Carla Neggers - The Mist

Michael Murphy-or whatever his name was-snorted at Lizzie. “You almost broke my poor knee. It hurts like the devil.”

She was unrepentant. “What did you expect me to do when you came after me with your knife?”

“I was scared out of my wits, trying to save Keira. Untie me. I’ve done nothing to deserve being trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

“Nothing?” Lizzie raised her eyebrows, almost amused at his brazenness. “That’s rich, my friend.”

She took her brandy glass to the bar and set it on the smooth wood, resisting a sudden surge of loneliness. She had friends. Family. Why was she doing this on her own? She glanced at Will, his quiet control as he dialed his BlackBerry more unnerving than if he’d been in a frenzy. He would be focused on first things first. He’d see to Keira’s safety.

Then he’d deal with Lizzie.

Her trip to Ireland wasn’t going at all as she’d hoped it would. Instead of disrupting Norman ’s plans for violent revenge, she’d landed in the middle of their execution. She could no longer pretend she’d just stopped by the little Irish village to see Simon Cahill while she was walking the Beara Way. Simon and his friend Lord Davenport had only to put their heads together and, with their resources inside and outside of government, they’d figure out who she was. In the meantime, she had room to maneuver.

Will held his BlackBerry out to Keira. “It’s Simon. He and Director March weren’t present when the bomb went off. Your uncle and cousin are unhurt.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Detective Wisdom is seriously injured.”

“What about Abigail?”

“She wasn’t in the blast.”

Keira took the phone. “Simon,” she said in a raw whisper, “I’m fine. I love you.”

Lizzie’s throat tightened as Keira spoke to the man she loved. She’d found her soulmate, and Simon had found his.

Every instinct Lizzie had told her she had to get out of there now or she wouldn’t be able to leave. She didn’t want to end up under the thumb of Irish law enforcement. They’d call the FBI and the Boston police, and then where would she be?

In cuffs herself as a material witness, or even a suspect.

If Scoop Wisdom was able to talk, he’d tell the FBI and his BPD colleagues about the black-haired woman he’d caught lingering in front of the triple-decker yesterday afternoon. He’d walked out from the backyard with a colander of green beans that, somehow, made him look more intimidating.

“Can I help you?” he’d asked her.

Hesitating, debating with herself, Lizzie had opted not to tell him the truth. “No. Sorry. I’m just catching my breath.” She’d smiled. “Shin splints.”

He hadn’t bothered hiding his skepticism, but he hadn’t stopped her as she’d gone on her way, boarding her flight to Ireland that evening. She’d decided to talk to Simon Cahill instead of John March’s detective daughter, Abigail, or her detective friends.

And now, twenty-four hours later, a bomb had exploded on Abigail’s back porch, severely injuring Detective Wisdom.

Lizzie reached for her backpack on the hearth. Had she screwed up by not talking to him yesterday? If she had, would he and his detective housemates have found the bomb?

Her father would tell her not to look back with regret but to learn and to help her figure out what she needed to do next.

She felt the sting of her cuts and scrapes now. “ Norman isn’t flying off to a resort to celebrate his freedom,” she said, addressing Simon’s British friend. “He’ll be furious that his plan didn’t work. He’ll try again.”

Will eased closer to her, his eyes changeable and intense in the heat of the fire. He was taking in everything, studying her, seeing, she was sure, more than she wanted to reveal. An image came, unbidden, unwanted, of them together in a pretty Irish inn, with no worries beyond which book to read or which bath salts to choose.

“You obviously know Estabrook,” he said quietly. “Are you a friend?”

“ Norman doesn’t have real friends.”

“He’s very wealthy. Some people are drawn to wealth.”

“Yes. Some people are.” Lizzie saw clearly now what she needed to do. If she was to be of any help now that Norman was acting on his intentions, she had to remain anonymous for as long as possible. She couldn’t explain her association with him and his entourage of wealthy investors, adventurers, staff, hangers-on and drug traffickers. “I imagine by now most everyone knows Norman Estabrook’s not your basic mild-mannered billionaire adventurer. If you’ll excuse me-”

“You’ve had an ordeal tonight.” Will brushed a fingertip across her hand, just above her split knuckles. “You’re hurt.”

She gave a dismissive shrug. “Nothing a nice hot bath and a lot more brandy won’t cure.” She lifted her pack onto her shoulder, feeling her jetlag, too. “Please don’t stop me. I’m no good to anyone sitting in a garda interview room.”

His eyes stayed on her. “I’ll find out who you are.”

“You could take my backpack from me and find out now, but you won’t. We’re both in a foreign country.” She tilted her head back and challenged him with a cool smile. “You don’t want to get into a tussle with me just as the guards arrive and risk getting yourself arrested. You and Keira have enough to explain as it is.”

The change in his expression was subtle, but something about it instantly had her conjuring images of fighting him, sparring with him, blocking, counterattacking. Going all out, no-holds-barred.

It was sexy, the idea of getting physical with her very own James Bond.

Further proof, Lizzie decided, of the deleterious effects of jetlag, adrenaline, a knife fight in an Irish stone circle and two sips of brandy on an otherwise perfectly normal brain.

It was time to go.

She lifted Murphy’s assault knife out of her pocket and handed it to Eddie O’Shea. “Thank you for the brandy and for your help tonight. Your brothers, too.”

He took the knife, his suspicion, if anything, even more acute now. “Just here walking the Beara Way, you say.”

But the barman didn’t stop her, either, as she headed back out into the quiet, pretty village.

She heard a dog barking in the distance and, high up in the hills, the bleating of sheep. The wind had died to a gentle breeze, and the rain had stopped, the air cool, scented with roses and lavender.

The picnic table was empty. There was no old farmer with a pipe and strange talk.

Lizzie walked past the brightly painted houses and the lamp-posts with their hanging flower baskets to her little rented car.

No one followed her.

She got behind the wheel but warned herself not to let down her guard just yet, even for a few seconds. As she started the engine, she felt the ache in her muscles from the bruises she’d incurred doing battle in the Beara hills, and she acknowledged a desire to go back to the pub and believe she had allies there, people she could trust.

Instead she pulled out onto the street and found her way back to the main road, the sky slowly darkening over Kenmare Bay.

She wondered how long she had before the Irish Garda, the Boston police, the FBI and one handsome British spy came after her.

Probably not long.

Boston, Massachusetts

3:40 p.m., EDT

August 25

A phone call…

Abigail Browning remembered teasing Scoop and Fiona from her back porch about tomatoes. She’d been laughing when she’d gone inside to answer the phone.

She was between the two men who’d grabbed her off the street a few minutes later and was walking with them now on what felt like a marina dock. They’d thrown a smelly car blanket over her head and shoved guns in her ribs. They were pure, brazen, hired thugs who obviously would prefer to shoot her and dump her body-or not to have kidnapped her in the first place.