There were some things you never forget. There were some circumstances when even the most compromised body came through. The three split up. The two older men fought fast, well, with a deadly accuracy that would have meant the end for another man. He let them find him first, but even two against one was only a delay in the inevitable outcome. And then he went after the boy.
He found him training a gun on Francey's back. She was wandering around the campsite dressed only in the skimpy bikini and baggy T-shirt, but Michael didn't feel his automatic spasm of lust. Every nerve, every cell, in his body was frozen in momentary panic.
The boy turned, some sixth sense alerting him to Michael's presence, and the empty blue eyes that looked into his were a mirror image. And then he leaped for Michael.
It was over quickly. A brief, vicious struggle that the boy doubtless thought he'd win. And he was good; Michael had to grant him that. Good enough to inflict a fair amount of damage with repeated, vicious blows to Michael's left side.
Only a knowledgeable person would have concentrated on the most vulnerable part of his body. The internal damage caused by Patrick Dugan's bullets hadn't yet healed, and Michael could feel the tearing deep within him as he fought.
And then it was over, the boy's youth and cunning no match for Michael. He pulled away, looking at his fallen enemy, and he thought about Vikings. About honoring a fallen soldier. And he spat at the boy's feet.
He limped back to the beach, clutching his side. A year ago the boy wouldn't have gotten to him. But then, a year ago he wouldn't just have come through pretty dicey surgery. Once again the spectre of retirement rose before him, and he thought of his cottage in the Lake District. He thought of the fictional Whipdale House, the comfortable Mum, the three doting older sisters. Closing his eyes, he sank onto the sand, letting the blackness wash over him.
It was late afternoon when he finally made his way back to the clearing. She'd dressed in her wrinkled sundress, something he would have regretted if he felt any better. She'd managed to concoct something on the cookstove, and he told himself he ought to eat. But all he wanted to do was collapse on the neat pile of blankets and make the last few hours go away.
She looked up when he stepped into the clearing, her sun-streaked brown hair pulled back from her face, and her brown eyes widened as she rose.
"They're here," she guessed, starting toward him, her face pale with alarm. "My God, Michael, what have they done to you?"
He managed to pull himself together. "Not a thing," he managed with an airy wave. "I haven't seen any sign of them. I was just stupid enough to fall down a cliff. Banged myself up good and proper." He swayed slightly, telling himself it was for effect, for her sympathy and warm, strong arms, and knowing it was because he couldn't help it.
She smelled of sun and flowers and innocence. He managed to keep from collapsing, leaning against her just slightly as she helped him toward the pallet, and he gave her a crooked smile. "Sorry to have made such a botch of things. I guess my leg wasn't as strong as I thought. It twisted underneath me, and the next thing I knew, I was at the bottom of a ledge. I was terrified that you might get into trouble, but it took me this long to get back."
It had taken him that long to rouse himself, go back and dispose of the bodies, to try to patch himself up. There wasn't much he could do for the internal injuries, except hope to God Travers would get there in time. Before the Cadre decided to send in reinforcements.
"You look like hell," she said, staring down at him.
"That's nothing compared to how I feel. There's some whiskey somewhere in one of the boxes. I could do with a drink."
"It's Scotch," she said. "I thought you preferred Irish whiskey."
"For some reason I'm not in the mood for Irish," he said grimly, leaning back.
A moment later she was kneeling beside him, a mug of whiskey in her hand. Nicely full, he noticed, taking a deep, shuddering sip. Bless the woman.
"What can I do?" she asked, sitting back on her heels.
He could think of any number of things, none of which he was in any shape to enjoy at that particular moment. "Don't look at me like that, Francey," he said wryly. "I'm not going to die."
"You look it."
"Don't count on it."
"Don't joke."
"You have to joke or cry," he said, thinking of the sightless blue eyes of the dead boy. He'd seen too many dead boys, too many soulless faces. Including his own. "You can do something for me," he said, taking another deep swallow, letting it burn through the pain in his gut.
"Anything."
She thought Patrick Dugan's filth had destroyed her soul. She didn't know how far from the truth she was. There was a basic goodness in her that nothing would ever touch, and right then he needed that, more than he needed the whiskey, more than he needed help for his wounds. "Lie down with me," he said.