The Pleasures of Summer (38 page)

My apologies. I forgot to mention that I have a doctor’s appointment in the city this morning. I should be back early this afternoon. I have taken the liberty of preparing breakfast
.

It was signed M.

Bugger. After the previous night, she didn’t want to be alone and even Malcolm’s grumpy company would have been welcome. She lifted the lid of the dish. Croissants and preserves. She wasn’t hungry, but she could probably manage coffee.

After the second cup, she began to feel better. Summer picked up the phone and hesitated before dialling Molly’s number. What was she going to say to her?
Hi, your boyfriend tried to attack me last night
. Robert said that he was trying to fulfil her fantasies. Even if she did call the police, would they believe her? It would be Robert’s word against hers.

She would be all over the papers again. Who would believe a party girl who had already been involved in far too many scandals? They’d take the word of a respectable property developer against hers. Summer dropped the receiver back in its cradle. It was better if she spoke to Molly in person.

She checked her messages. Tons of invites, interspersed with giggling calls from Natasha and Maya announcing
that they were going to South Africa with Mike and Gavin. That one was only four days old. There was no point in calling them. A message from her cousin Sinead, apologizing for not turning up for the house party, but she’d been in Geneva for a job interview. Could they meet when she got back?

Two calls from a number in Scotland she didn’t recognize, but no message. It must be Morag. She should ring her, apologize for running off like that.

Trying to delay the inevitable, Summer went back upstairs and opened her wardrobe. Ignoring the rows of designer dresses and expensive Italian shoes, she selected a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved pink cotton T-shirt. It would cover the bruises on her arm. She slipped her feet into a pair of pumps and went downstairs to face the music.

Morag sounded relieved to hear from her. ‘Oh Summer, you gave us all a dreadful fright. Are you all right? Mr McEntaggart was very cross. He spent ages searching the town for you.’

‘He did?’
Of course he did. Idiot. You’re a job.
But some of her anger had already dissipated at the thought of him worrying and it gave her a pang of guilt that wouldn’t go away. She hadn’t meant to upset everyone like that.

‘I’m fine, Morag. Tell him I ran into some friends and I’m back in London. I’ll contact my dad. He’ll square things with Niall.’

She hung up before Morag could answer.

Although she tried it several times, there was no response from her dad’s private number. Typical. She left a breezy message saying that she was back in London and looking forward to seeing him.

Next up was Molly, and she was dreading it. ‘Hi, Molls. Any chance we could meet for lunch? I really need to talk to you. Maybe I can take you up on your invite to hang out at your place for a few days?’

‘Of course. But, can we make it dinner? I’m working on a proposal. You still have a key, don’t you? Let yourself in and I’ll see you as soon as I finish work.’

Summer flicked through her phone contacts. She couldn’t stay here moping over Flynn, and her dinner with Molly was hours away. She needed to get out of the house. Maybe meet someone for lunch. Sinead was still in London. She dialled her cousin’s number at the museum and was put through straight away.

‘Summer, I thought I’d miss you again. I’m leaving next week for Geneva. I got the job.’

‘Brilliant.’ Summer didn’t know Sinead had been looking for one. It had been so long since they had spoken. But that didn’t seem to matter. They always seemed to slot back in whenever they met and they had a lot of catching up to do. ‘I was wondering if we could meet for lunch?’

‘Today? Let me see. I’ve a lunch meeting at noon, but I can sneak away after that for coffee. How about that little Italian place in Bloomsbury at two?’

‘Sounds great.’ She forced enthusiasm into her voice.

‘Are you okay, Summer? What do you want to talk about?’

She couldn’t fool Sinead for a second. Her cousin had a bullshit detector that was second to none. Half of the London art dealers were terrified of her. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone, but I’ve met this guy and –’

Sinead cut her off. ‘Sorry, I’ve got HR on the other line
trying to sort out my paperwork; you can tell me everything later. Gotta go.’

She replaced the receiver in the cradle. Bloomsbury wasn’t that far from Molly’s, she could drop her bag there first and then meet Sinead.

Molly’s flat was still the same. She was relieved that Robert hadn’t managed to dominate the untidiness out of her. Summer tucked her bag under the spare bed and flopped down. She had hardly slept a wink last night and she had half an hour before she met Sinead.

An insistent buzzer woke her and she hurried to the speakerphone in the hallway. It was the concierge. ‘I’ve some gentlemen here with a delivery for Ms Ainsworth.’

Damn, trust Molly. She hoped it was a vacuum cleaner. ‘Okay, send them up.’

When she heard a knock on the door, Summer opened it. Two dark-suited men waited outside. They didn’t look like deliverymen.

‘Miss O’Sullivan?’ The taller of the two stepped forwards, his hand outstretched in greeting. His heavily accented voice was Russian or eastern European. His suit was tailored and his cuffs were pristine white.

Something about this didn’t feel right, and how did they know her name? Summer remembered Flynn’s instructions about personal security when he had been teaching her self-defence moves.
Always go with the gut. If it didn’t feel right, chances were that it wasn’t right.

Summer took a step back into the apartment. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. Miss Ainsworth isn’t here. You’ll have to make another appointment.’

Ignoring her words, the dark-suited man covered the distance between them. He said something to his companion in a language she didn’t understand. This definitely didn’t feel right. To hell with being polite.

Summer tried to close the door, but he caught it easily and pushed back against her. Her leather-soled pumps slipped on the smooth wooden floor. There was no way that she could keep them out. She gave one final shove and was pleased when she heard a grunt of pain from one of the men as she caught his hand in the door. She turned and raced for the bathroom. She could lock herself in there.

She had almost reached it when she was caught in a low tackle. Summer crashed to the ground, smacking her head against the wall. The man managed to grab one of her ankles. She kicked out with her free leg, trying to get away from him.

He shouted over his shoulder. ‘Uri, quick.’

The dark-suited man produced a syringe from his pocket. She had a flashback to the night when she had been run off the road. That man had held something in his hand too, but his voice was different. English. Summer lashed out again, making contact with his ribs. He roared and released her ankle. She rolled over and crawled towards the bathroom door.

‘Bitch,’ he grunted. ‘Get her.’

As she reached for the doorknob, Summer felt something stab her upper arm and her scream was muffled by a blanket coming over her head. The scent of cleaning chemicals mingled with cigarette smoke and after that, nothing.

Flynn climbed the mountain path, silent as starlight. He was the point man and knew his team were behind him, but he couldn’t hear them. They were all good men, hand-picked by Niall for their ability in situations like this. Between them, they’d do the job and be gone before anyone knew they were there.

He filled his lungs with the night air, breathing in the scent of wood smoke, sweat and dust. It was a smell that always filled him with anticipation, one of the signs he was on the job, saving the world from the bad guys. And blowing stuff up, he admitted with a grin. He had no idea why he hankered after the cool air of a Scottish night.

His face was invisible under the dark robe he wore, which at first glance made him look like any other goat herder on the mountain. What was underneath it would get him shot at first sight. He was a walking arsenal of explosives and weapons.

The stars overhead were so bright that he didn’t need his night vision goggles, but he kept his infrared sights handy. He knew they were getting close to the target and there were bound to be sentries keeping watch. If they were any good, they’d be able to blend in with the rocky cliff on which they stood.

Flynn was in the zone, absolutely calm, his heart beating so slowly he had time for a thousand observations and decisions between each beat. He could hear an insect skittering along a branch, the swoop of an owl, the passage of some night hunter. And he could smell the distinctive cigarettes that were all they could afford in this part of the world.

Thank you,
he breathed to whatever god watched over knights errant. His job had just got so much easier. The cigarette-smoking sentry had given them an invitation and directions to the cave they were searching for.

Sneaking up on the sentry was easy. The man’s attention was taken with keeping his fag alight, and the glow of the tip illuminated his face. Flynn hung back. It was unlikely that he was the only one. Sure enough, another man stamped back from the far side of the cave, adjusting his robes as he went. His gun was slung carelessly across his back, out of his immediate reach.

Those clowns deserved what was coming to them. What the hell was the Taliban recruiting these days?

Flynn waited to be sure there were no other sentries absent on pissing duty, and then he hand signalled the two men directly behind him. While Picard and Jones took care of the sentries, Flynn slipped inside the cave complex. He tapped his mic twice to let Niall know the op was on.

Although Niall was his boss, no one disputed Flynn’s expertise in this sort of mission. For tonight at least, Flynn was God.

He suppressed a bubble of laughter at how Summer would react to that. She’d roll around the floor laughing.
He wrenched his thoughts away from her. Time to concentrate.

He knew the whole cliff was riddled with caves and that there were at least two dozen Taliban in the area. He’d been watching the area with a heat sensitive scope all day, and was pretty certain which of the various heat signatures belonged to the hostages. There were two bodies which had remained virtually stationary all day long. He’d bet his pay cheque for this op that they were the two reporters he was here to rescue. There were three active heat signatures in the cave with them, but plenty of others in the area. This would be a hand and knife op. With a bit of luck and a lot of expertise, they’d be in and out before the bad guys realized they were there.

Flynn slipped silently into the cave and had time to get a good look around before he had to take action. Yes, this was going to work.

The two reporters were sitting against the wall, misery bleeding from every pore. Their ankles were tied with thick rope, and they looked in worse shape than Flynn had expected, even after seeing the video of them being tortured.

Cheer up boys; you’re on your way home now.

Flynn felt rather than heard his team behind him and he signalled the attack. It was four against four, but it was hardly a fair fight.

Two of them, Niall and himself, were former Irish Rangers. Jones was ex-SAS and Picard had been in the French Foreign Legion. Any one of them could have taken out the tangos on their own. In this situation, no one cared about fair.

Flynn had a brief impression of sweat and gun oil before his target realized he was under attack. He snapped his neck before he could make a sound. A grunt behind him signalled that Niall had taken care of his guy.

It was all over before the two reporters realized they had been rescued. They jerked upright, gasping, unable to comprehend that the lethal shadows in the cave had come to rescue them.

Flynn slapped a hand over the American’s mouth. ‘Shhh. We’re here to take you home. But stay silent.’ The man nodded, and Flynn pulled his hand away.

Breathing heavily, the blond asked, ‘Who are you? Are you Navy SEALS?’

‘Lucky for you, we’re not. We’re better than them.’ Flynn untied the tarry rope around his ankles, while Niall did the same for the Danish journalist. ‘Can you stand?’

The American, with Flynn’s help, struggled to his feet and managed to remain upright, but he had been a prisoner for over a week now and had been tortured several times, and it showed. The Dane was in slightly better shape, but it was clear neither of them would be running marathons any time soon.

At a signal from Flynn, Niall and Jones slipped their arms around the American, while Picard did the same for the Dane. They headed out and started the trek down the mountain. Flynn would check over the cave and follow them.

Ignoring the bodies on the floor, Flynn investigated the cave. Sleeping bags, lanterns, half-cooked goat’s meat, highly contraband beer, two battery-powered DVD players with more porn than cartoons, smelly clothes – and
a stack of boxes pushed out of light. His internal clock was ticking. The other tangos in the area would be checking in soon, but his curiosity prodded him.