashes, flown to Gstaad, and scattered them from the slope where they’d last gone skiing the year before she’d left him. It was, Sydney had learned from Tex, Becca’s favorite spot. The place she’d loved best, and one of the last happy memories Griffin had of their marriage.

And so it was that, a week later, when Syd arrived in Washington, D.C., for the debriefing on the mission, she didn’t expect to see him there. Even so, when she and Carillo walked into the meeting room, saw Tex seated at the table, and no sign of Griffin, she was disappointed. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t sure what she’d say to him, she thought as Tex pulled out the chair beside his so that she could sit. He smiled at her, then eyed Carillo. “What? No donuts?”

“Ate ’em before we got here.”

Tex looked at Sydney. “You eat donuts?”

“Any chance I get,” she said as Marc and Lisette walked in, followed shortly by McNiel and Pearson.

McNiel looked at the clock. “Thorndike called, said he’d be late, so we might as well get started, since he already has this report from Pearson. The Bureau served the search warrants on the San Francisco office of Hilliard and Sons Laboratories, and the DST did the same on the Paris office as well as Luc’s château,” he said, referring to the French equivalent of the FBI, the Department of Territorial Safety/Security. “And,” he continued, “I thought you might like to see this.” He opened up a French newspaper, the headline reading simply, “
Espionnage
.” Below it, a photo of Luc being led from the château in handcuffs.

“Bertrand as well?” Tex asked.

“Without incident,” McNiel said, and it seemed the room breathed a collective sigh of relief. There wasn’t a person seated there, Sydney included, who didn’t wonder if Griffin wouldn’t attempt to exact revenge on both men for the death of his wife. Especially considering the fact neither had been arrested right away and were merely kept under surveillance until after the search warrants were served.

“Moving on,” he said, pushing the newspaper aside to read his agenda, “Olivia Grogan will apparently survive to stand trial with her father, so expect subpoenas to be forthcoming, unless they decide to plead out.”

“Not likely,” Marc said. “Olivia, unfortunately, is saying her father is innocent, she worked alone, and that Cavanaugh was on her payroll. She also admitted to hiring the two hit men who came after Izzy, and who killed Cavanaugh. Of course she and her father both refuse to give up the names of other Black Network members.”

“Job security,” Carillo said, just as the door opened. Sydney glanced up, expecting Thorndike.

It was Griffin. He appeared tired, worn, the circles beneath his eyes darker. He looked over at her, and though he didn’t smile, she had the feeling that her presence was welcome, that maybe he was glad to see her.

And then he walked into the room, handing a folder to McNiel, saying, “My finished report on Amsterdam and France.”