He’d reached over and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Tomorrow the plan will be in place, and no one will be able to stop it—”
And then Ian had come back into the room and Matthew backed away from her and once again was weaving a coin through his fingers. She remembered the first time she saw those gold coins, no larger than a fifty-cent piece, remembered how Ian McGuire, her compatriot from Belfast, was so excited to tell her how he’d met a fellow terrorist-hater all those years ago, and he’d recognized his genius, and he’d happily offered her up to make bombs for him.
She could deal with Ian, but what to do about Andy Tate, that wild ungoverned boy who’d set fires since he was seven years old and, even more, was a computer genius, a hacker of incredible talent, probably more valuable than she or Ian was to Matthew, since he procured the money.
Vanessa saw another ambulance silently leave. Another dead. Had Matthew known what Darius was going to do? Or had Darius simply taken one of Matthew’s bombs and used it? Would Matthew be as livid as she was? Or had he changed that much? She’d never forget what he’d said when Ian had brought her into the group, “No innocents can die, Muslims included, Vanessa. I’m not like those terrorists who kill wantonly. I’ll make my point without death.”
She looked out over the burning refinery. Everything had changed now. It didn’t matter which of them was responsible, or if both Darius and Matthew were complicit. It had to stop.
8
CASTLES
Where was Darius? He was supposed to meet her, and she hadn’t seen him come out of the refinery. She would wait another ten minutes, then she had to clear out because she knew law enforcement would be searching the area soon. Could he possibly be dead, burned up in his own fire? Wouldn’t that be fine irony? And one less terrorist she had to deal with.
Darius had caught her once, walking back to their cabin in the mountains near Tahoe, and she knew his intent immediately. She’d said only, “You force me and I’ll cut your balls off.” And she’d waited, looking at him, emotionless, to see what he would do.
“So you prefer your brainy little boy to a man, do you?”
“I’d prefer Satan himself to you.” Not smart, given what she knew to her gut he was, but she also realized, the moment the words were out of her mouth, she’d say them again.
He’d laughed and walked off, giving her a little finger wave over his shoulder. “Later, love,” he’d said, but after that, he’d ignored her.
She’d managed to take a full-frontal photo of him, stepping out of a field shower, the only clear shot she’d ever gotten of his face. He was always careful, and why was that? He was dark, muscular, very strong, his eyes black and cold. Middle Eastern heritage, but he’d been educated in England, given his Brit accent. She’d sent his photo in two weeks ago, hoping for word about who he really was.
Now, as she waited, Vanessa remembered how he and Matthew had been talking together, voices low, before they’d left for the refinery. When she’d come into the room, they’d shut up. In hindsight, she realized of course they’d been finalizing their plans to test the gold-coin bombs, which meant Matthew had been turned and was now a willing murderer.
Vanessa looked at her watch: nearly twelve-thirty. Time was up. She had to get back to the rally point. She couldn’t wait any longer to see if Darius emerged like Lazarus from the flames. Be dead, she prayed. Please be dead.
She bagged up her things, slipped her backpack onto her shoulders, started off down the hill at a steady jog, thinking hard.