Shiver of Fear

  “This is another wild-goose chase, Devyn. We’re not going.”

  “See what he left.”

  Marc carefully opened the door, and something fluttered from where it had been lodged in the jamb. He picked up the small square and turned it over.

  A picture of a newborn baby. Underneath it, someone had written Rose Devyn Mulvaney. September 2, 1981. Until we meet…

  “Did you call a cab for an airport run?” A man walked up the path toward the door and Marc backed away, but Devyn had grabbed the picture from his hand.

  “Can you take me to—”

  “Just a second,” Marc said, closing the door in the guy’s face.

  “I’ll be right there,” Devyn called, grabbing her purse where she’d left it on the bed. She stuffed the picture in and then pulled out the black and gold scarf he’d bought her in Bangor, wrapping it around her neck twice to hide her face.

  “That’s not going to protect you,” he said.

  “But this is.” Digging in the purse again, she lifted the hot little Taurus Millennium pistol they’d taken from the agent in the bell tower. “I’ll be fine.”

  Jesus Christ. “We don’t need you to wait,” he called to cabbie. “We’re not going—” Devyn’s eyes flashed and she opened her mouth, but he covered it. “To the airport.” He lowered his voice to a soft whisper. “We’ll take the rental car and be in Milltown in less than two hours.”

  She breathed a sigh into his palm. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Because it’s time you find out what you’re made of.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Thank God she kept a spare board in the back of the Expedition. Tossing the keys to Nino, Vivi flipped off her belt and climbed over the console and into the way back to get it.

  “What are you doing, Viviana?” Nino demanded. “Going after a fugitive?”

  “What the hell would I do with him?” She scooped up the skate board and reached to open the back hatch. “I’m going after the filthy, lying FBI agent instead. Can you drive this thing?”

  “Probably. Maybe. No.”

  “Then stay here with the doors locked.” She slammed the board onto the asphalt with a satisfying smack. “I’m not losing Lang.”

  “You’re going to confront him?”

  “Hells to the yeah I am.” She launched onto the board, kicking away after she slammed the big door down. There was no traffic, so she cruised across the street, jumped the curb, and sidewalk-surfed herself into a fast fly down the path that circled the lake, heading in the same direction as Lang.

  That bastard. That son of a bitch conniving dirty bastard. Had she, for one insane unmentionable moment, thought the guy was hot? Well, that gave new meaning to the phrase “lapse of judgment.”

  She saw Lang about fifty feet ahead, his phone pressed to his ear, his head down. Anger and betrayal fired every muscle as she kicked her stick mightily, bending low to cut down on wind resistance, zipping like a pro. Just as she neared him, she leaned to the right, shot right by him, then cut him off with a rumble of her neon-pink Spitfire wheels.

  She dug her heel into the back, popped the board to flip it into the air, and grabbed it with one hand. “How’s it going, Lang?”

  He froze, staring at her. “I gotta go.” He ended the call, dropping his gaze over her and settling on the board. “I see we’ve dispensed with titles of any kind. Angelino.”

  “Who you on the phone with?”

  “None of your—”

  “A criminal?”

  No response, just heat from his gaze. Dark heat. He didn’t look so Dudley Do-Rightish tonight. He looked kind of badass and mean. Maybe it was the five-o’clock shadow. Maybe it was the company he kept.

  Maybe he was badass and mean.

  “Who’s your friend?” she asked.

  “What friend?”

  “The old man you hitched a ride with.”

  His eyes almost gave a tell, just the most subtle reaction. “Just that, a friend. Why?”

  “Nobody important?”

  “Nobody important.” He took a step closer, but she held the board up as a shield. “What’s going on, Vivi?”

  “You tell me, Colton.”

  “Do you have news? Something happen with Marc and Mrs. Sterling?”

  Plenty was happening with Marc and Mrs. Sterling, but she sure as shit wasn’t telling him what it was. “Why’d you hire us, Lang?”

  His brows rose. “You were in the briefing. We don’t need to go over it again, do we?”

  “Maybe we do.” She swung the board, the comfort and familiarity of it in her hand giving her confidence. “Let’s see, as I recall, your number-one objective was to get Devyn Sterling the hell out of Belfast.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you didn’t tell us why.”

  “Need-to-know basis and you—”

  “Need to know why you aren’t so hell-bent on shortening that list of FBI’s Most Wanted.”

  He barely flinched. “I explained that to you.”

  “Not well enough.”

  His expression hardened. “Where are you going with this?”

  “I think you know.”

  “I think you’re in over your head, kid.”

  The endearment frosted her ass. “I think you’re what’s known as a dirty cop, pal.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  She took a step forward, looking up at him. “Am I?”

  A group of people approached, young professionals heading out of the financial district toward Back Bay, laughing and exchanging barbs. Their presence gave her a sense of security; her certainty gave her a sense of entitlement.

  “You owe me the truth.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.” At her raised eyebrow, he added, “Except all of Marc’s expenses and, should he succeed in the assignment, a flat fee.”

  “We don’t want dirty money.”

  “Vivi.” He came closer, and she held the board higher, ready to whack him with it if he took one more step, FBI agent or not. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That was Finn MacCauley, wasn’t it?”

  He said nothing, just looked at her, his jaw clenched.

  “You are connected to Finn Mac—”

  He slammed his hand over her mouth, the other one wrapping around her and pulling her into him, the only thing separating them was the board and wheels.

  “Shut up.”

  “I will not—”

  He squeezed her, bringing her so close she could smell his musky scent and feel the muscles in his thighs as they met hers. The group of professionals passed around them as if they were stones in a stream. “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not? Then what is it?”

  “I can’t say.”

  She tried to jerk out of his grasp, but it was impossible. “You better say, because I can get to your offices faster than you can on this thing, and I’m sure someone over there will be very interested in your little secret rendezvous.”

  “You do that, and your cousin’s life, and the one he’s protecting, will be very much in danger.”

  She stared at him, letting the threat settle. “The life he’s protecting? I thought he was over there trying to corral her out of the country. There was no talk of protection.”

  “He’ll do it anyway. That’s the kind of guy he is. That’s why I hired him.”

  She eased away as he loosened his grasp. “Is that so?”

  “It was part of the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  He hesitated a few beats, scrutinizing her face, making a decision. “The one we made with Finn. And Dr. Sharon Greenberg.”

  “What? You know about her?”

  He nodded slowly. “There are a lot of lives at stake, Vivi. When Devyn got involved, however innocently, we promised Finn—”

  “You promised Finn?”

  He closed his eyes, clearly resigned to telling her more than he wanted to. “Because he’s led us, a
long with the CIA and the SIS, to one of the world’s deadliest and most vicious terrorists.”

  “Finn has.” Impossible. Wasn’t it?

  “Yes, he has. And if we succeed, he’ll be pardoned.” He let go of her completely, certain he had her full attention. “And if we fail, thousands of people will die. My guess is your cousin will be among them.”

  Her whole insides went cold. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” she asked. “Why not send him over there with full information?”

  “It’s need-to-know on an incalculable scale,” he said. “And he didn’t need to know. Neither did you.”

  “Well, I know now.”

  “Yes, you do.” A smile curled his lips, not big enough to show his perfect teeth, but slow enough to make her remember why she’d thought he was attractive.

  “Why is that amusing?”

  His gaze dropped to her board. “I underestimated you, Vivi Angelino.”

  “Big mistake.”

  “One I’ll never make again.”

  Response flitted through her, and she squashed it by dropping her board with a thud. He jerked back, the wheels inches from his feet, but managed to grab hold of her sleeve as she got one foot on.

  “Don’t say a word to Marc.”

  She snorted softly. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I am not kidding. You could be risking his life. Just let him keep on doing what he’s supposed to do—protect Finn’s daughter.”

  “He didn’t go over there to be a bodyguard.”

  “He’s too smart to let anything happen to her.” He leaned forward, right in her face, nose to nose, mouth to mouth. “Hopefully he’s just keeping her warm and safe and satisfied in some hotel room right this minute.”

  She backed away. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

  This was a consolation prize.

  Devyn glanced over at Marc, his jaw set in a determined line the way it had been for the entire trip, as he barreled into a dark and deserted section of the Falls Road area, right along the stone walls of Milltown Cemetery.

  He hadn’t said it, but she could read between the lines. No baby, but I’ll help you find your birth mother. As consolation prizes went, it sucked. But her need to know—and possibly help—her birth mother burned hotter than ever.

  “Should I try to get a call through again?” Devyn asked, holding both of their phones, although neither one had been able to hold a signal through the whole trip.

  “Actually,” he said, “don’t. Now it’s not safe. If someone traced a call she made to you, we shouldn’t use the phones at all. We’re getting too close to where Fallon said to go.”

  “In fact, we’re there.” She used her phone to point to a small stone marker on the ground. “Crescent Road.”

  And, sure enough, Direct Furniture on the corner. “We’re here.”

  Across from the furniture store was a thicket of bushes against one of the Milltown Cemetery walls. It was impossible to see in, but not impossible to climb. Not for someone running for her life.

  “Let’s cruise for a few minutes and check out the parked cars for unfriendly faces, then we’ll go in,” he said. “But that fence is high. I’m just warning you.”

  “I’ve faced worse. Today, in fact.”

  He glanced over at her, his smile surprising her in a situation that was anything but amusing. “I know you have.”

  She shrugged off the compliment. “I still don’t love heights, but sometimes you just do what you have to.”

  “So it seems.”

  At least he’d stopped arguing with her about the mission. Because, she reminded herself, this was her consolation prize.

  “There’s not a soul anywhere,” she said, surveying the streets. “It’s eerie.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.” And several hours since Sharon had escaped.

  He took a quick pass through a few residential streets that backed into the cemetery and slowly drove by the main opening, tightly locked with multiple CCTV cameras visible. After a few minutes, he returned to Crescent Drive and parked the car in the shadows.

  “Get your gun out,” he instructed. “And stash it in your pants or pocket, somewhere you can get to it fast if you have to. And stay as close to me as possible.”

  She did exactly as he asked and took one more item out of her bag. Her picture.

  Rose Devyn Mulvaney. Until we meet…

  Had she ever even seen a baby picture of herself? Her parents—the ones in Boston—had so few pictures of her. Devyn always thought that was because her mother regretted the adoption the minute she’d signed the papers, since the very act itself was an admission of her imperfection and inability to have a child.

  And she’d always fantasized that her real mother regretted the adoption as well. The picture, and the inscription, confirmed that fantasy might have been reality.

  Finally, they were going to meet. They had to. She stuffed the picture into her jeans pocket and got out of the car.

  The streetlights were all out, turned off at midnight to discourage any pedestrians in what was still a hot point of unrest. With a moon lost behind thick cloud cover, there was barely any light at all, easy enough for them to move like thieves across the street, diving into the bushes to flatten themselves against the stone wall.

  “First hurdle down,” Marc said quietly. “We crossed the street without getting shot.”

  That was encouraging. “Now to get over the wall.”

  He looked at her tucking a stray hair under the dark baseball cap they bought at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, his eyes fierce. “Don’t do anything impulsive, Devyn.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “Okay, more impulsive.”

  “I promise,” she said. “I won’t.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “And saved your ass,” she reminded him.

  He leaned down, dipped under the bill of her cap, and kissed her. “I still haven’t thanked you for that.”

  “I think you are right now.”

  He gave her a boost up to the first brick that jutted out and watched from below as she scaled the wall. It wasn’t difficult; with a few high steps, she managed to hoist herself to the top.

  And then she couldn’t breathe.

  He was next to her in a matter of seconds. “You okay?”

  “Oh my God, Marc. I had no idea.” No map, no pictures, no description she’d ever read could do justice to the size and scale of Milltown Cemetery. She hung on to the stone points at the top of the wall, and even in the darkness, she could get the sense of how vast it was.

  She’d read about Milltown. A hundred thousand graves. Miles and miles of graves. Tens of thousands, jammed together so tightly the arms of crucifixes nearly touched. There was no order, no symmetry, no space. Just… death.

  How would they ever find a woman who was shot and hiding out here?

  Suddenly, this felt like a fool’s errand.

  But Marc was already scrambling over the top, undaunted by what lay ahead. “I’m going to jump first,” he said. “Then you follow.”

  She looked down warily. “Okay.”

  He vaulted over the top and hit the grass on the balls of his feet, his knees bending to soften the impact. He turned to look up, holding out his arms, but she stayed rooted in place.

  So much for getting over her fear of heights.

  “Dev, you’re a sitting duck up there. Jump!”

  She nodded, biting her lip, and threw her leg over the top. Taking a deep breath, she pushed off, landing right in front of Marc. He broke her fall and held her as they rolled to the ground.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She tested her legs—not broken—and stood with him. “I really hope she’s on the right side of this situation,” she murmured. “Because if we’re risking life and limb to save a terrorist, I’ll…”

  “What?”

  “Use this freaking gun on her.”


  He took her hand and stood up. “I’ll help you aim. Gimme the penlight.”

  She handed him the small light they’d brought, and he flashed it to get his bearings.

  “Based on that tourist map we had, about a half mile that way is the central area. The most famous IRA martyrs are buried there. But this is the outskirts, and I think she’d go to the most remote possible place to hide.”

  Around them, the graves were unkempt and thick with bramble.

  “The paths are laid out in a grid,” she said as they crossed the grass to a narrow stretch of asphalt that cut through a section. “At least they looked that way on the map in the rental car. But, Marc, this place is like a small country.”

  “Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “All we can do is head forward and then we’ll come to an intersection, where she would have had to decide to go straight, north, or south. My guess is she’s hiding, waiting for light.”

  Or as dead as all the rest of Milltown’s residents.

  They walked deeper into the cemetery, briskly, silently, and with each step, she could feel her heart fall like the leaves that floated down from the trees with every light breeze.

  “Spooky, huh?” she whispered.

  “Fifty thousand graves, two hundred thousand bodies, many of them considered religious martyrs? Yeah, spooky.”

  A gathering of oaks loomed ahead, surrounding a few graves that appeared somehow extraordinary. Important people, she supposed. They paused at a break in the path, and Marc went in closer, the penlight beaming on name after etched name.

  O’Neill. Bidwell. Saunders. McNett.

  But no sign of Sharon Greenberg.

  An animal cried, and another answered, while a breeze rustled the trees in time with their footsteps.

  “My guess is she’d go as deep into the place as she could get,” he said. “Knowing that anyone following her would circle the perimeter, not wanting to get lost.”

  “And you could get lost here,” Devyn said, turning a three-sixty as she lifted the bill of her cap.

  Something crunched under Marc’s foot and he stopped to look at it, freezing at the sight of broken safety goggles.

  “Oh my God,” Devyn whispered, dropping to her knees. “These are from a lab.” She clutched them. “She was here, Marc.”