Law, Susan Kay (42 page)

He could detect no movement above him. No muffled footsteps crept
along the ledge toward him. Perhaps the traitor wasn't up there after all,
although Jon doubted it. He'd spent six years in this profession, and every shard
of instinct and experience he had told him his prey was here.

Maybe the traitor hadn't heard the sound or had written it off as
the noise of an old, settling structure.

Once Jon emerged through the hole, there was no going back, no
making any other, safer choices.

He wanted this job over. He wanted to wash as much of the blood
off his hands as possible, to bury the memories of a special, vibrant woman and
her family as deeply as he could manage and go on with his empty, cold life.

He reached for the edges of the hole. The rough, splintery wood
cut into his palms, as he shoved himself through the opening.

The musket was black, almost indistinguishable in the darkness. It
was also no more than two feet away and pointed directly at Jon's head.

He was still for only a moment, before he finished climbing
through the hole. He stood easily, comfortably balanced on the narrow walkway.

"Hello, Brendan," he said calmly. "You're very
good, you know. I didn't hear you move."

The clouds blew away from the moon, and they were bathed in cold,
silver light. Brendan was dressed in black, blending subtly into the night, and
his face was completely composed and emotionless.

"No more so than you. I wouldn't have heard you if the ladder
hadn't creaked." He gave a tiny, chilling smile. "Sometimes there are
advantages in weighing somewhat less than an ox."

"Yes."

"Raise your hands where I can see them."

Jon complied, careful to make no threatening moves.

His gaze flicked quickly over Brendan, evaluating, looking for an
opening.

There were none obvious. His opponent betrayed no telltale tremble
of nerves, no tiny lapses of concentration that would give Jon the advantage he
needed.

"Now what?" Jon asked.

"A bit of a problem, isn't it? If only you hadn't taken it
upon yourself to look for me up here. It would have made things so much
simpler."

Jon inched forward. "It would have?" Keep him talking.
It was a time-honored tactic. Get someone to talk enough, eventually he gave
something away. It was one huge advantage when he played the idiot; he hadn't
had to do much talking.

"Yes." Brendan's grip on his weapon was steady, relaxed,
familiar. His body was absolutely still; no wasted motion, no excess energy.
"I could have simply identified you both and passed it along to the
appropriate people. Now things are somewhat more complex."

"Really?" Jon lowered his hands slightly. Easy, easy, he
told himself.

"Now you'll have to go back down, wait for your contact, and
act like nothing is wrong. Wouldn't want the other party to suspect anything. Of
course, pretending won't be much of a problem for you, will it?"

"No."

"You were really quite good. Stupidity puts most people right
off. One rarely bothers to look below the surface if the water seems so
obviously shallow. Even I wasn't certain until right now."

Jon bowed slightly. "And if I won't do it?"

"Well." Brendan's eyes narrowed. "One way or another,
you will never return to your company."

"Ah." Jon studied Brendan thoughtfully. Did he really
have it in him to murder a man in cold blood for no other reason than they were
on opposite sides of the war? He had no doubts about Brendan's ability to kill
in battle. But an apparently unarmed opponent? Surely despite all, there was
too much Jones in him for that.

But shooting Jon here really wouldn't be necessary. All Brendan
would have to do would be to make his way safely back to the British. Jon's
life would be forfeit if he ever got anywhere near British troops again.

Then again, Jon could do the same thing to Brendan.

Jon narrowed his eyes and focused all his concentration on the man
in front of him. This might well be his only opportunity. "Brendan, I'm
meeting no one, you know."

There was the barest glimmer of surprise in Brendan's dark eyes.
"What?"

"I'm here for only one purpose. To capture you," Jon
said evenly.

Brendan started for only an instant, glancing briefly toward the
entrance to the fort.

He lowered his guard for scarcely a moment—but it was the only
moment Jon had.

Slashing at the musket with his left hand, Jon dived for Brendan's
midsection. Brendan's reaction was rapid; he stepped back, trying to bring the
musket around so he could get off a shot. It was too late.

The musket went flying off into the darkness as the two hurtled
over the edge of the walkway.

The men let go of each other as they fell, twisting in the air to
limit any damage from the fall. Jon hit the packed earth with a muffled thud,
pain shooting up through his knees and up his back. He ignored it, spinning
toward Brendan, and sprang again.

The musket boomed, going off as it slammed into the ground several
feet away. As the echoes of the shot faded, he heard the falling tones of a
woman's scream.

A familiar scream. Yet he had no time to attend to it. He'd
expected Brendan to go down as soon as he'd hit him, but the man had stood his
ground, bracing himself for the blow, then clipping Jon behind the knees.

Jon grabbed Brendan's arms and brought him down with him,
grappling for a secure hold, but Brendan was like a cat, quick, fluid,
graceful, and surprisingly strong. Fully occupied with preventing Brendan from
escaping his grasp and reaching his musket, Jon had no time to reach for the
knife in his boot.

As they rolled over each other, Jon felt the hard mass of his gun
digging painfully into his lower back. Little good it did him there. He swore
as he took a heavy blow to his stomach, then barely managed to deflect
Brendan's forearm whipping up under his chin.

Damn, he was out of practice. He'd always had a distinct advantage
in a fight; his opponents mistakenly figured that the movements of a man his
size would be cumbersome and slow, and he'd usually been able to overtake them
quickly.

But now he faced an opponent whose quickness was perhaps greater
than his. Brendan was as slippery as an eel, and twice he managed to slip through
just as Jon was certain he'd gotten a solid hold.

"Stop it. Stop it now!" Jon ignored Beth's frantic
demands. Unfortunately, so did Brendan.

Another musket blast, loud and extremely close, shocked him. The
ball kicked up a tower of dirt not more than two feet from his head.

"Stop it, I said," Beth shouted. "Or I'll shoot
again!"

It slowed Brendan for just an instant. Jon caught him under the
chin, digging powerful fingers into his neck, and lifted Brendan off him.
Throwing his heavy body over Brendan's, he ripped the pistol from his back and
pressed it into the soft skin of Brendan's temple.

"Don't move," he said quietly. "Do you agree?"

Brendan went very still, swallowed heavily, and gave a tiny nod.

"Oh, God." Jon heard her tortured gasp and spared a quick
glance at Beth before he returned his attention to Brendan. Her face was white,
as pale as the moonlight that turned her tumbled curls to silver, and her eyes
were wide with shock and terrible pain. The eyes of an animal that had just
been shot but was unable to comprehend its fate.

"Get out of here, Beth," he said, although he knew it
was hopeless. It was too late to spare her.

"No," she whispered, a single, tortured syllable that
barely managed to make it out of her throat.

"Just go, Elizabeth," Brendan said, his words precise
and utterly without inflection.

"No," she repeated, more strongly this time. Jon heard
the tap of a ball being tamped down the barrel of her musket. "Let him go,
Jon."

"Put the gun down, Beth."

"I mean it, Jon. Let him go." Her voice quavered.

"I can't do that, Beth, and you know it."

"Do it!" she said desperately.

"No. You're not going to shoot me, Beth, and we both know it.
Put the gun down."

She gave a soft sob, an inarticulate sound of despair. Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw her lower the gun.

"Good." For emphasis, he screwed his pistol tighter
against Brendan's head. "Now, I'm going to let you up. But be careful. No
sudden moves. Be assured I can shoot nearly as well as you can.
Understand?"

"Yes." Brendan's agreement was flat and unemotional.

Jon got slowly to his feet and backed away, keeping the pistol
aimed carefully at Brendan. He wanted to turn to Beth, to comfort her, but he
couldn't allow his attention to wander.

"Slowly, now," Jon ordered.

Brendan rose carefully, rippling to his feet like a hunting cougar
slipping through high grass. His eyes were focused on the gun.

"Stay there," Jon said. He stepped a little farther
back, putting himself safely beyond reach. He saw Brendan give a deep sigh of
surrender.

"Now then," Brendan said, and turned his gaze to Beth.

"Oh, God, Brendan. Why?" Her voice was low but brittle,
as though she kept herself from shattering only by great force of will.

Although her brother's voice was controlled, the sorrow in his
dark eyes was brutally clear. "It's all such a waste, Elizabeth. I had to
try and stop it any way I could."

"But you couldn't stop it!"

"No, I learned that. But then, I thought perhaps I could help
end it more quickly. And finally it was too late to do anything else."

"Oh, Brendan," Beth said in a hoarse, thick voice.

She straightened her shoulders and turned to Jon. He could see the
shimmer of anguish and moisture in her eyes, and his own burned. "What
happens to him now? Exactly."

"Beth..." Never had he hated his job—and himself— so
much. There was family, and there was country. There was honor, and there was
love. And there was what there had always been—loyalty. "He's a traitor,
Beth."

She closed her eyes. Her throat worked, and a faint tremor shook
her body. "Jonathan," she whispered desperately. Her agony pierced
him, a razor-sharp, vicious pain that twisted in his belly and made breathing
difficult.

He turned his attention back to Brendan. "Go," he said
curtly.

"What?" Brendan said, bewilderment breaking through his
rigid control.

"Go. Go, I said, before I change my mind."

Brendan hesitated. "You can't mean this."

"Yes, I do," he ground out. "I'd suggest heading
west, following the river, and then north. You're less likely to run into
patrols that way."

"I'll manage."

"Getting through to the British might be a bit of a
trick."

"I'm not going to the British."

Jon raised one eyebrow in question. "Then where?"

"I don't know." Brendan shrugged slightly.
"Somewhere far to the west. Or perhaps Canada. Somewhere quiet."

"Good."

Brendan turned to his sister. Moonlight highlighted his features:
elegant, patrician, unsmiling. He swallowed convulsively.
"Elizabeth—" He broke off, as if unable to find the words for what he
wished to say. Taking a great breath, he forced himself to continue. "Tell
them... I'm sorry." His voice dropped until it was barely audible.
"And tell them I loved you all."

He reached for her then, and when she came to him he crushed her
tightly in his arms. They were almost of a height, light hair against dark; brother
and sister, so different on the outside. Inside... who knew what shaped a
person to make the choices he made?

"Well." He pushed her from him and stepped back,
allowing himself to touch her cheek one last time. "I'll miss you most of
all, you know. Good-bye, Elizabeth."

Brendan squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, the familiar
gesture Jon had seen Beth make many times.

"Would you tell me one thing, Jon?" he asked. "Why?
Why would you let me go?"

Jon looked down at the pistol he still held in his hand, then
tucked it away in the waist of his breeches. "We're not so different, you
and I." He set his jaw. "We're both traitors, after all."

Brendan stared at him. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"And we both love her."

A silky night breeze swept through the clearing. Its keening was
low as soft as it flowed around the wooden corners of the old fort. In the
distance, a lonely owl hooted to its absent mate.

"Yes."

"Good." Brendan nodded his satisfaction. "Take care
of her, Jon."

He started away, then paused and turned back. "Oh, and Jon? I
wouldn't go back to your company after this. I told them about the meeting
tonight, and with your absence..."

Then he was gone, fading quickly into the night, his black clothes
and dark hair blending into the shadows.