Now You See Him(32)

"I never underestimated your intelligence. The bad guys might get here sooner than we expect. I'd be better off alone."

"So you could take them on single-handedly?" she asked, glancing at him over the rim of the cup.

He laughed. "Are you nuts? I'll have a much easier time running away if I don't have to worry about you."

He was doing it again. All gangling charm and asexual cheer. Just a sweet, ineffectual teacher from England, thrown into a situation miles out of his ordinary experience. And she didn't believe him.

"I'll stay here," she agreed. "How long do you think it'll take you?"

"That depends. If I run into trouble, there's no telling when I'll be back. I want you to keep out of sight."

"Michael…"

"Don't argue with me," he said, softening the order with an endearing smile that didn't reach his intense blue eyes. "We've gone over this before. It's in my upbringing—I have to do my best for the damsel in distress. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have thrown my lot in with you. Your safety and mine go hand in hand at this point."

"You could always cut a deal with them if you happen to run into them."

"From what I've heard of the Cadre, they'd slit my throat first and ask questions later," he said.

She grew very still. "From what you've heard of the Cadre?" she echoed. "I hadn't realized anyone knew much about them at all. When I talked to the FBI, they said they were an ultrasecret organization. I'd certainly never even heard their name."

He didn't even blink. "But you're an American. The Cadre's a branch of the IRA—surely your FBI explained that much. And we in England know far too much about the IRA and their various splinter factions. You're right, the Cadre keeps a low, extremely nasty profile. But one hears things."

She suddenly felt very cold, even as the morning sun beat down overhead. "Be careful, Michael," she said, frightened.

He grinned, boyish, freckled, lighthearted. No match for the ruthless killers she'd come in contact with. "Don't worry, love. Even with a game leg, I can run a hell of a lot faster than they can."

She couldn't keep him from going. She could only watch as he disappeared through the thick greenery, and then the silence settled down around her, as heavy as a tomb.

There wasn't much to keep her busy. She finished the coffee, polished off a cellophane bag of muesli and tidied the makeshift kitchen Michael had rigged up. She aired out the blankets and folded them; she swam in the tepid lagoon. Out of desperation she read every single printed word on the food packages, then went for the label on Michael's discarded jacket. That one was a puzzle. The labels had been cut out, leaving no clue to the tailor. And it had definitely been tailor-made—Francey remembered her third stepfather's exquisite taste. Turning the jacket inside out, she searched, finding only the trace of threads where someone had scissored out the telltale mark.

She folded it carefully, leaving it on top of the blankets, her mind preoccupied. She could think of no reason whatsoever for a man to have all the identifying labels cut out of his clothes. She found his baggy, discarded trunks and discovered that they were in the same shape.

"What are you trying to hide, Michael?" she said out loud, her voice echoing eerily in the little clearing. There was no answer.

When the overhead sun grew too hot, she made herself a little shelter, draping one of the blankets over a framework of branches and crawling beneath. She slept, her dreams filled with blood and violence. And sex. She woke, and even the birds were still. And she could smell death in the air.



Michael hadn't really expected it to take the Cadre long to find Baby Jerome. Despite the fact that they'd screwed up three times, he didn't make the mistake of thinking they were any less dangerous. He picked his vantage spot carefully, taking a few choice pieces from Cecil's munitions box with him, including his treasured Beretta. It all depended on how many showed up, and whether they made the choice to separate or stay together. He figured he could handle a maximum of four if they stayed together, six if they split up. But if they split, one of them might find Francey before he took him out.

In the end there were three of them, two older men and a boy of about eighteen. He watched them disembark, feeling no emotion at all, other than a faint regret. The young ones were the worst. Soulless, fearless, merciless. If he had any sense, he would take the young one out first.

There was never any question of capturing them or simply putting them out of commission. The Cadre took no prisoners, and they never allowed themselves to be taken. This was going to be a battle to the death, no mistake about it, and Michael wasn't in the mood to kill three people. But he was even less in the mood to let Francey die, and that was the alternative. He didn't really give a damn about himself. But he wasn't going to let them win.