Tess Gerritsen: Double Impact

“Mother of God,” Kolin swore between clenched teeth, his gaze fixed on the second story of the grand villa. “Someone’s in there.” He pointed to one window in particular. “I saw him in the window.”

The Spaniard threw his hands up. “We have accomplished our mission. It is time to go. Whoever else is in there is none of our concern,” he persisted.

“Go,” Michal said to them, his full attention locking onto the second story. “I will tie up this loose end and meet you in Marseilles.”

“How-”

Michal cut off whatever else Kolin intended with a look. “Go now. Wait for me in Marseilles.”

“This is loco!” the Spaniard snarled before double timing it toward the Jeep. He didn’t like what Michal was about to do, but he liked the idea of hanging around to watch even less.

Kolin reluctantly followed.

Michal didn’t look back. Not once. He strode quickly to the villa and disappeared inside.

Looking back would not have fit the character of the ruthless Executioner.

Michal Arad never looked back, he moved forward constantly. Always accomplishing his goal.

He had never failed.

Not once.

Fifteen seconds after he passed through the arched portal that separated the courtyard from the shadowy interior of the villa an explosion shook the very foundation of the massive structure. Glass and bits and pieces of decor burst from the windows…the doors, spraying down a lethal rain of razor-sharp edges and spearlike material. After a moment’s groan, the walls fell inward, burying all that was inside.

The Spaniard and Kolin watched from the safety of the hillside. They had scarcely chugged up the road half a mile when the unexpected tragedy struck.

The two men exchanged looks of sheer terror and then the Spaniard floored the accelerator.

Getting the hell out of here was their only priority now. The import of the news they carried would reach the farthest corners of the globe before the sun set.

The Executioner was dead.

THE HOUSEKEEPING CART stopped near Room 214 and the maid rapped on the door.

Thomas cautiously pulled the door open, but only a fraction. He had no intention of letting anyone get close to Ami. Michal had given him specific orders that her safety was to be considered above all else.

Unlike his predecessor, Thomas would not fail.

“What do you want?” he demanded of the maid before she could articulate a syllable.

“Yours is the only room on the floor I have not cleaned,” the woman said in French, her abuse of the language making him wince. “My work is not complete until I have cleaned all the rooms,” she added with a stubborn tilt to her chin.

Thomas didn’t want anyone else in the room, but he supposed this was necessary. He grunted an affirmative she would understand as he pulled the door fully open.

Ami lifted her head from the pillow when she heard the squeaky wheels of the housekeeping cart. She’d heard the voices, but the words hadn’t really registered. All she could think about was Michal. Why hadn’t they heard something already? How long would it take?

She worried and worried about what was the right thing to do, and in the end, when she’d realized that she actually had only one option, it had been too late.

Her head felt swollen and achy from her hours of sobbing. And far too heavy to hold up. When she would have collapsed back onto the pillow her gaze collided with an all too familiar one.

Fran Woodard was the cleaning lady who’d just weaseled her way past Thomas.

She fiddled with her supplies, smiled and shared a secret wink with Ami.

Hope soared inside her like a rocket taking off. Fran hadn’t given up on her, after all.

She had to be here to rescue Ami.

Her hopes crashed and burned like a doomed airliner. But what about Michal?

Utter fear slammed into her then. Had the CIA been watching, witnessing her full confession to Michal?

That was it, she realized with rising dread.

Fran was here to kill her.

Ami shifted into an upright position, preparing to run like hell if Fran came near the bed.

But she didn’t. She flitted around the rest of the room, dusting, rearranging, tidying anything that looked out of place. Finally, Thomas resumed his seat on the sofa and his captivation with the news. He didn’t have the vaguest clue what hit him when Fran brought the ceramic table lamp down onto his head. She then brushed her hands together and said, “Well, that’s that.”

Ami leaped from the bed, her destination the door.

Before she could make heads or tails of the cleaning cart’s sudden shaking and shifting, Jack Tanner emerged from it. One look at Ami was all it took for him to know total hysteria had hit.

“We’re here to help you,” he said quickly, stepping into her path when his sudden appearance failed to do more than slow her down.

“Get out of my way,” she yelled, shoving him as hard as she could. She wanted to scream at him for what he had allowed to happen. She wanted to demand answers. But there was no time. Michal might need her. She had to get back to him.

“I’ve got your son…” he began.

She barreled into him with the full force of her weight. “You bastard.” She lashed out. “Haven’t you done enough already? What else do you people want?” She stood there, directly in front of him, her whole body shaking with emotions too strong and too numerous to name.

He reached for her, but she stumbled back from his grasp. “It’s not what you think.”

“I know what it is,” she snapped. “You want both Michal and me dead.”

“We’re wasting time,” Fran put in, tapping the watch she wore on her left wrist and looking pointedly from Tanner to Ami. “Nicholas is waiting.”

Ami swiveled toward the woman, ready to tear into her, as well. “How could you taunt me that way? I thought you understood-”

Fran cocked an impatient eyebrow. “I do. Now let’s get out of here before sleeping beauty over there wakes up and we have to do permanent damage.”

For the first time since she’d recognized the CIA operative, Ami realized she was serious about helping. “My son is here?”

The mere idea sent warmth and relief flooding through her, weakening her knees, very nearly overwhelming her.

“That’s what Jack has been trying to tell you,” she said succinctly. “Now, let’s get a move on.”

At the door Ami hesitated, she looked straight into Tanner’s eyes and demanded the truth. “What about Michal?”

For two excruciatingly long beats Tanner didn’t respond, then he made her worst fears a reality.

“He’s dead.”

THE JOURNEY to the basement was made in a kind of shocked silence. Ami didn’t speak, she scarcely breathed. She was capable of nothing. Tanner, with one arm around her shoulder, ushered her forward as necessary, forcing her legs to make the required movements.

Michal was dead.

Nicholas would never know him.

And somehow, even though she didn’t fully understand it, she was partly to blame.

She had been the bait, of that she was certain now.

She didn’t need Tanner or Fran to spell it out for her. In two years they had not been able to bring him down, but once they’d brought her into the picture, the feat had proved painfully simple.

A shudder worked its way through her when she considered that the whole Nathan Olment thing could have been an elaborate setup. Tanner had told her she was one of theirs. Had she simply lain dormant-a sleeper, so to speak-until they needed her back in action?

None of it mattered now.

It was too late.

Michal was dead.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she attempted to console herself with the realization that she was finally going to see her child again. But even that left a gaping wound in her heart.