Wendy Rosnau - Merrick's Eleventh Hour

With Sully’s help they’d found two of Krizova’s compounds in Greece, rescued more than a dozen government agents imprisoned in the bowels of one of his monastery hideouts and recovered a cache of weapons bound for rebel hands. They had also rescued Melita Krizova from Cyrus’s warped sense of fatherly love.

But at the end of the day—once again—Cyrus had managed to elude capture.

Sully Paxton was still in Greece, on the island of Amorgós with Melita. He’d been tirelessly combing the islands trying to pinpoint Cyrus’s latest hideout. He would need to fill Sully in on the recent turn of events, but he’d wait until he had all the facts.

Merrick swung his black Jag to the curb of the ten-story apartment building where Peter Briggs had lived for the past twenty-two years, since the Prague incident. Out front Pierce Fourtier and Ash Kelly, two of his elite Rat Fighters, were standing under the awning smoking.

Pulling up the collar on his black leather jacket to combat the rain, he joined them. “Got a name on our stakeout agent?”

“New guy. Nathan Connor. Shot three times, just like Briggs,” Ash said.

“Sly’s inside,” Pierce offered.

Merrick nodded and headed in. Peter’s apartment was on the ground floor, halfway down the hall. He walked through the open door. Sly McEwen was standing at the window, his stance in sync with his serious attitude. Over six feet, rock-solid, Sly had proven himself to be a man you could count on. He didn’t know what the word quit meant, and Merrick liked that about him. It’s why he’d made him his second in command.

Sly turned from the window and motioned to the bedroom. “Nothing’s been touched. I called Harry Pendleton and gave him the news. Nathan Connor was his nephew. The kid was twenty-three. Onyxx activated him six months ago.”

“I thought I recognized the name.” Merrick walked through the living room and headed for the bedroom. Briggs’s body should have been his primary focus, but instead his eyes locked on the peach-colored roses in a crystal vase on the nightstand.

There was only one flower shop in D.C. where you could buy Medallion roses without placing a special order. Merrick knew that because they had been Johanna’s favorite and he regularly purchased the rare hybrid to place on her grave.

Merrick left Sly with the task of seeing to Peter’s body and, twenty minutes after his arrival, he was on his way to Finny Floral. Sarah Finny lived in the apartment above the flower shop, and when he pulled up he noticed that the Open sign was on in the window. He leapt from the car and crossed the street. As he passed the window he saw her standing behind the counter waiting on a plump bald man in a gray suit. The little bell rang above the door as he swung it open.

She glanced up, saw him, then turned back to the elderly gentleman. There was no surprise in her soft brown eyes when she’d seen him, which told Merrick she’d been expecting him.

The bald gentleman left with his purchase, and Merrick stepped up to the counter. Before he could say anything, Sarah spoke.

“You’ve come about the Medallions. The ones he bought yesterday.”

“What did he look like, Sarah?”

“Very tall, with dark gray hair. Not silver like yours. And shorter.” She glanced at the overnight shadow on Merrick’s jaw. “Clean shaven. He had a nasty scar,” she touched her neck, “here.”

Merrick had been expecting her to describe the scrawny build of Holic Reznik, a hired assassin who had become involved in Cyrus’s nefarious activities years ago. Instead she’d given him a description of Krizova himself.

“I wanted to call you yesterday, but he said if I did he would be back for more than roses. I was afraid, Adolf. Did I make a mistake?”

“No, you did the right thing. Tell me exactly what he said.”

“He asked for three dozen Medallions, one dozen in a crystal vase.”

“Three dozen?”

“Yes.”

“What time was he here?”

“Yesterday around two o’clock. I remember because I was getting a large order together for a wedding that had to be delivered by four.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a small, three-inch-square brown envelope. “He told me when you came by to give you this.”

Merrick took the envelope and peeled open the seal. He pinched the envelope and looked inside. He was careful not to react to the contents, resealed the envelope and slid it into his jacket pocket.

“So he bought the roses, gave you the envelope and told you I’d be by today? That’s it?”

She pointed to a small gift-card display on the counter. “He bought a card.”

Merrick glanced at the card rack. There had been no card with the vase of flowers at Peter’s apartment.

“Adolf, what’s going on?”

If Cyrus intended to kill Sarah, he would. Merrick wasn’t going to cause her more distress by telling her that, but within the hour she’d have an invisible bodyguard. “You’re not in any danger,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” He started to leave.

“Adolf?”

He turned back.

“If you need me to deliver Johanna’s roses to the cemetery the next time you’re out of town, you know you can ask. Just because we’re not seeing each other anymore doesn’t mean we can’t remain friends.”

Over the past three years their friendship had slowly resolved into casual dinners. Sarah wanted more, and he’d been on the verge of giving it to her until Cyrus had blown up his apartment. Once that had happened, he realized that putting Sarah in his life meant he would be putting her in Krizova’s iron sights, as well.

He hadn’t explained it that way to her. Government spies and espionage weren’t exactly dinner table conversation. Fifteen years her senior, he’d taken a different approach the day he’d stopped seeing her.

She stepped around the counter. She was wearing a pale-blue blouse and black skirt, her blond hair twisted up off her neck. She was the exact opposite of Johanna. It was the first thing he always thought about when he looked at Sarah—his lovely ghost wasn’t just content to haunt him at night—and perhaps that was the real reason he’d ended it.

“No strings, Adolf. You know how I feel about you, but I respect your decision.”

“You’re a good friend, Sarah. I’ll be leaving town soon. Maybe you could see to the roses for the next couple of Saturdays.”

She nodded. “I’ll see to it that Johanna gets them.”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

He left the flower shop with the envelope burning a hole in his pocket. It was still raining, the day surrendering to a bleak sky of gray clouds and a bitter chill in the air. Inside the car, Merrick slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. He dropped the ring into his hand—Johanna’s wedding ring—and closed his eyes. He remembered the day he’d bought it, and with that memory came the memory of her death. The anniversary of that fateful day was looming. It had been twenty years and it still felt like yesterday.

Because he knew Cyrus didn’t do anything without a reason, he had to ask himself, why had he kept the ring, and why was he giving it back to him now?

Merrick swore, returned the ring to the envelope, then to his pocket. He started the car, glanced across the street. Sarah was standing in the window.

He drove the Jag out into the traffic and the rain. Cyrus had bought three dozen roses. He’d left one dozen at Peter’s apartment. There was no doubt in his mind where he would find the other two.

Forty minutes later, Merrick parked at the Oak Hill Cemetery and walked through the rain down the path to Johanna’s grave. Before he reached it, he saw the roses in the cone-shaped brass vase.