Carla Neggers - The Mist

Fletcher stepped over an exposed spruce root. “Did she?”

“No. She died in the hospital.”

Fletcher eased back onto the path. His manner was detached, but he was clearly on high alert. “You miss her.”

“I do, but it’s okay. You’d want someone to miss you if you died, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know that I would, love.”

He and his partner must have seen Will on the deck and Simon’s arrival. Fletcher, at least, would know he had an SAS officer and FBI agent after him. Lizzie would concentrate on finding Abigail Browning and giving them a chance to act. Her father had lectured on being tentative. “Be bold. Be decisive. Especially if lives are at stake.”

She noticed the man ahead of them had picked up his pace. She looked up at Fletcher. “Quite a difference between here and Las Vegas, isn’t there?”

He glanced down at her. “Quite.”

“What did you do, look up Norman in Las Vegas and offer your services? Did you know he was about to be arrested?”

“Keep up,” Fletcher said.

“No problem. Is Norman here or on a boat? He came here last summer in a yacht he’d leased. Gorgeous. I had dinner with him on it, a real step up from my sit-on-top ocean kayak.” She tripped on a sharp, exposed rock but righted herself before Fletcher could take her arm. “How much is Norman paying you to create the mayhem of the past couple days?”

“He’s a wealthy man.”

Lizzie resisted a smart remark and kept to her role. “ Norman knew I’d come, and I have. We should hurry.” She gestured back toward her little house. “I gather you and Will go way back.”

A glint of humor came into Fletcher’s gray eyes. “That’s why I’m staying out of his line of fire.”

“He’s not armed.”

Fletcher laughed outright. “He’s a man of many talents, our Lord Davenport.”

The path curved uphill along the edge of a steep cliff. Seagulls swarmed onto the rocks below, their familiar cries and the rhythmic wash of the tide helping Lizzie to control her breathing. If she hyperventilated, Norman and his men would see through her. She’d walked this route hundreds of times since she was a child. Her grandmother would point out landmarks, plants, birds, the occasional seal, dolphin or whale. Edna Whitcomb Rush hadn’t been a demonstrative woman-no hugs and kisses from her-but she’d been loving in her own way.

“Estabrook will leave us to hold off the FBI and whoever else turns up,” Fletcher called to his partner. “Are you okay with that, mate?”

The thug paused and shrugged. “I don’t plan to stick around for a tactical team to get here, but we do what we have to.” He was American, in his early thirties. He gestured at Lizzie with his gun. “I say we kill this one and the detective and clear out. They’ll only slow us down.”

Lizzie was careful not to react, but now she knew. Abigail Browning was here and she was alive.

Fletcher didn’t look as if he cared one way or the other what happened to her or to Lizzie. “Do you suppose Estabrook has an escape route for himself?” he asked his colleague. “One that doesn’t include us?”

“He pays me before he leaves. That’s it. I don’t care what he does after that.”

“All right, then,” Fletcher said, impassive. “We’re on the same wavelength.”

The other man increased his lead over them. They veered off the path onto the overgrown yard of the shingled house that the first Harlan Rush, Lizzie’s grandfather, had built. He’d died when she was small, but she had a vague memory of his taking her out in a rowboat, staying close to the shore as he told her stories. He’d loved the sea. “Take everything else away from him,” her grandmother had said, “and if Harlan could still get to the ocean, he’d be a happy man.”

It had mystified her that their older son, his father’s namesake, preferred the dry desert of Las Vegas. But there were reasons for that, Lizzie thought.

She angled a look up at Fletcher. “Will believed in you, didn’t he?”

The ex-SAS officer didn’t meet her eye. “Will believes in honor, duty and country.”

“And you don’t?”

They continued through tall, wet grass on the soft ground, past a dense row of beach roses, entangled with wild blackberry vines, but he didn’t answer.

“I know what I’m doing and why,” Lizzie said, falling a few steps behind him. “Do you know the same about yourself?”

“Listen, love.” Fletcher waited for her to catch up. He draped an arm over her shoulders and leaned in close to her. He was self-confident, amused. “I’d enjoy a nice chat with you, but not now. All right?”

“Why did you kill that man in Boston?”

His eyes held hers an instant longer than was comfortable. “Necessity.”

Lizzie took a breath. “He was about to kill Fiona O’Reilly, wasn’t he?”

Fletcher kept his arm around her as they crossed the lawn to stone steps that led up the hill to the front of the house. His partner had gone on ahead. “You don’t give up, do you?” He spoke without humor now. “I had no other choice. Whatever side I’m on, that’s a fact.”

“ Norman hired him. He got him working on his hit list without your knowledge.”

“Mr. Estabrook is a very independent man, love. As you know.”

“You scared the hell out of Fiona.”

“All right, then. I scared her. She’s agreed to police protection, now, though, hasn’t she?” He dropped her arm from Lizzie’s shoulders. “How is Lord Davenport these days?”

“Handsome. Those changeable eyes of his.” Lizzie went ahead of Fletcher and started up the steps, but he met her pace. “I think he might be my Prince Charming.”

Fletcher’s mouth twitched. “He’ll find you, love.” He smiled, enigmatic, a man very much in control. “I think Will’s been looking for you his entire life.”

Her heart jumped. “You’re-”

“If you want to get Abigail Browning and yourself out of here alive, you must do exactly as I say.” His gray eyes leveled on her, but he maintained the same detached manner she’d first noticed back at the bar in Las Vegas. “Do you understand?”

“You want me to trust you.”

“I don’t give a damn if you trust me. I want you to follow my lead.”

Lizzie hesitated, imagining this man and Will on a secret mission together. She understood now how Will had trusted Fletcher-how shocking it must have been to believe that trust had been betrayed. How devastating. Right now, standing in the fog above the oncoming tide, she wanted to put her life in Myles Fletcher’s hands.

“I’ll do as you say,” she said, “but if I’m making a mistake and you’re not-”

“It won’t matter. You and Abigail will be dead.” He grinned and winked at her. “You’re good, love, but I’m better.”

“I came with you because I can help.”

His gaze narrowed on her. “I know.”

Lizzie felt a coolness in the small of her back as they followed a walkway around to a side entrance. “How long have you known?”

“You’re Harlan Rush’s daughter.”

“So,” she said carefully, “since Las Vegas. You tried to warn me.”

“And you paid no attention.” Fletcher wasn’t one to be distracted by the past. He stayed next to her, close, serious. “Estabrook wants the identity of John March’s source. I’ve pointed him in the direction of someone in his financial empire. Right now, he’s still completely fascinated with you.”

“Because of my mother,” Lizzie said half to herself.

“You and Detective Browning mustn’t leave with him. Whatever else happens, that can’t. Clear?”

Lizzie nodded. “Where’s Abigail now?”

“Locked in a room in the basement-”