Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
Two heartbeats, four, then… another deafening bang. Instantly she launched toward the bells, using a second explosion to cover
her sound, stopping next to the closest bell.
The bell wasn’t quite as tall as she, but it was wide and about two feet off the ground. Under it, an eighteen-inch-wide hole
was cut in the floor. She bent over, moving cautiously so as not to make a noise, trying to see through the hole.
But the floor wasn’t single-plank wood. There were two floors, about a foot apart with a huge hollow area between them, probably
built like that to absorb sound. She’d have to lie on the floor and actually hang her head and half her body down there if
she had any chance of seeing what was—
Another gunshot and a grunt. Was Marc hit?
She dropped to her knees, then flattened her body against the floor, scooting forward until her head was at the edge of the
hole. She had to know if he was alive.
She could see down the rope but not much of the room below. She’d have to go farther, dangling more than half
her body down that opening in order to see. And what would she see? Marc lying on the floor in a pool of blood? Oh, God, no.
She heard a breath. A quick intake of air, directly below her.
Without making a sound, she slid forward, clinging to the rough wood of the floorboards as she forced her head into the hole.
Clammy, cold air filled her nose and burned her eyes, but she bit her lip and dropped farther, managing to inch her upper
body completely into the hole. Her legs braced on the floor, she balanced her weight precariously in the middle of her torso.
Rat droppings and dust balls filled the open area between the two floors.
Six more inches and she could see partially into the room below. She pushed herself and saw Marc, very much alive.
Relief rocked her. He was smashed against the wall, his focus riveted on the opening to the stairs that led back to the church.
He couldn’t see around that wall, but from her upside-down vantage point, she could. Squinting into the darkness, she could
make out a man, also pressed against a wall, waiting for Marc to give away his position.
It was a standoff.
After a moment, the man raised his hand to fire. Devyn let out a soft breath to get Marc’s attention. He looked up and saw
her motion for him to duck, just as the bullet cracked, missing him.
He caught her eye and nodded in gratitude. She risked her balance by letting go with one hand to point to the door and mouth,
“He’s right there.”
He tilted his head left, right, then shrugged.
Where
exactly?
he wanted to know.
She eyed the man again and used her hand to indicate the left, against the wall.
Marc gave her a quick nod and repositioned himself, aiming at the wall. He shot, the explosion splitting her eardrums. The
man jerked wildly to the right. He’d used the angle of the wall to bounce a bullet, but the other guy was too fast.
When Marc looked up at her for a report, she shook her head furiously, holding up her fingers to show he’d missed by an inch.
Maybe less.
Again, he gestured the same question:
Where is he?
The man had moved to the other wall now, unaware Marc had the advantage of eyes in the ceiling. She showed Marc, using one
hand and clinging to the splintery wood with the other.
One more time, he steadied, aimed at a different place on the wall, and fired.
The man jerked down and grabbed his arm, and Marc gestured up to show he knew he’d hit the target. Moving stealthily, he slipped
out of visual range as he rounded the far end of the tower. Devyn’s whole body thudded with each heartbeat, her hip bones
pressed so hard into the wood to hold her in place she could feel the bruises forming.
The man let go of his jacket sleeve, which was torn, but no blood was visible. Marc must have grazed him. He still couldn’t
see either of them as he stood.
Marc got closer, then leaped forward, just as the other guy did exactly the same thing. They slammed into each other, a gun
skimming across the floor, landing under the bells where Devyn could see it.
Was that Marc’s gun? They wrestled each other to the
ground, grunting as a fist hit flesh. Marc got on top and raised his hand to deliver a punch, but his opponent, about his
size, maybe bigger, whipped Marc over on his side and got in his own punch. Marc kicked the guy’s gut, and Devyn saw a gun
in the melee.
In the wrong man’s hand.
They rolled out of sight, and she let out a soft choke of frustration, her whole body hanging precariously, her whole being
tensed for the gunshot that would kill Marc.
She could see their feet, tangled and kicking, could hear the thud of knuckles against bone and the growls of violence and
deadly intent. They rolled closer, within her view now, but Marc was still too far from his gun, which lay a few feet from
him.
The two men were almost directly under her. Marc suddenly popped up onto his feet, his arms wide in surrender. He took a slow
step back, the other man taking one forward, his gun aimed right at Marc’s chest. With one more step, the other man was directly
under Devyn.
If she jumped…
Which would be exactly what Marc told her
not
to do.
But they had the advantage of surprise. Marc had no gun and the guy hadn’t said a word but moved with deadly intent.
Should she jump?
Hands in the air, Marc’s right index finger moved so imperceptibly that the other man wouldn’t have noticed. But Devyn saw
the miniscule gesture and read it as a signal. He flicked the finger again, a little faster. He
had
to be telling her to jump.
She reached forward, closed her fingers around the rope and swung her legs out. In the split second it took her
weight to pull the rope and move the clapper, she slid two feet. As the man looked up in shock, Marc dove for his own gun,
kicking the guy out of Devyn’s way as she fell to the floor with a thud.
“Drop it!” Marc demanded, loud enough to be heard over the single chime reverberating over the stone walls.
Devyn rolled onto her backside in time to see Marc pushing the guy toward the wall, one hand on this throat, the other holding
a gun at his chest.
When the man’s gun clunked to the floor, Devyn swiped for it, grabbing it as she pushed herself to her feet.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked, his accent thick, maybe more British than Irish, but it was hard to tell on five words.
“You greet every caller with bullets?” Marc asked, getting right in the guy’s face. “That the way you guys work now?”
The man said nothing, his pockmarked face red from the struggle, a beady, pale gaze sharply divided between Marc’s gun and
his eyes. “Nobody’s supposed to have them notes, mate. Not that song. No one.”
“How about Dr. Greenberg? Did she play it?” He tightened his grip on the guy’s throat and punctuated the question by slamming
the man’s head against the stone. “Did you meet her with a spray of fire, too?”
“I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I think you do.” Marc ground the words out. “Where is she?”
The guy clamped his mouth shut and stared at him, his chest still heaving with each breath. Devyn squeezed the gun in her
hand, letting it slide naturally into her palm, the metal warm against her skin.
“Where
is
she?” He shoved a knee into the guy’s groin, getting a loud
oomph
in response but no answer.
“Tell me where she is, and you live. Keep your mouth shut, and I fire.” Marc was so close to the guy they were practically
kissing, hatred and fury rolling off both of them.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He jammed the gun again. “ ’Cause either one’ll kill you.”
“Too much at stake, lad.”
“Your life’s at stake, pal. Where is she?”
The other man sucked in a breath. “I don’t know.”
Marc thrust another knee into his belly and slammed the guy’s head against the stone wall.
“Liam… Baird… is all… I know.”
“Who?” Marc demanded. “Where?”
He could barely rasp out the words. “Liam… Baird. Belfast.”
Liam Baird? Devyn knew that name. How? The magazine article on Sharon’s desk! “Liam Baird” had been underlined. But the article
got lost in the rain when she’d tried to escape Sharon’s house.
“Where in Belfast?” Marc demanded.
“She’s in Mill… town.”
Milltown? That was a
cemetery.
“She’s dead?” Devyn gasped.
The man shook his head furiously, a purple bruise throbbing under his eye where Marc had landed a punch.
“She’s… top secret…. Don’t fuck it up.” He had his breath now and locked his eyes on Devyn. “She knows you’re here. That’s
why we had to get you here.”
“To Enniskillen?” she asked, a new hope sparking in
her chest, so powerful she could taste the sweetness of the possibility. Sharon was a spy—on the right side. “Why send me
here?”
“To get you away from her. You asked too many people and got attention on her. She’s deep undercover.”
She let this information settle over her heart.
“They’ll kill you,” he rasped. “They’ll kill you and they’ll kill her. But…”
“But what?” Marc demanded, not loosening his grip at all, but not jamming the barrel of the gun into the man quite as hard.
“I’m gonna tell you she’s never gonna make it. She’s on a suicide mission.”
She was? Why?
He looked hard at Marc. “I’m not saying another word, so pull the fucking trigger and get it over with.”
Marc eased his stance, still on the guy but not in his face. “Devyn, open the door to the bell tower.”
“Where is Sharon?” Devyn said, not moving. “Why isn’t someone helping her? Does it have to be a suicide mission?”
“She’s on her own,” the man said softly. “And that’s the way it has to be. Unless you want a whole helluva lot of dead people
in the world.”
She couldn’t respond, couldn’t move.
“Get the door,” Marc commanded again.
With leaden feet, she stepped sideways, then went to the opening that led upstairs. She pulled the door open and stepped aside
as Marc forced the man into the doorway.
“Move it.” Marc pushed him up the stairs and followed while Devyn stayed stone still at the bottom, putting it all together.
Sharon had something to do with the British intelligence agency. She was in a cemetery with someone named Liam Baird, on a
suicide mission that, if she failed, could kill a lot of people.
“Devyn, c’mere. Fast.”
She ducked through the opening and ran up the stairs back to the bell tower.
“Did you go up there?” he asked, indicating the ladder to the top.
“No.”
“Go up and see if the door locks from this side. Hurry.”
She hoisted herself onto the ladder, pulling herself up and climbing, moving without thinking, without fear. Because her mind
was a thousand miles away. Well, a hundred or so. She knew where Milltown Cemetery was; they could find it easily. And she
and Marc were so good together that they could find Sharon. She just knew they could.
At the top, the trapdoor was unlocked, but a strong steel bolt locked it from the outside. She knew why Marc had sent her
up there.
“You can put him in there,” she said. “No one’ll ever find him.”
“They’ll find him. The SIS know when they’re missing one of their agents. Keep that gun on him when you get down here.”
She did while Marc frisked him and took a cell phone and a wallet.
He flipped the wallet to Devyn. “Get his ID out. And cover me. I’m taking him upstairs.”
Without fighting, the man followed Marc’s orders
and stayed a few steps ahead of Marc, climbing into his prison.
She kept the gun on him until he was behind the closed door, and Marc bolted the door from the outside, hurrying back down
to her.
Back in the bell tower, he paused only long enough to snag the napkin and leave the agent’s wallet. He pocketed the man’s
ID and cell phone, nudging her to the stairs. “Move it,” he ordered. “We don’t have much time.”
“I know, but we can be in Milltown in two hours.”
He froze. “Are you out of your mind?”
She turned to him. “Don’t even think about stopping me.”
“You’re not going into an SIS undercover assignment, Dev. Sorry.”
“But you heard him. He said—”
“Go!” He gave her a solid push. “We’ll fight about it later.”
Indeed they would.
V
ivi smelled the tomato sauce before she actually saw Uncle Nino in her office doorway, giving her enough time to whip open
her desk drawer and slide in her unfinished project, hiding it just as he lumbered into the room.
Would she ever get some time alone in this place?
“You don’t look happy to see me,
mia cara
.”
She rearranged her face into a smile, then let it fall. Lying—or at least hiding something—from her twin was hard enough.
Pulling one over on her great-uncle, a man she loved wholly and completely without wanting to change a single thing about
him? Impossible.
But she had to try. She’d been counting the minutes until Zach left, impatient to get back to the letter bits, as she’d come
to think of her find from North Carolina.
“I’m just trying to get some work done, Uncle Nino.”
“What work? We have, what, one client?” He glanced around the very quiet offices. “I saw Chessie on her way to get her fingernails
painted, so we’re not that busy.”
“She’s caught up on her responsibilities,” Vivi said. “Plus, it’s not like we’re paying her yet.”
“She told me business was flatter than my crespelles.”
She eyed the glass oven dish he carried. “I hope to God that’s what you brought.”
He held up the dish. “Eggplant parmigiano,” he said, slathering a real Neapolitan accent on the word.
“Eggplants with pajamas on.” She grinned, always amused by what her American cousins had called the dish as children. “And
Zach just got the microwave to work.”
“Microwave?” He
pffft
. “Like I’d cook my food with electrolysis.”