Carla Neggers: The Mist

“Did he go alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then he kept his promise to provide authorities with all he knows about his drug-trafficking friends?”

“The Americans must be satisfied or they wouldn’t have let him go free.”

“Josie, the man threatened to kill Simon and Director March.”

“He insists he was speaking metaphorically.”

Someone who didn’t know Josie well could miss her wry tone, but she and Will had worked together for the past three years. He didn’t miss it. “Metaphorically,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“ Ireland is a long way from Montana, Will. Estabrook has no history of violence, nor is he suspected of having been involved with his associates’ violent crimes. Not that participating in the spread of the poison of illegal drugs isn’t a kind of violence.”

“I’m at Keira’s cottage now,” Will said. “Her car is here, but she’s not. She must have gone for a walk.”

“From what Simon’s told me, she does love to walk. They’re a remarkable pair, aren’t they, Will? True love is a rare thing, but they’ve found it.”

This time, Will heard wistfulness in Josie’s voice. She was the thirty-eight-year-old single mother of a teenage son and a woman who had faced more than her share of heartbreak. She was also a capable, resourceful member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and Will trusted her without hesitation. She understood, as he did, that their lives and work ran more smoothly, more easily, unencumbered by romantic entanglements. She’d learned her lesson the hard way through personal experience. He’d learned his by example.

Matters, he thought, for another day.

“Have you talked to Simon?” he asked.

“Briefly. He appreciates that you’re in Ireland and Keira’s not alone. He’d never have left her if he’d known Estabrook would be released. He and March had hoped they could keep him in custody.”

Will resisted any comment on the FBI director. He and March had a history, not a good one. “A woman was at the pub just now, reading one of Keira’s books. A hiker. Small, slim, light green eyes, black hair. American. Do you recognize the description?”

“Long hair, short hair?”

“I don’t know. Long, I think. I only saw a few strands. The rest was under a red bandanna.”

“Ah.”

Will sighed. “She said she’s from Las Vegas and is here hiking the Beara Way.”

“Alone?”

“As far as I could tell, yes.”

“Seems a lovely thing to do,” Josie said. “But you don’t believe her, do you, Will?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“You wouldn’t be drawn to an Irish village where an ancient, magical stone angel was reportedly discovered in a ruin?”

“Josie…”

“I’ve jotted down the description and will see what I can learn. One never knows. Good luck finding Keira. Simon trusts you completely.”

“I owe him, Josie.”

“Yes, you do.”

Will stared down through the gray mist and fog down toward the harbor, remembering back two years to a tragic, violent eighteen hours in Afghanistan that ended with Simon Cahill saving his life. It was a debt they both understood could never be repaid-and yet Will kept trying. But it wasn’t why he’d come to Ireland. He had come, simply, as a friend.

“Will,” Josie added crisply, “Simon knows you’re not some fop who spends all his time fishing and golfing. He’s aware by now that you weren’t in Afghanistan to catch butterflies.”

She disconnected before Will could respond.

He shoved his BlackBerry into his coat pocket, but part of him was still back in Afghanistan, alone, dehydrated, bruised and bloodied, determined to stay alive for one reason: he owed the truth to the memory and the service of the two SAS soldiers-his friends-who had died at his side hours earlier on that long, violent night. At great risk to himself, with only an ax, a rope and his own brute strength at his disposal, Simon had come upon the bombed-out cave and freed Will. Together they then dug out the bodies of David Mears and Philip Billings, who had died because Will had trusted the wrong man.

Another friend.

Myles Fletcher.

Will made himself silently say the name of the man-the British military officer and intelligence agent-who had compromised their highly classified mission, only to be captured and dragged off by the very enemy fighters he had embraced as allies.

After reuniting Will with his SAS colleagues, Simon had returned to his own classified mission on behalf of the FBI. He had never asked for an explanation of Will’s presence in the cave-or thanks for saving his life.

After two years, Myles Fletcher’s remains had yet to be recovered. Presumably his terrorist allies had turned on him and killed him after he’d served his purpose. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that he was still alive, but Will wouldn’t be satisfied until he had definitive proof.

The FBI had been onto a drug-trafficking and terrorism connection that had evaporated due to Will’s failed mission. John March considered Will ultimately responsible for Myles’s treachery.

Simon didn’t blame Will for anything, but Will had discovered in their two years of friendship that little fazed Simon Cahill.

Except being on one side of the Atlantic while the woman he loved was on the other.

Will buttoned his coat and locked the memories back into their own tight compartment as he walked out to the lane in search of Keira.

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

6:20 p.m., IST

August 25

Lizzie pulled off her bandanna, relishing the feel of the cool wind and mist in her hair. Eddie’s dog had led her onto a narrow country lane that followed a stone wall between bay and mountains. She tried to enjoy her walk past rain-soaked roses, holly and wildflowers, fragrant on the wet summer evening. She smiled at lambs settling in for the night and stood for a moment in front of an old, abandoned stone cottage, a reminder of the long-ago famine and subsequent decades of mass emigration that had hit West Cork hard.

Up ahead, the spaniel paused and looked back, tail wagging. Lizzie laughed, dismissing any notion that he was trying to lead her somewhere or was connected to her strange encounter with the old farmer.

Too little sleep. Too many Irish fairy stories.

She came to a cheerful yellow-painted bungalow. A red-haired woman stood at the kitchen sink while a man, handsome and smiling, brought a stack of dishes to the counter and young children colored at a table behind them. Feeling an unexpected tug of emotion, Lizzie continued along the lane. If nothing else, the cool air and brisk walk were helping to clear her head so that she could figure out what to do now that Simon Cahill was in Boston.

She could hear the intermittent bleating of sheep, out to pasture as far up into the rock-strewn hills as she could see. Pale gray fog and mist swirled over the highest of the peaks, settling into rocky dips and crevices. Given her cover story, she’d stuffed her backpack with hiking gear, dry clothes, flashlight, trail food, even a tent. All she had to do now was get herself onto the Beara Way and keep going. Hike for real. She could leave her car in the village and follow the mix of roads, lanes and trails up the peninsula to Kenmare, or down to Allihies and Dursey Island.

How many times had she debated walking away from Norman Estabrook and all she knew about him? She’d met him when he’d been a guest at her family’s Dublin hotel sixteen months ago. He was a brilliant, successful hedge-fund manager who had the resources to indulge his every whim, and as an adrenaline junkie, he had many whims. He was known as much for his death-defying adventures as his immense fortune. He wasn’t reckless. Whether he was planning to circumnavigate the globe in a hot-air balloon, jump out of an airplane at high-altitude, or head off on a hike in extreme conditions, he would prepare for anything that could go wrong.