"But…"
"Miss Neeley?" The short, dapper figure had a high-pitched, nasally voice, with an accent from somewhere in the north of England. "You've had a rough time of it. Let's get you on the boat while the men deal with Mr. Dowd."
"Daniel!" Francey cried, ignoring the newcomer, turning to her cousin for help.
"He'll be all right," Daniel said firmly, pulling her away. "You're just making things worse. Come on, Francey."
There was nothing she could do. Two men were working on him, shielding him from her view, and she had the sudden, aching certainty that she would never see Michael Dowd again.
"Come along," the shorter man said, his voice filled with concern. A concern Francey didn't believe for a moment.
But the hands on her arms were inexorable, pulling her away from Michael. She could hear the sound of a helicopter overhead, and she looked up.
"They'll get him to the hospital, Francey." Daniel followed her gaze.
"Will it make you feel any better if I go check?" the little man demanded.
"Yes," she said flatly, digging in her heels.
"Wait here, then."
Daniel kept his grip on her arm as they watched the man step carefully over the sand. He knelt down beside the men working on Michael, leaning over and saying something in Michael's ear.
Michael wasn't unconscious after all. The stranger was yanked down by his impeccable silk tie, and it took him a moment to break free. When he came back to Francey his face was flushed beneath his mirrored sunglasses. "Your friend still has some fight in him," he said stiffly.
"What did you say to him?" Daniel asked the question Francey longed to.
The little man straightened his mangled silk tie, and Francey saw there was blood on it. Michael's blood.
"I just told him he didn't have to worry about Miss Neeley any longer."
He was lying; Francey knew that. She also knew there was nothing more she could do. Sooner or later she would find out the truth. From Daniel, or from Michael himself. He was tougher than she dared hope. Even if her heart was terrified that he was disappearing from her life forever, she knew better—for the simple reason that she wasn't about to let that happen. She was taking responsibility for her own life, and happiness. She'd lost too much in the past several months. She wasn't going to lose Michael without a fight.
Half a world away, a battle of wills was raging. A battle to the death.
"You can't do anything about it," the young man said wearily, tired of dealing with a lunatic. "The three of them are dead, the girl's gone off with Travers, and God knows when we'll get a shot at her again. Give over."
"Don't tell me to give over! My brother's been murdered! That bitch has gotten off scot-free. And even Cougar stands a good chance of surviving! I won't have it, do you hear? I'm not going to let go—"
"We have a shipment waiting for us. We can't afford to chase after your quest for vengeance right now—there are larger matters at stake. Put it to one side, at least for now. Your time will come."
He felt the hatred blazing in her, the fanatical, murderous fury that had served the cause so well in the past. The Cadre's leader had always been an obvious choice, because of that single-minded dedication. He was no longer so certain.
"Another month. You can wait that long till we get to Malta," he said. "We get the shipment, we get things settled, and then I promise you, I'll bring you the girl's head on a damned platter if that's what you want."
"Her head. And his."
The man nodded, seriously doubting anyone would get close enough to the infamous Cougar to separate his head from his body. "And his," he promised.
Chapter 9
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New York was hot and sticky, the smell of tar and garbage rising from the streets. Francey stepped out of the unair-conditioned taxi and stared around her with a sense of wonder, as if she were seeing the place for the first time.
She'd always loved Greenwich Village. The tiny, little walk-up on Twelfth Street was the first real home she'd ever had. It came equipped with a key to a private park just two blocks away, and even if keeping the cockroaches at bay was a full-time occupation, she always had a sense of peace and belonging.
That had vanished the night Caitlin Dugan came and dragged her on that hair-raising ride to the UN. She'd spent the month afterward in New York, waking up in the morning, going to work, coming home at night, but she'd been numb, in shock. It wasn't until her cousin Daniel had stepped in, rooted her out of her apathy and sent her off to his villa on St. Anne that she'd started to come back to life.
To be honest, it wasn't until Michael Dowd had stepped off that plane into the warm evening air that she'd decided life might be worth living after all. It wasn't until she'd nearly died that night, and later, that she'd considered there might be life after betrayal. It wasn't until he'd kissed her, put his hands on her, that she'd realized…