Safe Passage

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“It’s okay. Come, sit here by the fire.” He pulled the sofa up close to the warmth of the flames. She sat. Her hair hung in damp, dark waves, her silver eyes were wide, startling against her impossibly thick dark lashes and pale skin.

She took a deep sip of the brandy, swallowed, coughed, eyes watering. Honey settled at her feet, curled into a ball. Scott watched the blush of color creep back under those high cheekbones, into that lush mouth.

He tore his focus from her lips, seated himself in the chair on the opposite end of the hearth. “What happened? Why’d you run?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared into the flickering flames, shaking her head.

“Skye?” he said softly.

Her eyes looked slowly up into his. He swallowed sharply. What he saw there was vulnerable, raw. She’d dropped the veil. She was all naked emotion as she looked at him. It threw him completely.

“He…he didn’t show.” Her voice was thick. “Jozsef left me at the altar.” Moisture pooled along the bottom rims of her eyes, making them glimmer like quicksilver in the fire-light. It spilled over onto her cheeks into shimmering trails.

Something snagged in his chest. He took a shallow breath, came quickly over to her side, put his arms tentatively around her. “It’s okay, Skye. Take it easy. You don’t have to talk now.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it gently stroke her dark hair. His breath caught in a ball. It was soft. So soft under his palm.

“I—I should’ve seen the signs…” A soft sob jerked through her body. Tears spilled softly over her face.

“Shh.” He pulled her close, enveloped her in his arms. Her scent surrounded him, a clean freshness mingled with the sophisticated scent of brandy and the faint saline of seawater. He held her a little tighter, stealing her fragrance with a flare of his nostrils.

She relaxed slightly, rested her dark head against his chest. It was a movement so innocent, so trusting. He couldn’t seem to breathe normally. He allowed his cheek to brush softly against her head, to feel the sensation of her hair on his face.

And something swelled painfully inside him, brought a sharp prick of emotion to his eyes. He hadn’t held a woman like this in a long time. Not since his wife.

His jaw tensed.

Sure he’d held women in that time—but not like this. Not like it mattered.

He’d fought hard against this very feeling, this aching sense of vulnerability. He’d gotten himself out of civilization. He’d left home, family, friends—anyone who reminded him. He’d blocked it all out by fighting. Fighting against bio crime, terrorists, the world, himself, his guilt…against finding himself in a moment like this.

His heart beat a wildly increasing pace against his ribs.

And now he was here.

He felt afraid—of himself, of feeling. But the instinct was overpowering. He gave in to it furtively. He closed his eyes, allowed the sensation of her body, warm against his, to sink into him, through him. He nestled his nose softly against the top of her head, drank in the silkiness of her thick dark hair, of the little breaths that shuddered intermittently through her body as she fell asleep in his arms. He held her, listening to the pop and crack of flames in the hearth, to the sounds of the night outside.

He didn’t want to think of anything, only of how it felt to hold a woman in his arms. A woman who needed him.

Honey gave a little whimper. Scott’s eyes flickered open. The dog watched him with her liquid brown pools.

God, he’d fallen asleep with her. The flames were faint glowing embers, the cool night air creeping in as their quavering watch against the cold dwindled.

Shocked, Scott edged out from under Skye’s weight, careful not to wake her.

She murmured.

“Shh. Sleep,” he whispered.

She stirred. “The…the bike, Peter Cunningham’s bike—”

“Shh. Not to worry. I’ll call him. Get some rest. I’ll get you a blanket.”

She nodded, snuggled deeper into the sofa.

Scott covered her with a blanket, stoked the fire, flicked the living room lights off, leaving only the shimmying copper flames and dancing shadows on the walls. He stared down at her. She looked like something unreal. So exotic, so striking…yet fragile, vulnerable.

How, wondered Scott, could anyone in their right mind ditch a woman like Skye Van Rijn? How could a man leave a woman like this at the altar?

Then with a rude jolt, he remembered his mission. He dragged his hand hard through his hair, reached for his cane, went to look for the phone book.

He called Peter Cunningham from the kitchen.

“Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah. Your bike’s fine, too.” Scott told him where he could pick it up.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Scott McIntyre, her neighbor…a…a friend.”

“You weren’t at the church?”

“I was late. Caught her bolting, so I followed her.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “The cops are out looking for her.”

“She’s okay, Peter. She’s sleeping, but I can wake her if you want…or you’re welcome to come ’round. Send the cops, whatever.”

Peter hesitated. “I’ll get Charly to come ’round. I think she’d prefer that.”

“Fine. Any idea what happened to her fiancé?”

Peter cleared his throat. “After the church, when I got home, I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jozsef. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Skipped town. Vamoose. Decamped—”

“I got it. Why’d he go?”

“Lord if I know. I thought I knew this guy…thought he loved her. I thought—”

“He say where he was going?”

“No. I went to his place to see if I could catch him, but he’d already cleaned out. I mean totally.” He hesitated. “We’re all terribly sorry for Skye. I just can’t believe this. We were worried sick. Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let the cops know you found her…and thank you.”

“Sure.” Scott hung up, then checked to make sure Skye was still sleeping. He closed the heavy kitchen door, activated the scrambler and called Rex.

The Bellona boss picked up on the first ring. “Hey, I was just about to call you. Bloody good hunch on Danko, old chap.”

“Meaning?” Scott spoke quietly.

“He’s linked with several offshore companies who’ve made a killing from this U.S. beef embargo. And get this, they’re companies Bellona has suspected of having financial ties to the Anubis group.”

Scott’s fingers tightened around his sat phone. “You’re kidding.” Heat pulsed through his veins. Images seared through his mind. The Anubis cell in the Thar that he’d been hunting. His blown-out knee when he’d gotten too close. “These links,” he said. “Anything proven?”

“Not yet. Working on it. But it appears we’re not the only ones interested in Danko. The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission is nosing around. These particular companies Danko is aligned with also happen to have a vested interest in seeing the North American produce market go down the tubes.”

He whistled softly. “You think Danko and these companies are tied somehow to the Rift Valley Fever and this whitefly thing?”

“Hell knows, but I’m joining the dots and it’s shaping up to be a pretty darned interesting picture, especially when you throw Dr. Van Rijn into the mix. If the whitefly get much further south, Danko and his bunch stand to make another killing from investment into the stock of U.S. competitors.”

“Danko must have gotten wind of the S.E.C. probe.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s split. Left town.”

Silence. “What about the wedding?”

“He left our doctor high and dry at the altar.”

“And where is she?”

Scott glanced at the kitchen door. Behind it the broken bride lay sleeping in front of the fire. He cleared his throat. “She’s still here.”

“You getting close?”

Too close.

“Close enough. She took it pretty bad, the whole wedding thing.”

Scott could hear the hesitation on the other end of the line. It wasn’t like him to get personal. Rex knew that. “Yes. Well, good…and keep me informed.”

“No worries. I’ve got my eye on her.” I’ve just got to keep my hands to myself.

Scott flipped the phone shut, shoved his feelings brusquely into a dark corner of his brain, ran through the cold facts. This possible Danko-Anubis tie threw everything into stark new light.

How was Skye connected?

He shoved open the kitchen door, limped slowly into the living room. Soft amber light glowed from the dying embers in the hearth. But the room was still a cocoon of warmth. Honey was having little doggy dreams at the foot of the sofa, her paws quivering in imaginary chase. Skye was curled like a child on the couch, dark hair soft across her face, blanket falling to the floor.

Scott lifted it to cover her properly. As he did, he caught the scent of his own soap. Then he caught something else.

A tattoo.

He stilled.

His baggy gray track pants had slipped low on her slim hips, exposing a tiny image on the smooth olive-toned skin near her hipbone. He bent closer.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was the stylized head of a jackal on the body of a man. Black and angular. Egyptian style. Bared teeth. Long, pointed snout. Ears like horns.

Anubis!

Scott’s heart thudded hard and quiet against his chest. This was too much to be coincidence.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn bore the ancient Egyptian symbol hijacked by La Sombra the mysterious mastermind behind the vast and growing shadowy Anubis organization. A group that had begun colluding with international organized crime.

But instead of a staff, the Anubis on her hip was depicted with a long, slim sword.

Scott gritted his teeth, yanked up the blanket, dropped it over her, spun around and grabbed the heavy iron fire poker.

He dropped to his haunches and jabbed the poker at the glowing logs. He thrust more fuel onto the rising flames, yanked the fire curtain shut, then slumped into the armchair beside the hearth.

He stared at the mysterious woman asleep on the sofa opposite him. Calm and innocent in repose. But who would she be when she woke?

One of La Sombra’s soldiers?

He flopped his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes. Little was known about La Sombra apart from the code name given him when he trained under Castro’s regime on the Isle of Pines.

Authorities did not know his real name. Nor his nationality. And no one knew where The Shadow was based. It was believed he moved around, adopted different identities, and only those in his closest confidence knew it was he who called the shots. His cells, stationed around the world, were so tightly structured that none of the members knew who delivered the orders and who controlled whom.

La Sombra was the genius who’d stepped into the confusion created by the demise of the Soviet Union and the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact. He began to consolidate a loose net of international terrorist groups that were spawned during the 1960s and 1970s. Groups that were left retarded or disenfranchised and directionless with the collapse of the Soviet empire. No matter the religion or ideals of these various groups, La Sombra had reinstated a flow of funds and given them common cause, a reason to unite and cooperate in a massive international web…to fight what he called the American Evil, or Western Imperialism.