Shiver of Fear Read online

  The little people who thought they were dying for a cause.

  She slid clear goggles over her eyes and crossed to the coolers, her sneakers making no sound. Using a key to open the first cooler, she tugged the handle until the airtight rubber strip made a suctioning noise, assuring her that the contents inside were sealed.

  The bacteria was growing nicely. She peered at the blackened dishes, needing no microscope to tell her that she was looking at raw botulinum toxin, grown from spores harvested from Irish soil.

  “Got anything yet?”

  She jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the dish.

  “Jesus Christ, Baird,” she mumbled behind her mask. “You want to kill me?” She turned to see him, bare face, bare hands, no lab coat. “Or yourself?”

  “I thought they weren’t toxic yet.”

  She lifted the petri dish. “This one is. Get suited up and I’ll show you.”

  He left and she breathed into her mask, her body tensing as usual around this deadly young man. She forced herself to relax, setting the dish back in its proper slot.

  She slid the microscope out and switched it on, finding a glass plate and swab. Baird would want to see for himself, of course. He was, after all, the paying client.

  “I don’t have good news for you,” Baird said as he returned, a mask hanging around his neck as he tugged on some gloves.

  Don’t react, Sharon. Don’t take the bait. “Does that mean there hasn’t been another deposit in my account?”

  “The money is there,” he said coolly. “You know damn well it is because you logged into your account today.”

  No secrets here. She couldn’t forget that. “Then what’s the bad news?”

  “It’s about the young woman on your tail.”

  She looked up, surprised at how much his next words mattered. “Yes?”

  “She’s a wily one, it seems.”

  It’s in the blood. “How so?” She lifted the petri dish full of deadly toxins.

  “She’s working with someone.”

  Her fingers tightened on the glass, but her voice was utterly unconcerned. “What do you mean, working?”

  “Working to find you.”

  A lifetime of freezing out emotion took over by instinct, icing down the tendril that threatened to wrap around her heart. No feelings. They were dead, like the people buried in the cemetery next door. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “We don’t know, but he pistol-whipped one of our men.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus. This was not good. “Did your runner get the message to her anyway?”

  “We shall see, won’t we? What do you have here?” He pulled the stool out, taking it for himself without even offering it to her, his hands greedy for the microscope.

  “Be careful,” she chided. “What we have is phase two of the project. As you know, the spores were easy to harvest. But now we’ve grown bacteria, and this is when they start to become dangerous.”

  “If I touched one?”

  “Nothing would happen, unless you had an open sore. This has to be ingested, but in this form it is not easily ingested.”

  He looked up, excited. “So it’s nearly ready to go?”

  “The chain is thickening nicely.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, which was exactly how she liked it. Fighting a smile behind her mask, she continued. “The light chain of the type A toxin degrades the SNAP-25 protein, and the SNAP-25 protein is required for the release of neurotransmitters from the axon endings.”

  He blew out a disgusted breath. “I don’t care. How soon will we be ready?”

  “You want toxin purified and stabilized to work, not one that will be like what the Shinrikyo tried in Tokyo back in the early nineties, correct?”

  “Did you do that, too?” He sounded impressed.

  “I can’t take credit for that.” But they’d asked her, that was for sure. “And I assume your client wants to transport this material into an aerosol that will impact a large segment of the population.”

  “Impact…”

  “Paralyze and kill, Baird,” she said, impatience in every word. “Aerosol or not?”

  He pushed off the chair and left the room, returning a few seconds later with a large crate that he dumped on the table. Opening the lid, he pulled out a long silver canister with a black top. “Aerosol.”

  That would do the job. “I’ll have quite a bit of work to do to get this into a gas that fits in there.”

  “And you say that’ll take a week still?”

  A day, maybe two. But no need for him to know that. Everything had to be lined up just so. “That’s what I said.”

  “Speed it up.”

  “I fill orders, Mr. Baird, not work miracles.”

  He dragged off his gloves carelessly and threw them on the lab table. She worked with the dishes for a moment, and right before he left, he said, “I’m going to take care of the girl. Permanently.”

  The vial in her hand didn’t even wobble. “An American woman killed in Ireland would attract a lot of attention. I strongly suggest you use a less high-profile means of getting rid of her and simply get her out of town.”

  “She’s stubborn.”

  Like her father. “Be creative.”

  “Trust me, we are.”

  “Trust you.” She gave a scoffing laugh. “That’s rich.”

  He glared at her. “She pissed off one of my men, and I really can’t say what he’ll do for retribution.”

  “Don’t you have control over your men?”

  “We’ll take care of her.”

  She set the petri dish down hard, damn near cracking it. “You do that.”

  He responded with a slightly surprised look, and she turned to hide any reaction she might have, modulating her breathing as his footsteps landed on the concrete stairs heading up.

  She had to do something. If they got to her… No, that was just bad on every imaginable level.

  Deep in the lining of her lab coat, a soft vibration alerted her. Certain Baird was gone, she took out the phone and read the text, a tight smile pulling. Their network was remarkable, really.

  Returning the dishes to their proper places, she locked the cooler and stepped out of the lab, stripping off her coat, goggles, mask, and gloves to properly dispose of them in the bin, unlike Baird.

  She locked the door and shuffled through her options again, finding only one, despite the risk of it.

  In her second-floor bedroom, she slipped on a Parka, the feeling of silky down always reminding her of another dark day in her past. The day all of this was set in motion. The day she became a criminal.

  And a mother.

  Quietly descending the stairs, she jumped when Baird stepped out of the first-floor parlor, where several other men were meeting with him.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  She gave him a haughty look. “I’m not your prisoner, Mr. Baird. And as I’m not in your meeting”—she nodded pointedly to the room behind him—“I’m going for a walk.”

  “The cemetery’s closed.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “It’s not smart to just walk around the Falls Road neighborhood at night. Some of those bastards from Shankill love to cross the Peace Line and harass our girls over here.”

  “No one will mistake me for one of your girls,” she assured him. “And I know the safer areas to walk.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Did you finish in the lab?”

  “I did what I could,” she said, lowering her voice, tucking her hands into the deep pockets of her coat, the outline of her phone pressing against her palm. “Can’t rush the process,” she reminded him. “Good night, Mr. Baird.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  She just closed her eyes and shook her head, like he was nothing more than a nuisance to her.

  Without another word, she continued to the door, aware that he watched her. She walked out, the crisp night air a welcome sensation on her face. She
splashed through a puddle as she marched down the hill to Milltown Road, away from Liam Baird’s house.

  With each step, she played out what she would say when she made this call.

  No words sounded quite right in her head.

  She followed the road to a busier area, where more traffic made her feel less vulnerable, the grounds of Milltown off to her left, some shops, more houses, and pubs to the right. A young couple passed her, nodding, and then two men, both on cell phones, one rambling in an accent so thick it was unintelligible to her. She glanced behind her and saw no one, picking up her pace to really get some distance between her and the house.

  The smell of fresh paint on a pub wall mixed with the night air and scents of fried food and beer, the mural an homage to the lost hope for a united Ireland.

  The image and smells overwhelmed her with a memory of Finn. Amazing how, after thirty years, every once in a while, a sense will awaken a memory. A selective, unrealistic, stupid-as-hell memory of a day with Finn, or a night.

  Footsteps behind her pulled her from her reverie. She slowed her pace, and so did the steps behind her. She turned the corner and rounded the building where the fresh mural had been painted. The sound of footsteps followed. She picked up speed and walked back on a different street, and whoever was back there did… not.

  After a few blocks, she looked over her shoulder into the dark shadows, seeing nothing move. She kept her pace up, her eye on the walls of the cemetery so she didn’t lose track of where she was. She crossed two streets, then Falls Road, and reached what she assumed was the southwest corner of Milltown.

  She finally stopped in the shadows, listening. Her follower had given up, and none of the pedestrians who’d been shopping or drinking made it to this remote end of the street, which was lined with parked cars.

  After one more furtive glance up and down, behind and around, she dug the phone out, holding it close as she reread the message she’d just received. She inched closer to the high, wrought-iron fence that enclosed this section of the cemetery. The “lesser” were buried here, in mass graves. All those babies, all those victims of plague and poverty. These folks didn’t merit a brick wall, just a fence with thick, thorny bushes.

  After a moment, she dialed the number, squinting at the words when given the option to call or text.

  Text would be the easier way, of course. But would it be as effective?

  A nudge was all she needed, and Sharon was just the person to give it.

  But something paralyzed her. Once contact was made, life would never be the same. Maybe she should text it. But Devyn would never know who was texting her. What could Sharon say to prove who she was? What would she know about Devyn that no one else knew?

  Her birth name. If she had been resourceful enough to dig up long-buried paperwork, she would know that. And Finn wouldn’t. If she responded to the name, then it answered a lot of questions, too. It meant Devyn was doing this on her own, and Finn wasn’t behind it.

  Yes, using “Rose” would be a brilliant move.

  Text or call?

  She typed a few words, just to see how they looked.

  Rose, please go. I need you

  Light poured over her, making her jump backward with a gasp.

  The high beams of a car parked on a side street bathed her in yellow. The engine revved and the car shot forward, heading right for her.

  She started to run, the phone still in her hand, the message unfinished. The car swerved, continuing to head toward her. If it hit her—when it hit her—she’d be smashed against the iron fence.

  She turned, unable to let out the scream trapped in her throat as the vehicle picked up speed. She stumbled back, into some brush and the fence, squeezing the phone.

  Her hands clutched the phone behind her, squeezing every button on the pad.

  The car bore down on her, the engine screaming, not twenty feet away. With one fast move, she whipped her arm backward through the iron rails and released the phone, praying that it would be lost in the brush, destroyed by the next rain, the batteries dead before anyone ever found it.

  And as she opened her mouth to scream and held up her empty hands in a last-ditch plea for mercy, she threw out one more prayer. That death wouldn’t hurt too much.

  CHAPTER 14

  It’s blank?” Marc reached for the note, cringing. A light sheen of sweat dampened his face and temples, his irises nearly black, adrenaline so thick Devyn could taste it in the air.

  “What happened?” she asked, the disappointment of the blank note momentarily forgotten as her gaze moved to his hand, where he shook off the pain.

  “Cigarette burn. Son of a bitch got me.” He glanced at the paper she held. “Of course it says nothing,” he spat. “It might as well have said ‘you’ve been duped.’ They wanted to find us. And they did. We have to get out of this room.”

  She took his hand to examine the burn, sucking a breath at the raw, festering skin. “What son of a bitch?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s safe to leave the hotel right now.”

  “Then where do you think we should go?”

  In his uninjured hand, he held a cell phone and a room key. “Anywhere we want. This is a master.” He nudged her to the door. “We’ll go to the fourth floor, get our stuff, and find an empty room. We have to move fast.”

  She followed him into the hall and to the elevator, instinctively knowing by the fact that he drew his gun and kept it at the ready that it wasn’t the time for questions, complaints, or demands.

  Thankfully, the hall was empty. At room 412, he used the master and they slipped inside, wordlessly gathering their belongings. In under two minutes, they had their bags zipped and were out the door, headed back down the hall.

  “Best bet is right by the ice machine and side door,” Marc said. “Gives us easy access and it’s the last room they generally book on a floor.”

  “You know this how?”

  He barely smiled, hustling in that direction. “I’m guessing.”

  No one answered their knock at 435, the room next to the ice and exit. Marc unlocked the door and peeked in, closing it silently. “Suitcase and shoes. Move on.”

  Directly across the hall, he tried 434, then nudged her in. “No one’s coming in here tonight.”

  Inside, the king-size bed was stripped bare and a second dresser blocked the middle of the room. “They’re using it for storage,” she said.

  “And we’re using it for tonight.”

  Tonight?

  But she held the argument inside for the moment. “What if they electronically change the locks?” she asked.

  “When we leave, we’re not coming back.”

  Because we are going to Enniskillen. She held back the words, letting go of her suitcase and slicing him with a demanding look. She’d kept her questions in long enough. “You need to tell me what the hell’s going on, Marc.”

  “You say that like I know.” He threw his bag on the bare mattress and checked out the rest of the room, shaking his hand again.

  “I think I have something for that,” she said, turning to her suitcase. “Let me dig it out.”

  “It’s not serious.” He was already moving around the room at warp speed, closing the room-darkening drapes to cut out what little light there was, then grabbing a towel to stuff in front of the door. “No lights,” he said in a whisper. “We don’t want to alert a sharp housekeeper. No sound, no running water, no nothing.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as I say.”

  Irritation made her squeeze the tube of aloe she’d found. She was trapped with him. He had the keys to the car; he called the shots—he had the power.

  Finished setting up the room, he sat next to her on the bed. “Whatever you have, I hope it’s strong.”

  “It’ll help,” she said, taking his hand and giving her eyes a second to get used to the darkness. “How did you get a master key?”

  “How did our mystery man get it
is a better question. My guess would be the hotel staff is easily bribed.”

  “What happened?”

  He sucked in a hiss when she dabbed white cream on the festering burn. “He got a call informing him we’d moved, so I got him in the stairway.”

  She rubbed gently over the wound, holding his hand with both of hers, aware of his eyes on her. “Looks more like he got you.”

  He puffed a breath. “He’s in worse shape. He said he was sent here—wouldn’t tell me who, if he even knew—to deliver a message to you.”

  “Don’t tell me. Leave Belfast.”

  “Bingo.” With his other hand, he tipped her chin up, forcing her attention off his burn and on him. “That doesn’t mean leave Belfast and go where they sent you.”

  “We don’t know who ‘they’ are, Marc.”

  “They aren’t good. You need résumés?”

  “Then why did the FBI send you here with the same mission?” she countered. “Maybe some of them are good.” Like her mother. Maybe.

  “To be perfectly honest, the FBI, per se, didn’t actually send me here.”

  She inched back, her jaw loose as this fact landed on her heart and in her head. “What? You lied about that, too?”

  “You say that like I’m a pathological liar. The FBI allegedly sent me here, but the directive was given by one man, and one man alone. He was clear we weren’t supposed to discuss the assignment with anyone else in his office, and frankly, back then, I didn’t have much reason to question it.”

  “Really? I’d question it.”

  “Considering who’s involved, I didn’t.”

  At first she didn’t understand the comment, then his meaning became clear. “Finn MacCauley,” she said.

  “Yep. When we got the job of getting you out of here, I assumed it had something—I honestly don’t know what—to do with them bringing him in. I figured the agent was being cautious because getting a fugitive of his caliber has to be a very high priority for the FBI, despite him saying it wasn’t.”

  A fugitive of his caliber. She tamped down the sensation those words sent through her. “And now what do you think?”