Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (46 page)

Calling up both his perfect mental map of the British Isles, and of Ireland across the Irish Sea, he decided, based on the location of the airport Fintan's plane had been heading for, that his most likely location was Pembrokeshire and that the large offshore island was Skomer Island. If he was right, he'd eventually meet with the small village of Marloes to the east, if he was wrong he'd meet a sheer cliff leading into the Milford Haven Waterway and be forced to turn north, having wasted a lot of the remaining daylight. There was only one way to find out. Throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder, he walked east.

One hour later the sun was sinking behind the rolling hills, its dying rays hidden by the gathering clouds. A storm was approaching from the east. Declan could see the rainfall many miles ahead of him, the wall of approaching precipitation giving the landscape the appearance of an old oil painting. About a mile from the coastline he'd gotten lucky and found a one lane dirt road heading east. With the injury to his left leg his progress was slow, although he was beginning to think it was due more to sheer exhaustion than the injury. He hadn't slept or eaten since he'd left the United States and with the physical rush that had accompanied his jump from the plane and his fight to survive the landing, his body was feeling the effects. It seemed as though every muscle ached, his head was pounding and his skin was pale, icy to the touch from the onslaught of the Atlantic wind against his wet clothes. He kept his head down in an attempt to keep his face warm, but it made little difference.

Again, for the second time in as many days, he found himself thankful for the Special Forces training he'd received in Afghanistan and for the lifelong fitness habits it had instilled in him. At the age of forty-one he was in better shape than most twenty-five year olds and it was a good thing, because without it he would not have survived. As he topped a small rise in the dirt road, he glanced up and his eyes settled on a much needed sight.

Directly ahead of him, no more than a mile from his current position, he could see the corrugated steel roofing of several buildings grouped tightly together on the right side of the road. There were no lights visible in the gathering darkness, but at least it was a sign he was heading in the right direction. He quickened his pace as much as possible, invigorated by the thought of a warm place to ride out the coming storm.

Favoring his right leg heavily, he cautiously approached the first of the buildings. A drab sign with white lettering positioned at the three way intersection in the dirt road where the buildings stood announced that they belonged to the Skomer Marine Nature Reserve, confirming his earlier decision that he was on the Marloes Peninsula in southwest Wales. That was good; it meant that the village of Marloes was only about seven or eight miles further to the east, but the thought of walking another seven or eight miles drained his enthusiasm. He decided the hike needed to wait until the morning. He'd take shelter in the Marine Reserve tonight. Perhaps his luck would hold and a worker would have left some food behind; an uneaten lunch or even a pack of wafers would go a long way right now.

He entered the property by walking down a short driveway between two stone buildings that appeared to have been there far longer than the other metal buildings that together made up the complex. Inside the tiny lot enclosed by the buildings there were no lights and the only vehicles were several ATVs in various states of maintenance. Looking over them quickly he realized none of them would be drivable. Standing in the center of what he guessed was a small parking lot he turned three hundred and sixty degrees looking for the building most likely to be the headquarters. There were seven buildings in total, three long and rectangular and four much smaller squares that he surmised were storage buildings. Three foot by four foot hedges were sporadically placed around each building in an effort to bring some life to the cold metal. Like the roofs he'd seen from a distance, the walls of most of the buildings were constructed from grayish corrugated steel, industrial looking windows and doors cut into the sides, a few dark red shutters hanging haphazardly beside some of the windows. He chose the building with the most parking spots and walked to the windowless double doors at the front. The doors were secured with a heavy, padlocked chain. He pulled on the lock in hopes that it was only dummy locked, but it wasn't. He turned and looked to see that the other buildings were all similarly secured.
Damn.

Reluctantly he bent down and unzipped the duffel bag, withdrawing the Glock 17. With a magazine already loaded, he screwed on the suppressor and chambered a round. Pushing himself tortuously back to his feet he moved to the side of the doors and took aim at the lock. Suddenly a bright light washed over the metal in front of him and he was illuminated by the circular beam. He pulled the Glock close to his body and dived out of the light behind one of the hedges.

Listening carefully, he heard the unmistakable crunch of a gravel road beneath car tires, then the beam of light stopped moving forward. With the roaring wind passing through the joints in the corrugated steel and creating a piercing whistle, he hadn't heard the vehicle approaching. He knew that whoever was driving it had to have seen him. Seconds later he heard a car door open and his suspicions were confirmed.

"Whoever's there, I know you're here. Come out."

The voice was both distinctly Welsh and distinctly female. Declan bent left and right trying to get a look at its owner without revealing his position, but the hedge was too big.

"I know you're here. Come out," the voice repeated. Declan heard a hint of uncertainty, possibly even fear, and he weighed his options. Who was this person, night security? Some sort of caretaker, a camper, or someone else who'd seen him from nearby? He hadn't noticed any houses or campsites and the village was too far away for anyone there to have seen anything.

"Alright, then," the voice sang. "I'll go and tell the police and they'll be round to deal with you shortly. You'd best get back to the moor or wherever you came from. I'd hate to be outdoors on a night like this if I was you."

Declan stashed the Glock in the duffel bag and tugged the zipper closed as he stood and turned towards the vehicle. He couldn't afford to have the police involved and the voice was right, it was bitter cold and only going to get worse as the night progressed. If there was even the slightest chance this person could help him find shelter he had to take it.

"Well, there you are. Finally get done rolling around in the dirt, did you?"

Just beyond the halogen beams, Declan could make out the basic shape of a human. It was obvious from the bulk that she was bundled against the cold. He stepped around the hedge with his empty hands raised to get a better look. Standing behind the open car door as if it might offer her some protection was a young woman, probably in her late twenties, Declan thought. Her cheeks were red from the cold, her hair was covered by a wool stocking cap, and a thick down coat hid the rest of her body from view.

"What the bloody hell are you doing out here anyway?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I'm a paraglider," Declan lied. "My rig was blown onto the rocks a few hours ago. I barely made it out alive."

"Well, I expect not in this wind. What kind of bloody trick is that, paragliding in this kind of weather? What're you, mad? You damned extreme sports types. Not an ounce of sense in the lot of you, I'd say."

"Who are you?" Declan asked.

The young woman stepped around the Peugeot she was driving and said, "Hannah Sawyer. I'm the wildlife preservationist here. Just came by to make sure I'd locked up all these doors and they weren't blowin' in the gale. Are you injured?"

Declan was relieved that she seemed to believe his story. "My leg is cut up and my wrist is sprained. Other than that, I'm just exhausted."

"Well, I would expect so, after an ordeal like that," she said, stepping closer. Declan could smell a flowery perfume. "What in the name of Saint David are you doing paragliding in weather like this and in the dark?"

"It was for a new world record. I was attempting to sail around the entire British Isles without stopping. I left from the Firth of Clyde yesterday."

"Wrong time of year for that. Lot of good that record's gonna do you when you're dead. C'mon, let's get you to the village where we can get a better look at your injuries."

Declan breathed easy for the first time in several minutes. "Thank you. That'll be grand. I've some money on me. If you'll just drop me at an inn, I can make my way from there."

"Ah, you'll not find any inns around here that are open this time of year. Tourist season doesn't start for another two months. My dad and I have a place where you can hold up and get some rest. In a day or two I'll give you a ride to Haverfordwest and you can go about getting yourself back home."

"Aye, that's grand. Thank you again."

"Don't thank me yet," she said, with a wry laugh. "You haven't tasted my dad's stew."

Together they climbed into the Peugeot and she shifted through the gears as she turned the car around and drove east towards Marloes. The seven mile drive took about ten minutes over a roughly-maintained road that turned to pavement a few miles outside of the town. Halfway there it had started to rain. Passing a bent metal sign that read
Marloes
in bold, black letters, Declan looked from side to side at the stone cottages that stood barely arm's length from the edge of the one lane road that led into and out of the small village. Through the driving rain he could make out dim lights in some of the homes, but most appeared vacant. He supposed they were vacation homes or rental cottages that saw little use outside of the summer months.

Soon they pulled up to a gray stone house with a rust-colored roof made from what appeared to be clay shingles, and Hannah turned the Peugeot into a narrow gravel parking spot that was just big enough for the compact vehicle. The residence was small; its front yard surrounded by an aging stone wall, Light was visible through two windows beside the wooden front door.

"Well, you'd better give me your name," she said, as she shifted the car into neutral and pulled on the handbrake. "Dad'll want to know what to call you right off."

"Paul Flynn," Declan lied, combining his father's first name and his mother's maiden name. "I really appreciate your hospitality."

"It's nothing. Happens all the time, you lot getting yourselves messed up. The few of us that stay here throughout the year are used to patching people up. Just can't seem to get it through your thick heads that sports are for summertime and daylight."

Declan smiled as they exited the Peugeot. Hannah ran up the gravel path to the front door, the rain horizontal in the wind.

"Well, I found another one, I did," she announced, as she opened the door and walked in, hanging her stocking cap on a peg next to the door. She turned towards Declan and smiled, and he saw she had chestnut brown hair cut just below her ears and huge brown eyes. In the darkness, he'd failed to see how pretty she was.

"You found another wha—? Oh dear," Declan heard an older man's voice say as he stepped into the house. He found himself in the main living area, a brown leather couch in the middle of the floor dividing the living room and the small kitchen where Hannah's father stood with a tea towel in hand. Declan could tell right away that the older man was less enthusiastic about his presence than was his daughter. Drying his hands slowly with the olive green towel, he said roughly, "Rhys Sawyer. And you'd be?"

"Found him at the Reserve, so I did. Says his paraglider crashed," Hannah said, before Declan could respond to her father's question. "His name's Paul Flynn."

Rhys Sawyer stared suspiciously at his guest, his eyes narrowed, and Declan could feel the tension coming from him. He was obviously a great deal older than his daughter, at least sixty, if Declan had to guess. He had dark, narrow eyes bordering on beady, covered by thick white eyebrows. His hairline had receded, and most of his white hair was gone from the top of his head. What was left was thick and unkempt. Unlike his daughter, who was very petite, Rhys was broad-shouldered and carried at least an extra fifty pounds, making him an imposing figure despite his advanced age.

"My daughter has a bad habit of bringing home strays. Unfortunately she refuses to confine the activity to wildlife."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean to impose," Declan said.

"Well, of course you do. You lot with all your fancy gear and immortal attitudes coming down here looking to bounce around and make all kinds of commotion and then when you get yourselves in a mess you look for us regular folk to take you in and patch you up. You got lucky, see, and found the one person out here most likely to do it."

Declan stayed silent, unsure of what to say. He could understand the man's anger. There was a complete stranger standing in his house, someone whose intentions could easily be less than honorable.

"Dad, you're embarrass—"

"Embarrassing you how? You just met him! I've warned you about this, so I have. You cannot bring home every wandering soul you find out there on the moor who just happens to be ruggedly handsome."

Hannah's face flushed a deep red, but Declan couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment.

"I apologize for my intrusion, sir. If you could just point me in the direction of an inn or someplace I can wait out the storm, I'll be on my way."

"I've told you already, there's no place open this time of year," Hannah said, as her eyes bored into her father. "I'll drive you back to the Reserve. You can stay there in the office for the night."

"You'll be doing no such thing," Rhys said, his voice a low growl. "My daughter's right, Mr. Flynn, there's no place open. As much as I don't like it, you can stay in our guest cottage out back. Seeing as my daughter insists on ignoring my advice, I may as well keep you in my sight."

Declan was silently grateful. Even though he hadn't seen it, the guest cottage sounded like a slice of heaven. At this point he'd take a barn if it meant he could sleep out of the wind and rain.