The Warrior (20 page)

The old man put on his hat and stepped off the front steps. Within moments of clearing the yard, he disappeared.

John grunted as if someone had just kicked him in the gut, then remembered Alicia and hurried inside. She hadn't moved since he'd laid her on the bed. The only positive thing was that she was still breathing.

He stood for a moment, then went into the bathroom and came back out with a wet washcloth. He sat down beside her, then lifted her lifeless hand in his own. He
knew her body was fragile, but he also knew her will was strong.

“Fight this, Alicia. I need to know you're going to survive this. I can't bury another woman I care about.”

Before he thought about why, he lifted her hand, turned it palm up and kissed it. Her skin was soft and warm, and he could feel a faint pulse beneath his lips. Then he began to wash her face in a slow, gentle motion—not because it was doing her any good, but because he had to do something for her. He removed her clothes and began bathing her.

Dark shadows colored the skin beneath her lashes, evidence of how the scorpion's toxin had impacted her body. The rest of her face was colorless, her lips slightly parted. John brushed his fingers across the pulse at the base of her throat, taking comfort in the strong, steady beat. But she wouldn't wake up. It was a sickening thought to know she was so emotionally devastated that she might not want to come back.

He sat with her for hours, talking about things he would never have said aloud, starting with the massacre and the Spaniards who'd sailed into the bay, telling her about living in Europe, traveling through India by train, being at Little Big Horn, being in Mexico during the Spanish-American War and about being snowed in one winter in a desolate cabin in the Rockies. He told of watching great treasures being buried, only to come back generations later and claim them for himself. He'd lived through fires and plagues, earthquakes and floods, and more wars than history had recorded. It was a catharsis long overdue, unburdening himself of a truth no one would believe and of the aching loneliness of
being the only one of his kind. And finally, when his throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, he stopped.

The sudden silence was frightening. It took a few moments for him to focus enough to realize that he could still hear her breathing. He nodded once, then wearily got up. He started to leave, then stopped, and leaned down until he could feel the breath from between her parted lips. He inhaled as she exhaled, taking in a moment's worth of her life force, knowing that forever after there would always be a tiny part of her within him. He thought about what he was about to do. Knowing it would be cheating, because he was the only one participating. But he'd lived all this time without bothering to follow the rules. Why start now?

His lips parted slightly, then he matched them both to hers, gently, coaxingly, silently pleading for her to wake and ask for more. But she didn't.

He walked away long enough to fix some food, eating for stamina only, then heated some chicken broth from a can, poured it into a cup and carried it back into her bedroom.

He sat down on the side of the bed with the soup, a drinking straw and a plan.

“Alicia…it's me, John. I know you're in there, but you've gone to a place where I can't help you. I can't hear your voice. I don't know where you are, but I'm out here. When you come back, I'll still be here…waiting for you. You don't know it yet, but I'm real good at waiting. In the meantime, I will feed your body while you heal your soul. When I put this straw to your lips, all you have to do is swallow.”

A muscle jerked in his jaw as he waited for a sign that
she had heard and understood, but it didn't come. He dipped the straw into the cup, put his finger over the open end and siphoned off a small sip. Then he put the straw to her slightly parted lips and lifted his finger. A tiny drizzle of soup went into her mouth, but then ran out the corner of her lips.

He grabbed the washcloth and blotted the drips, then siphoned another sip. This time, when he put it to her lips, he was determined to make things work.

“Alicia! Swallow the damned soup.” Then he let it flow.

To his surprise, he saw her throat working, and knew that some part of her consciousness had heard and obeyed.

His nostrils flared. “That's what I'm talking about,” he muttered, and so they went until most of the soup was gone.

Satisfied that he'd done all he could for the moment, he covered her carefully and then closed the door behind him when he left. He needed to talk to Corbin and find out what the hell had gone wrong, and what the Feds were doing about it.

 

Alicia Ponte had checked out of the human race. She was still breathing, but she didn't know and didn't care. She'd gone deep into her subconscious, past the place where dreams begin to a tiny corner in her mind where memories from a hundred lifetimes had been stored. And there she hovered, lost between the present and the past. For all intents and purposes, she'd put herself on hold.

R
ichard was in Italy, but not for long. He'd entered the country under an assumed name, flashed the appropriate matching passport and identification papers and made his way to Naples. From there, he'd hired a car and headed south toward his next destination, which was Sicily, with the ultimate goal of reaching East Germany.

There were more direct routes to take, but Richard wasn't one for the obvious, and he was changing his appearance as fast as a chameleon changes colors. He'd long since dumped his Gucci shoes and Italian suits for workman's wear: loose denim pants, a little baggy in the rear; a faded blue, collarless shirt he left hanging outside his pants; and a fisherman's cap pulled low over a freshly shaved head and a two-day growth of beard, which was turning out to be gray. Not even his mother would have recognized him. This escape plan had been in place for years, although in truth, he'd never thought he would have to use it. He carried the papers that matched his new identity and his money in a workman's duffel bag slung
over one shoulder, along with a couple of changes of clothes. Beyond that, he was still vulnerable. He needed to get back in control of his life and his money.

Paolo Gianni was probably furious. He would know by now that he'd been had. What Richard wasn't certain of was whether Paolo would tell the authorities and risk being arrested for aiding and abetting. Treason was an awful thing. Being accused of it in a foreign country would be even worse, and while Paolo Gianni was a big-deal actor in America, he was still an Italian citizen. If he caved and informed the authorities how he'd been duped, they would soon know that Richard had landed in Italy. But they had no way of knowing where he would go from there. His plan was perfect. All he needed was a little more time to see the rest of it through, and then he would, for all intents and purposes, have disappeared from the face of the earth.

After that, he would be able to focus on retribution. But he was going to need help Stateside, and the only man he trusted to follow through for him there was still in jail in Justice, Georgia.

He sat near the shore, waiting for the fishing boat he'd hired to arrive, and glanced around, making sure he was alone and unobserved. Then he pulled another disposable cell phone from his pocket, punched in a series of numbers and waited for the call to go through. A few moments later, he heard the cell begin to ring.

“Borden and Wheaton law offices.”

“Put me through to Paul Borden.”

“May I say who's calling?” the receptionist asked.

“No, you may not. Just put him on.”

The receptionist had heard this voice too many times
in the past not to know who it was. And considering that their biggest client had been the talk of the office for the past twelve hours, she knew not to mess this up.

“One moment, please.”

When the music came on, Richard cursed. It was an overseas call, for God's sake, and they'd put him on hold. Of course, they didn't know where he was, but he knew good and well that she'd recognized his voice. He could only imagine the hullabaloo that was going on there right now.

When the receptionist bolted from her desk and dashed into Paul Borden's office without knocking, he was in the middle of a consultation with a client and gave her a look that, ordinarily, would have sent her to clean out her desk. But when she laid the phone slip in front of him, he instantly understood.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly to the client on the other side of his desk. “Please excuse me for a moment. Family emergency. I must take this call.”

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and then indicated his partner's office across the hall, which was, at the moment, empty.

“Put the call through in there,” he told the receptionist. “And for God's sake, keep your mouth shut.”

She nodded, then punched a button on her console. “Thank you for holding. Mr. Borden for you, sir.” She punched another button, heard the call go through, then replaced the receiver.

Borden was shocked that the man still had the balls to call them. “You son of a bitch! I hope to hell you don't think we're still willing to represent your sorry ass, because we're done with you. Do you understand?”

This was exactly what Richard had expected. But he knew something Paul Borden didn't.

“What I understand is that a million dollars has recently been deposited into an account in the Cayman Islands payable to whomever shows up with the account number. All you have to do to get that number is get Dieter Bahn out of jail.”

Borden was so angry he was shaking. “You've put a black mark on this firm that will take years to get off—if ever. The Feds have been here and confiscated all our files regarding anything we've ever done for you. We've lost three of our biggest clients since noon, just because they don't want to be associated with the law firm that did business with a traitor to his country, and the phones are still ringing.”

“Then you're going to need that million dollars, aren't you, Paul?”

Borden swiped a hand across his face and dropped into his partner's chair. It was a good thing Wheaton was in court, because he would have ripped this phone out of the wall before he would have let Paul have this conversation.

“Why, Richard? Why did you do it? You didn't need the money. Was it just a game to you, or are you truly without a conscience?”

“It's none of your business. Are you going to do what I asked?”

Paul sighed. A million dollars. Damn his sorry soul to hell. Ponte probably knew he was in debt up to his neck.

“Answer me this.”

“What?”

“When Wheaton's son died in Iraq last year, did that even register with you?”

“I sent flowers, didn't I?” Richard said.

Paul was so stunned by the callous answer that for a long moment he couldn't speak.

“Well…answer me, damn it,” Richard said. “I know plenty of others who'll do a whole lot more than what I've asked you, and for a whole lot less money.”

“Fuck you,” Borden whispered. “I'll get him out, but that's it. After that, you're history here. Now what's the account number?”

“Not until Dieter is out.”

“No way, you lying bastard. I have no reason to trust you. You either do this my way or you're on your own.”

Richard cursed beneath his breath. He could find someone else to do it, but it would take time, and time was of the essence.

“Fine,” he said. “But remember this. If you stab me in the back, I know where your kids go to school, where your wife gets her hair done and where you live.”

Borden felt sick that he'd ever done business with this man—but sicker still that he'd just sold his soul to the devil for only a million dollars. Still, while he'd sold out, he wasn't going to be bullied. His voice was barely above a whisper, but the intent was evident.

“Don't threaten me. Ever. I know way too much about
you,
too, including some hidey-holes you may plan on accessing. Do we understand each other?”

Richard blinked. He hadn't expected Borden to fight back. “Okay…point taken. Got a pen and paper?”

“Talk.”

Richard rattled off the name of the bank, the phone number and the account number. “One more thing…Give this number to Dieter.” He recited the number of
the phone he was using. “And don't even think about giving it to the authorities. Remember…I'll know if you try to take me down.”

Richard started to say something else, but the line went dead in his ear. He frowned, then disconnected. He would know soon enough if Borden was going to come through. Just as he dropped the cell phone into his pocket, he heard someone call out. It took a few moments for him to recognize the name he was going by. He stood up and waved, then shouldered his bag and shuffled off to the pier, where a small boat had just moored.

He climbed aboard, and within half an hour, he and the little fishing boat were out of sight.

 

Paul Borden wasn't the only one of Richard Ponte's acquaintances who was in turmoil. Paolo Gianni was furious that he'd been duped and, at the same time, scared he would wind up being charged with aiding and abetting a traitor. He'd made a frantic call to his lawyer, who'd agreed that Paolo needed to make a big deal out of this and play the victim along with Ponte's daughter, Alicia. By the time the latest news of Ponte's actions had hit the airwaves, the CIA had become involved. Agents all over the world were on alert. Photos of Richard Ponte were circulating in every police department around the globe.

Paolo had used every ounce of acting chops he had to play the wronged friend, and it had worked. He'd cooperated fully with the authorities, bringing in his pilot and the flight plans for every stop along the way. His claim of being duped passed muster, in part because
at the time of Richard's request, the world still thought that Alicia Ponte was a kidnap victim, and believing she'd been taken out of the country was logical.

Meanwhile, Paul Borden had taken several days' leave from the office and driven up the coast to Georgia. After a frustrating afternoon trying to get an audience with a county judge, he'd finally been able to make his case. Like Paolo, Borden played the ignorance card, insisting that Dieter Bahn had believed that his boss's daughter had been kidnapped. So when he'd located Alicia at Nightwalker's residence, he had been acting on the assumption that he was “saving” her, not endangering her life. Given everything the authorities now knew about Richard Ponte, the judge was convinced.

Paul was sick to his stomach at what he'd done. But, as he'd promised, he had one last thing to do for Richard Ponte. He was waiting outside the jail in Justice when Dieter was released from custody and rushed forward to shake Borden's hand.

Instead of returning the greeting, Borden slapped a piece of paper in Dieter's palm.

“Know this,” he said. “As of this moment, all connections between Borden and Wheaton Law and the Ponte empire have been severed.”

Dieter frowned as he looked down at the paper Borden had given him.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Ponte's number,” Borden muttered. “But if I were you, I'd throw it away and run for my life.”

Then he turned away and headed for his car.

“Hey. Wait. What about me?” Dieter said.

Paul looked back, then shrugged. “You're a big boy. Figure it out on your own.”

Then he got in his car and headed back to Miami as fast as he could go.

Dieter cursed, then started walking down the street toward the impound yard. He knew where it was from the first time he'd been jailed in Justice. He glanced down at the phone number the lawyer had given him, then slipped it into his pocket. Right now, he needed to get out of this chickenshit town before something else happened. After that, he would decide if he wanted to ride this out with his boss or do as Borden had suggested and simply disappear. The only problem was, he knew his boss well enough to know that running away from someone like him was next to impossible.

 

Part of Jacob Carruthers' deal with the U.S. government was that he'd waived his right to trial and would be shipped straight to federal prison. He was, at the present moment, sitting in the county jail awaiting the U.S. marshals who were en route to escort him. He'd tried, through his lawyer, to contact his children, but they'd refused to speak to him. It was nothing more than what he'd expected.

For the past seven hours he'd been in this cell, listening to the catcalls from the other inmates, hearing their curses and jeers as they took turns telling him in colorful terms what would happen to him once he was inside.

Part of him felt betrayed by the way Richard had left him behind, but when he wanted to be indignant and self-righteous, he was reminded that he'd given up his rights to be any such thing. So he sat on the cot, staring at the
bars before him and knowing he wasn't strong enough to survive this—knowing he didn't care enough to try.

“Hey, traitor…my cousin is in Iraq getting fucked over by what you did. Watch your back, 'cause when I get a chance, I'm gonna fuck
you
.”

Jacob winced. The voice was harsh, the promise ugly. He felt the contents of his belly roll and knew he was going to be sick. He bolted up from the cot and made it to the toilet just in time.

The sounds of his retching could be heard up and down the cell block, which only increased the shouts and catcalls. By the time Jacob had puked himself to nothing but gagging, he managed to pull himself together and staggered back to his cot, where he threw himself down, belly first.

As he did, his pants caught on the corner of the metal frame. When he heard them rip, his first instinct was regret; then he remembered he wasn't wearing designer clothing anymore. The county had furnished these, and they probably had more.

He rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, and as he did, an idea began to form. If the corner of his cot was sharp enough to tear fabric, flesh would be a no-brainer. He moved to a sitting position, then bent over to study the metal frame. The end had rusted, which had caused the mitered corner to separate, leaving two sharp edges. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing much. But it wouldn't take much for what was going through his mind.