Wendy Rosnau - Merrick's Eleventh Hour

“What news?”

Zeta glanced over her shoulder as Kipler walked past. “It’s personal. Can I speak to you privately?”

“Of course. Come with me.” Callia led the way back upstairs. Inside her bedroom with the door closed, she said, “What’s happened?”

“The hospital in Naxos called. My daughter’s been in an accident. The doctor says it’s serious, and I need to come right away.”

“I’m sorry.” Callia hugged Zeta. “I’ll tell Kipler and—”

Zeta pulled away. “No. He won’t let me go. I’m never to leave you.”

“This is an emergency.”

Zeta shook her head. “I need to go without anyone knowing I’ve left.”

“That’s impossible. Kipler has his orders. We’ll need his approval.”

“He’ll say no.”

Callia thought a moment. “I’ll tell him we’re going into Kerkyra to do some shopping. One of the guards can drive us. You can slip away once we’re in town and fly to Athens, then to Naxos. Once you’re gone, there won’t be much he can do about.”

“It might work.”

“Go get ready.”

Callia changed clothes, then went to the small safe in the study where Cyrus left money for her to use as she wished. She was standing at the window when a knock came on the door. “Come in,” she said.

“You wanted to see me Kiria Krizova?”

“I’m going into town with Zeta, Kipler. Could you have one of the guards drive us?”

“How soon do you want to leave?”

“Right away.”

Kipler nodded, and within the hour Callia and Zeta arrived in Kerkyra. Callia told Endre, the seasoned guard that often drove her to town, that she wanted to go to the market square. As he waited near the car, she and Zeta strolled the market. It was busy and that was a good thing. They quickly got lost in the crowd, and slipped into a cab. Halfway to the airport, Callia noticed that Zeta’s anxiety had escalated.

“I don’t think I can do this alone, Callia. I didn’t mention it before, but I’m afraid to fly.”

“You’ll do fine. Don’t worry.”

At the airport Zeta had a panic attack. She was shaking so badly Callia was afraid she would never be able to board the plane. “You have to do this, Zeta. For Sonya.”

“Come with me?”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Zeta collapsed in a chair. “I’m sorry. I know you can’t, but I don’t think I can do this alone.”

Callia glanced at her watch. The plane would leave the runway in a matter of minutes. She hurried to the counter. “I’d like to purchase another ticket to Athens, then one to Naxos, please.” When she returned to Zeta, she said, “Come on. I’ll take you to Naxos, then fly back once I get you to the hospital. Kipler is going to be furious, but I’ll call him once I’m on my way back from Naxos.”

“You will? You’ll come with me?” Tears streaming down her cheeks, Zeta jumped up and threw her arms around Callia and hugged her. “Efkharisto.”

“You don’t need to thank me. Not after all the years you’ve been so good to me. Come on.”

Zeta gripped Callia’s hand, and together they left Kerkyra. They changed planes in Athens at 1:00 p.m. and thirty minutes later they landed in Hora, the largest coastal city in Naxos.

“There’s a taxi.” Zeta pointed.

Callia led the way. The cabdriver opened the back door for them, and once they were inside and he was behind the wheel, Johanna said, “The hospital, please.”

“No aposkeves?” the driver asked.

“No luggage.”

He pulled away from the curb, and the car quickly slipped through the airport congestion. Callia said, “I wish I had time to see Sonya, but my plane leaves in a half hour to return to Corfu.” She squeezed Zeta’s hand. “You have my phone number and the extra money I gave you?”

“Ne.”

“Call me later and tell me how Sonya is. Tell her I’m praying for her recovery.”

Zeta hugged Callia as the car pulled to a stop in front of the hospital. She got out of the cab, stood in the open door. “I’m sorry, Callia.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Call me in a few hours. I’ll be home by then.”

Zeta nodded, then with tears streaming down her cheeks, she closed the door and walked away.

“Back to the aerothromio,” Callia told the driver.

“The airport,” he repeated. “Amésos. Right away. No problem.”

On the ride back Callia noticed that they were taking a different route and the cabdriver was pushing the speed limit. “Piyene pio sigha.”

The driver didn’t slow down. She saw him pull his dark sunglasses off and toss them onto the seat. He ran his hand through his silver hair, and this time when he spoke his island accent was gone. The deep baritone voice sent a cold chill up her spine—the voice as recognizable as the piercing gray eyes that now stared at her in the mirror.

“Hello, Johanna. Or would you prefer I call you…Callia?”

She was two feet from him, and he could reach out and touch her. Merrick quelled the urge—the urge to turned around and wrap his hands around her neck.

From the moment Melita had told him Johanna was alive he hadn’t allowed himself to believe it entirely. Not until now.

“I’ll say one thing for your housekeeper, she knows how to follow instructions. Of course, I did give her incentive.”

“Zeta knew? Where’s Sonya?”

“The girl is waiting for her mother in the hospital lobby. I suppose you could say her accident was running into me. When I spoke to your housekeeper a few hours ago on the phone, I suggested that she take her daughter and disappear as quickly as possible once she’d delivered you to me. If she’s smart she’ll do it. Otherwise Cyrus will kill them both for betraying him.”

“He would never hurt Zeta and Sonya.”

Merrick glanced into the rearview mirror. Her delicate features were strained, her voice full of fear. A fear that was directed at him, not the threat of violence from Cyrus against the hired help.

He swung the taxi into a crowded parking lot at Hora’s busiest seaport and killed the engine. When he looked into the mirror again, he found Johanna’s fear still glaringly evident. Her anxiety had altered her breathing, and it reminded him that she was asthmatic.

“I always knew one day you would come,” she said. “Cyrus said you never give up on a mission.”

“What mission would that be?”

“I know it was you who tried to kill me in Washington. Cyrus told me everything.”

Those beautiful hazel-green eyes were as accusing as the tone in her voice. Sharp and on the attack. Whatever game she was playing, he was about to change the rules.

“I’m going to get out while you stay put. Move your ass into the center of the seat.” When she didn’t move, he said, “Rule number one. Never piss off the man who holds your life in his hands.”

She slid left a few inches, and he opened the car door, slipped his sunglasses back on, then climbed out. He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up in the island heat. He tossed the keys onto the front seat, then opened the back left door and climbed in next to her.

He remembered everything about her, even the way she smelled. He found it ironic that she hadn’t changed even her perfume.

“Did you kill the taxi driver?”

“He’s taking a nap in a hotel room.” He took her purse from her, opened it and dumped it out in her lap—cell phone, wallet, one lipstick, asthma inhaler. The inhaler made him aware of the shortness of her breath. He glanced at her chest, her sunbaked cleavage as smooth as satin.

Another memory came blasting through his controlled anger and he looked away, pocketed her cell phone and opened her wallet. Money, a passport that claimed she was Callia Krizova, one picture—a group photo of her and Cyrus with a young boy, maybe sixteen. They looked very happy.