Wild Card (4 page)

scientist they had us kidnap last month, in the cold. But you will read the file first."

Jordan stomped from the office, slammed the door behind him, and left Noah to the

information they had gathered.

Noah, he never thought of himself as Nathan anymore, stared at the file as though it were a

rattler. He didn't want to read it. He didn't want to know. Siberia suited him just fine. Hell, that

scientist was a quiet little thing, she just liked working on her projects, she didn't like company.

She would do.

He got to his feet, then stopped. He stared at the file and almost turned away. Almost. A picture

had slid from just inside the file, and he knew that chin.

He picked it up slowly. The center of his chest was a hard, searing knot of agony as he pulled

the picture free and frowned.

And there it was. That familiar curve of the brow, those pretty, soft gray eyes. But he'd be

damned if he knew the woman they belonged to.

She looked like Sabella.
His Sabella
. It was his Sabella. But she was so different.

Her sun-streaked blond tresses were darker, almost brown in some places. And her hair was

longer now. Well past her shoulders, thick and heavy. Her face was thinner, her expression was

quieter.

There was no smile on her lips.

Unless she was angry, Nathan had never seen Sabella without a smile. The thought of her

smiles, her laughter, her joy, followed him into his dreams sometimes. Sometimes, they held

the nightmares at bay. What would he hold on to now that he saw that smile was gone?

He held the picture in one hand, staring at her. He had refused to read any of the reports he

knew Jordan kept on her. Refused to hear anything about her in the past six years.

He had only two questions if her name came up.

Was she alive? Was she safe?

Jordan had always nodded, and Noah had always walked away.

He opened the mission file.

It didn't take long to read it. Even less time for him to have to fight the howl of pure rage that

burned in his throat.

Sabella was smack in the middle of an operation that had already killed three FBI agents and

the wife of a prominent politician.

Son of a bitch. He'd asked his father for one thing in his entire life. If anything ever happened

to him, to watch out for Sabella, and that lying bastard had sworn he would. But he hadn't.

Sabella was undefended.

Only his bastard half brother was trying to help at this point.

The mission file was peppered with information on Sabella, his half brother, Rory, his

grandfather, Riordan, and the father he could feel himself beginning to hate now.

And it was filled with danger. That danger could touch Sabella. He could see it. He could see

the threads that, if pulled just the right way, would tighten around his wife's neck and put her in

harm's way.

Nathan's wife, he reminded himself bitterly, not Noah's. Noah Blake had no wife. But he

couldn't erase the past that had once belonged to him, or the dreams of a wife that had been his,

no matter how hard he tried.

And now she was in danger.

Because he hadn't watched out for her.

He sat down and stared at the picture. It was bad enough the man she had loved had died, but

the haunted shell that was left hadn't even been able to watch out for her.

He ran his finger over the picture, down the curve of her cheek, as he closed his eyes and

remembered her smile. Remembered touching her. As he let himself remember, outside his

dreams, of loving her.

"
Go síoraí
," he whispered, breathing in the scent of those memories. "Forever, Sabella. I'll love you forever." And the first crack in Noah Blake's shell appeared.

"Nathan." His name was breathed into the darkness as Sabella came awake. As though the past

six years had never happened, as though she had never lost him. She heard his voice in the

darkness. Those words. The ones she had never asked the meaning of. Go síoraí.

She stared into the dimly lit room. No Nathan. Nathan wasn't there. Dry eyed, aching, she lay

back down and closed her eyes. "Goodbye, Nathan," she whispered back, wishing she could

still cry. Wishing the pain could be shed so easily. "I miss you."

The little shack that sat in the middle of the sprawling Rocking M Ranch looked just as

weathered, just as faded and familiar, as it ever had even in the dark, beneath a bleak, black

night.

Noah moved through the darkness like a wraith. He jumped the little wrought-iron fence and

moved to his grandmother's grave.

Erin Malone. Go síoraí
. Forever. They were the only words on her granite tombstone. His

grandfather had chiseled them in himself.

Kneeling by the tombstone, Noah stretched out his left hand, touched the stone, and lowered

his head. His grandfather had always paid homage to their grandmother in this fashion. All her

children had except Grant Malone. And Noah did now. He wondered if his brother Rory did as

well.

He lifted his head and stared at the shack. It was dark, shadowed, but he knew his half brother

was there.

He eased back from the grave then and bounded back over the fence before moving to the

cabin.

Rory was quick. He was suspicious. He had known throughout the day that someone was

watching the cabin, but Noah hadn't tried to hide it.

He moved around the shack on silent feet. He flowed with the shadows, became a part of them,

used them to his advantage until he stood at the end of the back porch and stared at the young

man who sat in the aged rocker.

Rory was twenty-five, a man grown, and he looked too much like Nathan had at that age. He

was broader in the shoulders and his muscles were heavier, but not as effective.

Rory sat silently, his rifle resting across his thighs, his body tense.

"I know you're here," his brother muttered. "If I haven't scoped you by now, I'm not going to.

You might as well take the shot." Disgust lined his voice, filled his expression as his head

lifted.

Rory thought he was dead, just as everyone else did. And Noah needed to ensure no one else

suspected. Except Rory. Nathan would need his help.

As silent as moonlight he was over the banister of the porch, the rifle pulled from Rory's grip,

the barrel across his brother's neck as the rocker tilted back to the wall.

It wasn't a harsh grip, it was a warning one. He didn't want to wake the old man. He didn't want

to add to Rory's grief, or to his own shame.

"Stay silent," Noah hissed in Rory's dark face. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Rory's expression was frankly disbelieving. But Noah would have been surprised if he'd

reacted any other way.

"You have one chance to know what I know about your brother," Noah warned him quietly.

"One chance. Blow it, and it will never return."

Rory's eyes narrowed. Startling blue eyes, true Malone eyes.

"My brother's dead," he bit out quietly. "What could you tell me about him that my uncle

couldn't?"

Noah leaned closer. "Bràthair, what could I tell you that you want to know?"

Then Noah leaned back again slowly. Rory was shaking. His dark face, Gaelic dark, paled as

he stared back at the shadow hovering in front of his vision.

Noah moved back slowly, still gripping the rifle. "Come with me." He jerked his head to the

shed at the edge of the house yard. "Does he still keep the shed lit?"

There was no answer, but Rory was following. They stepped into the shed and Noah closed the

door carefully before flipping the light on.

Rory collapsed on the old chair in the corner and stared back at him. His gaze was dark with

pain, anger.

"I thought you were my brother," he whispered. "Hell, I hoped you were."

Noah watched as his brother rubbed his hands over his face and shook his black head.

Noah removed the night vision glasses he wore. A new toy the unit was playing with. One he

had taken advantage of. He stared back at Rory, realizing the color of the eyes he saw every

morning in the mirror was wilder, bleaker, much darker and more dangerous than his brother's.

Rory blinked.

"Do you still sneak in here to smoke?" Noah asked, remembering how his brother used to slip a

cigarette when he thought no one would catch him.

Only he and Rory had known that.

Rory's hand shook. He gripped the arms of the old chair and stared at Noah as though he could

force himself to see what he needed to see.

"Who are you?" Rory finally breathed out painfully, his voice filled with more disappointment

than Noah had expected. "And what the hell do you want?"

Noah shook his head. "I don't have time for games, Rory."

"You're not Nathan," Rory whispered.

"I'm not the Nathan you remember." He moved to the wardrobe in the back of the shed, opened

the small door in the bottom and extracted the bottle of whiskey he knew his grandfather kept

there.

He hid his spirits from his Erin, he would always grin when he slipped a sip. Even though his

Erin was dead, his grandfather continued the tradition.

Uncorking the fine imported Irish spirit, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a healthy

drink. He didn't grimace as it went down, he savored it. Recapping it, he returned it to the

drawer and turned back to Rory.

The boy was staring at him now as though he had seen a ghost.

"No one knows about Grandpop's stash," he whispered.

Noah nodded shortly. "You knew. I knew. Grant never knew."

Rory breathed out roughly. "You stopped calling Grant dad after you found out about me."

Noah lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "He couldn't be your dad, then he was no dad of mine."

Rory shook his head as though to shake the confusion clear. Nathan almost felt sorry for him.

He didn't have time for pity though.

He grabbed an old wooden chair and pulled it to him. Straddling it. he stared back at his

brother.

"You're not making sense," Rory said, his voice forceful. "You're not Nathan, but you know the things only he knew." The younger man's gaze looked him over desperately. "Who are you?"

"Nathan's ghost." He sighed. "I'm Noah Blake, Rory, and you can't ever forget that. From this second on, believe Nathan is dead, because that man is long gone. Only Noah exists."

And still Rory was trying to find Nathan within him. Noah watched the desperation in his

brother's gaze, felt it lashing at his soul.

"I need your help, Rory."

"My help?" Rory shook his head again. "Hell, I don't even know who you are."

"You wouldn't have known me even five years ago," he told him. "Hell happened. Death

happened."

"Sabella?"

"Doesn't know." Noah's voice hardened. "And no one's telling her. I wasn't joking, kid. Nathan Malone stays dead."

Rory stared everywhere but at him for long, tense moments.

"Damn you!" The boy got to his feet, anger churning in his face now. "You son of a bitch!

You're not Nathan. And you know how I know you're not Nathan?"

Noah stared back at him remotely. Pushing the emotion back was the killer. Hell, he'd thought

it would be easier than this. He had told Jordan, a walk in the park. This wasn't the park, it was

a bleak nightmare.

"I'll tell you," Rory snarled. "You're not Nathan because Nathan wouldn't be here." He stabbed his finger at the floor of the shed. "He wouldn't be here with me right now, he'd be taking care

of his wife before someone else decided to do the job for him."

Before Noah realized the lack of control festering inside him, before Rory could guess his

intent, Noah lifted him by the throat from the chair and threw him against the wall. Pinning him

there he snarled back in Rory's face.

Rory looked as Nathan had once looked. He was built as Nathan had once been built. Or as

Noah had. They could have been twins at one time. They could have been born of the same

mother and father, rather than different mothers.

Rory was a younger Nathan. And Noah bet he remembered how to laugh.

"Have you touched her?" Ice seeped inside him. It filled his voice, filled his soul. "Did you comfort her?"

His hands tightened around Rory's throat. He could see it. Rory touching her, holding her, as

Sabella whispered Nathan's name, whispered forever. His hold became tighter.

His Sabella. Sweet, soft, warm. Forever whispering in his ear. She had promised him forever.

Was she giving it to Rory instead?

"Nathan?" Rory was choking as he stared back at him in shock.

Tears filled the boy's eyes, darkened them. "Nathan," he wheezed. "Oh God. Oh God. You're

alive. You bastard!"

Noah deflected the kick, the fists to the kidneys, and the younger man's choked curses. He

released the hold on his neck, twisted his arm behind his back and flattened his face to the table

next to the wall.

"Did. You. Touch.
My wife
?"

"I should have," Rory cried, half sob, half enraged bellow. "I should have. You son of a bitch.

You son of a bitch. You're just like him. Just like that heartless little bastard that made you."

Rory laid his head on the table as Noah released him and his shoulders shook. He kept his

forehead pressed into the wood, and a sob tore from his throat.

Noah flexed his hand, staring at it, his jaw tightening until he felt it would crack as he stretched

his fingers and realized, they had been wrapped around his brother's throat.

"Get out of here!" Rory straightened, keeping his back to him. "Get out."