Lazlo’s Last Stand

Chapter 12

Corbett set the Lazlo Group’s unmarked Citation down on a private and little-known airstrip in the countryside near Paris in a sullen gray overcast that perfectly matched his mood. He found the airfield deserted, the hangars and small terminal building locked up tight. This didn’t surprise him-given the state of the Group’s communications system, he’d feared something of the sort and had called ahead from Salzburg. When he’d gotten no answer at the airfield, he’d arranged for a cab to meet him. He could see the car now, the only one in the small graveled parking lot, engine off, the driver dozing behind the wheel.

He taxied the Citation into the shelter next to the larger of the two hangars, chocked its wheels, then jogtrotted around the terminal office building to the parking lot. When he tapped on the cabdriver’s window, the fellow jerked upright with a wide grin and spoke to him with a French accent Corbett thought might be Algerian. Corbett gave him a small salute, and the driver stretched an arm around to unlock the back door. Corbett opened it, tossed in his kit bag and climbed in after it.

Scarcely an hour later they were driving into the heart of Paris, just as night and a drizzly rain began to fall.

To Lucia’s profound relief, the vertical section of the shaft was only about ten or fifteen feet high-enough, though, for her shoulder, arm and leg muscles to begin to tremble rather alarmingly by the time she reached the first bend. From there on it angled upward at an easier slant, though still steep enough that she had to brace herself with her feet against the sides of the shaft to keep from slipping backward-which she did once or twice anyway, terrifyingly, heart-stoppingly, each time losing two or three feet before managing to stop her slide.

Eventually, after some interesting twists and turns and narrow places and one more sharp climb, she emerged into a small chamber filled with rocks and debris. Realizing this must be where the original discoverers of the shaft had broken through while digging their cistern, Lucia was elated-until she realized the ceiling of the cavern was at least three feet beyond her reach. Furthermore, she couldn’t see any signs of daylight, not a crack or a glimmer showing through at all.

Was this the end? Had the hole been filled in? Had she come this far only to have to turn back at this last stage before success-and freedom?

She sank to the floor of the chamber, exhausted and defeated, every muscle in her body quivering with fatigue. The sweat that had dampened her hair and sweater during her strenuous climb now chilled her to the bone. She couldn’t stay here long; she’d have to start back soon. But first…just a little rest. And in the meantime, she’d turn off the flashlight to save the batteries. She had no idea how long she’d been climbing, but even her long-life LED work light wouldn’t hold out forever.

To keep the sudden blackness from being such a shock, she closed her eyes before switching off the flashlight. When she did, all the thoughts that fear and concentration had been holding at bay came flooding into her mind.

How long have I been gone?

Poor Kati-what must she have thought when I didn’t come back? Have they been looking for me? Why haven’t I heard them in the cave?

What will Corbett say when he hears what I’ve done? He’ll be furious!

This was a stupid thing to do!

Oh, God, I hate to think about going back, creeping ignominiously back to face Kati’s tears and Josef’s…Well, he’ll be angry, almost certainly, but worried, most of all.

I feel so bad about that-making them worry.

It’s all such a mess. If only I could just stay here…sleep…just for a little while…

No! She couldn’t do that. Hypothermia would take her for sure. She had to move, start back now.

She opened her eyes and lay staring up at the blackness overhead, willing her tired body to move. And that was when she saw it. A crack…Not light, exactly, just a lighter bit of the darkness, so faint she thought at first it was only a phantom of some sort, a flaw on her retinas. But a straight line? What had Corbett said? Nature abhors a straight line…

She stood up and turned on the flashlight, studying the ceiling intently where she thought she’d seen the crack. And now she could see what she’d missed before: the faint outline of a wooden trapdoor, so coated with the mossy moldy growth of years, it was barely distinguishable from the earth around it.

Elation surged through her, then ebbed as quickly when she remembered she still had no way to reach the trapdoor. She needed a ladder. There must have been one at one time, she reasoned. Maybe it was still here, buried under the rubble.

Propping her flashlight on her sewing bag, she dropped to her knees and began to push, shove and roll the bigger rocks toward the center of the chamber. If nothing else, she told herself, fired with new determination, maybe she could pile them high enough so she could reach the door that way.

She’d scraped a good bit of skin off her hands before she remembered the gloves she had stashed in her bag, and once she had them on, it wasn’t long before her efforts hit paydirt. Along one wall she found a crude wooden ladder, where it had obviously fallen and remained undisturbed for years.

But again, her joy at the discovery was short-lived. The uprights, made of sturdy saplings, seemed strong enough, but several of the rungs had rotted away completely, and the ones that were left seemed unlikely to support her weight.

Furious, refusing to accept defeat now that victory was so close, Lucia snatched up her sewing bag and dumped the contents onto the dirt floor of the chamber. She had scissors. Underwear. Socks. A sweater. Enough material there, surely, to tie the rungs to the ladder. Scissors to cut the fabric into strips, and then to notch the wood.

Having made her decision, she wasted no time on second thoughts. Working quickly, she cut her bra, underpants, socks and-although it made her whimper to do it-her favorite pullover sweater into strips, then used the scissors to chip away groves in the rungs and uprights. She used only the soundest of the remaining rungs, spacing them far enough apart that they would enable her-she hoped and prayed-to climb high enough to open the trapdoor and pull herself through it.

She pulled the last knot tight, then quickly stuffed everything back into the now-lighter sewing bag and once again looped it over her shoulder. With scissors in hand and the flashlight in her waistband, she propped the makeshift ladder against the trapdoor’s thick wooden frame set into the ceiling and, trying not to think about the reliability of her untested and unskilled handiwork, hauled herself cautiously, step by step, up the ladder.

At the top, as she’d feared, she found the trapdoor stuck tightly shut. But, after some diligent chipping and digging with the scissors, she felt it begin to give.

And so did the ladder.

She gave a squawk of panic and one final desperate shove with the points of the scissors. The trapdoor toppled over, away from the opening. She managed to grab hold of the frame with both hands and hoist herself over the edge, just as the ladder gave way under her feet and fell into the chamber below.

Half sobbing, half laughing, Lucia hauled herself onto the floor of the cistern Corbett had shown her just…How long had it been? Two days ago? Three? She’d lost track. And of the hours, as well. She understood, now, why she hadn’t been able to see daylight through the crack in the trapdoor. She hadn’t seen it, because there wasn’t any. Days were short this close to winter solstice. While she had been working her way up the chimney shaft, night had fallen.

She rolled onto her back and lay still for a few minutes, resting. Looking up at the stars. More stars than she’d ever seen, except maybe for those long-ago camping trips in the High Sierras. She thought she’d never seen stars so beautiful, and she thought of Corbett, and the skylight above his bed, and his words:

“Having come much too near to losing the privilege forever, I do like to be able to see the stars.”

Now, she understood.

In the quiet suburban neighborhood that surrounded the hospital complex, a taxicab rolled slowly and almost silently through wet streets that reflected the displays of Christmas lights in a cheery kaleidoscope of reds and greens. Few other cars were out and about, and those splashed briskly past on their holiday errands, paying no attention to the cruising cab.

On its third pass down a deserted side street a block or so from the well-lit hospital parking areas, Corbett leaned forward to speak to the taxi driver.

“Mon ami, je vous quitte ici. Merci, et pardon pour le dérangement.”

The driver, who had been well paid already, protested volubly that it had been no trouble, and he would be more than happy to drop the gentleman someplace more hospitable. Corbett clapped him on the shoulder and pressed another wad of euros into his waiting hand. The driver gave an elaborate shrug and pulled to the curbside. Corbett opened the street-side door and stepped out into the steady drizzle. The driver muttered, “Bonne chance, monsieur,” and drove away.

When the taxi’s taillights had winked out around the far corner, Corbett turned up the collar of his coat, put his hands in the pockets, hunched his shoulders and began to walk toward the car that was parked on the street a short distance away. It was an unremarkable car, dark in color, small, German-made, though not recently. Droplets of rain shimmered on the hood and on all the windows, making it impossible to see who was inside.

As Corbett approached the driver’s side of the car, deep in his right coat pocket, his fingers flexed and tightened around the butt of a Walther P38.

He drew level with the window and it slid silently down. From the darkness inside came a voice with a familiar Australian accent.

“About time you showed up,” Adam Sinclair said. “I was beginning to lose faith in you, mate.”

Lucia stood in the ruins of the medieval castle, looking down on the rooftops of the village below. It couldn’t be too late, she decided, since the streets and many of the houses were still showing lights.

That was the good news.

The bad news was, her plan to go knocking on doors until she found someone with a telephone she could borrow was probably not the best idea. By this time, Kati and Josef would have spread the word that she was missing. In a town so small, it was a sure bet everyone would have received the news by now.

Still, what other choice did she have? The night was clear and growing colder. She’d freeze to death if she didn’t get down off this mountaintop and into someplace warm, and soon.

After studying the straight, snowy drop straight down to the village, she turned reluctantly to the winding path-the longer, but infinitely safer way down the hill. And vowed, as soon as possible after all this was over, to ask Corbett-assuming he was still speaking to her-to teach her to ski.

“Had no choice, Laz. We were being hacked. I had to shut down in a hurry.” Adam stared straight ahead at the spangled windshield. His profile was grim.

“How far did they get?” Corbett asked in a flat voice.

“Far enough. I terminated all the ops we still had running, called in our agents and told ’em to go underground until they hear from you.” In the dim light of the streetlamps, Adam’s grin flashed at him briefly. “’Course, they didn’t do any such thing. They’re all here, cocked and ready, just say the word. Didn’t have time to get word to you and Lucia, but I had an idea you’d be showing up here once you found out the whole system’d gone dark. I’ve been parked here since yesterday-well, in the neighborhood, anyway. Just in case.”

Corbett allowed himself a wry smile. “How did you know I’d find you?”

“Truth is, I didn’t. I’ve got our lads watching every way there is into that bloody hospital up there. Couldn’t risk it myself-our S.N.A.K.E. charmer knows me on sight.” He held up a cell phone. “I’m supposed to get a heads-up call if you show.”

Corbett stared narrow-eyed at the lighted medical complex just ahead. “She’s still there, then?”

“Hasn’t left the boy’s side since the shooting. She’s got a bed in his room. So they tell me.”

Corbett nodded, and after a moment felt Adam turn to look at him. “So. What’s the plan?” Once again he waved the cell phone. “We’re ready to move. Just say the word.”

He’d had plenty of time to think about it, on the flight from Salzburg and on the taxi ride into the city. He knew what he had to do. What he didn’t know was how much he dared tell Adam. How far he could trust him. He couldn’t afford to guess wrong. Doubt sat in his stomach like a rock.

“Too late to do anything now,” he said. “Prison wing will be locked down-I’m assuming that’s where they’ve got him?” Adam nodded without speaking, watching him narrowly. “So since she’s not going anywhere tonight, my immediate plan is to find a bed and a shower and something to eat. Not necessarily in that order. Got any suggestions?”

Adam grinned and reached for the ignition key. “I’m way ahead of you, mate.” Then, with the engine idling and the heater beginning to cough out chilly air, he paused and asked casually, “How’s Lucia? Not too happy about being left behind, I guess.”

“No, not happy,” Corbett said with a dark smile. “But safe.” He paused, then added, “Or…she will be, if she stays where I put her.”

Adam gave a bark of laughter. “Good luck with that,” he said as he put the car in gear.

Please, God, Corbett prayed bleakly, let her stay where I put her. Please, let her obey me this once. If she just does it this one time, I’ll never ask her to do such a thing again, I swear. Assuming we have more of that-time.

Lucia wasn’t quite sure whether to be glad or sorry to find no one abroad in the village’s main street. At least she didn’t have to worry about meeting anyone. But, if anyone should happen to pass by or glance out a window, she was bound to look a little odd. Hard to pass for one of the village lasses with her dark skin and wild Gypsy curls, particularly out and about alone on a cold December evening wearing dirty ski pants, boots, gloves and cap, but no jacket.

Then there was the problem of how she was going to find a telephone. Knocking on the door of someone’s home seemed out of the question. But a gasthaus, perhaps…or a pub? She could explain that she’d had car trouble…a flat, maybe. Or run her car into a ditch. But, assuming someone didn’t immediately phone Kati and Josef, or the local authorities, what then? Even if she could find a phone, who would she call? What transportation service would likely be available in such an out-of-the-way place at this time of night?

Not for the first time, she wondered if she would finally have to give up, go creeping shamefaced back to the cottage and beg forgiveness of the kind and caring people Corbett had charged with keeping her here.

And you, Corbett, my love. Where are you now? Fighting your battle…alone?

He’d gone back to Paris knowing only that someone he trusted had betrayed him. What if he went to the wrong person for help? What if he decided to trust no one and tried to tackle his enemies alone?

I can’t quit now. I have to get to him. I can’t let him do this alone!

And once more, just when despair seemed imminent, she lifted her eyes…and beheld salvation.

This time salvation came in the form of a panel truck, parked outside what appeared to be a bistro. Although the driver was nowhere to be seen, the truck’s motor was running, feathery plumes of vapor waving from the exhaust pipe in a way that seemed almost friendly…hospitable, like the smoke from a cottage chimney in an otherwise deserted landscape. But what truly made it seem like a miracle to Lucia’s tired eyes, a chariot straight from heaven, was what was painted on the side. In familiar red-and-white script were two words understood in any language:

Coca-Cola.

Without stopping to dwell on the unbelievably good luck, or question whether she should, she tried the truck’s back door. She wasn’t even surprised to find it unlocked. She crawled inside, closed the door securely behind her, and finding just enough room between the boxes of bottles and cans of syrup, lay down on the floor of the truck with the sewing bag under her head for a pillow.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep. However, the next thing she knew she was being jolted awake by the clang of the truck’s metal doors. Stiff, sore and completely disoriented, she lifted her head and blinked owlishly at the gray daylight, while a strange male voice shouted exclamations and questions at her in Hungarian.

Thanks to his numerous trips to America to visit his brother in Cincinnati-as he later explained to her-the truck driver’s command of English was reasonably good. Thus, she was able to, firstly, convince him not to immediately summon the police, and secondly, discover that, yes, she was now on the outskirts of Budapest. Even better, not far from the airport.

So it was, that barely an hour after sunrise, thanks to a kind and America-friendly Coca-Cola delivery-truck driver and most of her small supply of euros, Lucia was walking into the main terminal at the Budapest airport. An hour or so after that, thanks to her Visa card, she was about to board the first flight of the day to Paris, dressed in a new pair of jeans, leather boots and a very cool-looking black leather jacket. And, just in case there was an international APB out on her, a yellow beret and dark glasses-also very cool.

She still had her sewing bag, although the inspectors at the security checkpoint had confiscated her scissors.

By midmorning Corbett Lazlo, wearing the coveralls and cloth cap of a member of the hospital’s janitorial staff and pushing a mop, was making his way slowly along the corridor just outside the maximum-security wing.

It was a quiet time in the wards and corridors, relatively speaking. The doctors had made their rounds, medications had been dispensed, breakfast trays served and cleared away. It was too early for lunch and visitors were limited to members of a patient’s immediate family. Most of the traffic Corbett encountered now consisted of patients, scheduled for various tests, procedures and therapies, being trundled off to labs and operating rooms.

It was not by chance that Corbett was in that particular place at that particular time.

Earlier that morning, by means of a focused flirtation with one of the nurses just going off her shift, and some promises he didn’t intend to keep, he’d learned that there’d been quite a bit of interest, not to mention gossip, about the very good-looking young man in the jail wing, recovering from a gunshot wound and injury to the spine. It was said he’d attempted to assassinate someone famous. Speculation as to who that famous person might be ranged from Michael Jackson to the French president’s mistress. Of much greater interest to Corbett, however, was the information that this young man was scheduled to receive his first physical-therapy session this morning at ten o’clock.

He was still some distance from the double sets of reinforced doors leading to the prison wing when a loud buzzer sounded. He paused to watch, leaning on his mop and wiping his face with a large handkerchief, while first one, then the other set of doors swung open to allow passage of a hospital bed carrying a sullen-looking young man encased in a full-body brace. The bed was pushed along by a very large French West-African orderly and accompanied by an armed uniformed police guard. Walking beside the bed, one hand placed solicitously on the young man’s shoulder, was a tall, slender woman with red-gold hair. None of these paid the slightest attention to the janitor as they passed.

Corbett waited until the caravan had turned the corner at the end of the hallway, then leaned the mop carefully against the wall, tucked the handkerchief into his back pocket and sauntered after the group.

During his early morning reconnaissance he’d noted and marked the presence of several suspiciously bulky individuals in and around the hospital he felt fairly certain were Cassandra DuMont’s thugs. He spotted two more now. He’d also identified three of his own agents manning their posts at strategic locations around the prison wing, but had not made himself known to them. He did not do so now, either, primarily because he didn’t feel like explaining why he was operating without his usual backup, any more than he wanted to explain to Adam why he was choosing to take on Cassandra and her crew alone.

Adam would figure it out, of course, once he realized the stakeout Corbett had assigned him was a red herring. By the time he did, Corbett sincerely hoped he would have everything figured out, as well.

Lucia was stuck in traffic. A pile-up on the rain-slick freeway during morning rush hour had been cleared, but by the time traffic was moving again it was already midmorning. She was also hungry. She’d considered whether to take time to eat something before leaving the airport, but a persistent sense of urgency, not to mention a shortage of euros, had convinced her to head for the car-rental counter instead. The coffee and biscuits she’d eaten on the plane were now a distant memory.

The map and directions to the French hospital supplied to her by the rental-car agency proved accurate, and once clear of the traffic slowdown she made good time. It was a few minutes past ten when she pulled into the hospital’s visitor parking area, only to find it full. With no time to waste driving around in circles, hoping to catch someone pulling out, she exited the lot with an angry screech of tires and, luckily, found a place to park on one of the side streets. Of course, the rear end of her rental car was partly blocking someone’s driveway, but, she told herself, that couldn’t be helped.

With the help of the car’s rearview mirror, she put on her new beret, tucked all her hair up inside and adjusted it to a jaunty angle. Then she put on her new sunglasses-notably unnecessary in the December overcast-and got out of the car, locked it and pocketed the key. She left the sewing bag behind, having first removed from it a blunt knitting needle, which she’d inserted into the lining of her jacket just inside the right sleeve.

She made her way briskly along the wet sidewalk toward the hospital’s main entrance, sparing only the briefest glance and a quick thank-you wave to the driver of the old black BMW who had stopped to let her cross the street.

At the wheel of the BMW, Adam Sinclair lifted one finger in acknowledgment of the wave, then turned his head to watch the woman jog up the hospital steps. He did this purely as a reflex, a natural male response to a tall, shapely woman with a confident and sexy walk.

An instant later the same car was screeching around a corner and into the hospital’s emergency loading zone. Swearing as only an Aussie can, Adam opened the car door and bolted for the sliding doors before the engine had stopped running.

In the physical-therapy waiting area, Cassandra DuMont sat leafing through a magazine with impatient, jerky movements. No one else was around, the orderly and police guard having disappeared down the hallway and into one of the rooms in the large therapy complex with their patient and prisoner. And the woman didn’t bother to give the man in the janitor’s coveralls and cap a second glance-until he sat down in one of the chairs across from her.

She looked up, then, with hot, angry eyes poised, Corbett was sure, to demand the reason for such an intrusion.

And she froze.

“Hello, Cass,” he said quietly. He put out a hand when she started to rise, casting quick, furious looks around, searching for someone-one of her watchdogs, no doubt. “Don’t bother to call for help. I came alone. It’s just you and me. I only want to talk.”

She sank slowly back into the chair but didn’t relax. “We have nothing to talk about, Corbett Lazlo.” Her voice was cold, her eyes hard. “Nothing at all.”

“We have a son.”

Sparks flared in her eyes, and he saw for a moment the fiery young girl he’d known. “I have a son. He is no part of you and you are no part of him. And never will be.”

He only shrugged and asked softly, “How is he?”

“He will live-a cripple.” Cassandra’s voice was a bitter snarl. “You did this to him. Are you happy now?”

Corbett shook his head. “You kept his identity from me and from the world. You trained him to be a killer, then turned him loose on his own father. You bear the responsibility for what’s happened to him, Cass. You, and no one else.”

“You betrayed me!” She surged out of the chair, still gripping its arms as if to stop herself from lunging at his throat. “You made me betray my own father-my brother, my own family.”

“Yes, and now I know what it feels like,” Corbett said, watching her with narrowed eyes, every nerve in his body on alert. He forced a smile. “You’ve won, Cass. You’ve destroyed the agency I built, killed a number of my friends and sent the rest into hiding. And turned someone I trusted against me. So you’ve done everything you said you’d do, haven’t you? You’ve won. That’s what I came to tell you. And to make you a deal.”

She straightened to her full height and looked down at him with cold disdain. “What deal could you possibly offer that would interest me? As you say-I have won. You have nothing to deal with. Nothing.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, aren’t you? There’s still the boy. My son.” She tensed, and so did he. He saw murder come back into her eyes. “That’s right, Cass. He’s my son, and I want him. I mean to do everything in my power to save him from you. And I’ll keep up the fight as long as it takes. Until you, me or both of us are dead. Unless…”

“Unless?” Her voice was as hushed and deadly as a snake’s hiss.

Corbett rose to his feet. As tall as she was, he still looked down at her. “I will give up any attempt to win back my son in exchange for two things from you. First, I want your word that you will call off your dogs-leave Lucia Cordez alone.”

“Lucia? Oh, yes…” She smiled unpleasantly. “The little computer whiz you are so fond of. The one who shot my son.” The smile vanished. “You ask a lot. What is the second thing-perhaps…the moon?”

“No.” Now it was he who smiled. He hoped it wasn’t a nice smile. “Nothing so romantic. All I want is to know who my betrayer is. Who has been feeding you the inside information that has made it possible for you to destroy the Lazlo Group? I want to hear you say the name.”

“You want to know that?” Just for a second he saw her gaze flick past him, and her eyes brighten with a terrible gleam of triumph. Then she threw back her head and laughed. His heart hammered in his chest. “You would like to know who betrayed you, Cor-bey? That I will tell you-with the greatest pleasure. It was her, of course-” She flung out an arm and pointed, with all the dramatic flare of an opera diva. “-the computer genius herself…”

Corbett heard a sharp gasp behind him and spun toward the sound, so that he barely heard the name he’d asked for.

“…Lucia Cordez.”

Lucia barely heard the words, either. All she saw was Corbett’s face. Corbett’s eyes. The fierce blue light of his eyes, and the color draining out of his face.

“Lucia?” It was a question, whispered in disbelief.

She felt frozen, incapable of movement, unable even to shake her head or utter words of reassurance and denial, or even his name. All she could do was lock her eyes with his.

He moved toward her, then, but Cassandra was faster. She sprang, lithe as a panther, and managed to thrust her body between Corbett and Lucia, grab Lucia’s arm and turn them both so that she held Lucia in front of her with the arm twisted painfully behind her back.

“Don’t struggle,” she hissed in Lucia’s ear, “or I will kill him where he stands.” She reached her free arm around Lucia’s side just far enough so that she could see the tiny but lethal gun she held half-concealed in her palm. “And you, Cor-bey,” she said, “make one move and I kill her instead. Right in front of your eyes, the way you killed my brother. Of course, I plan to kill her anyway-what did you expect, that I would take your deal? Go ahead-try to take your son from me. He hates you now, as much as I do. That is all I care about-that you will never have him. Never!”

The guttural shout seemed to hover suspended over the silent trio…until the silence was broken by a word, spoken in a weak voice made harsh by shock and pain.

“Maman?” All eyes jerked to the occupant of the wheelchair rolling soundlessly toward them down the corridor. “Is this true? This man-est-il mon père?”

Cassandra gave a gasp that sounded almost like a sob and brought the barrel of the gun up, leveled it, aimed it straight at Corbett. The gunshot that followed blended with a scream of rage and pain, as Lucia stabbed a sewing needle deep into Cassandra’s thigh.

Cassandra’s wild shot and shouted threats brought the police guard at a dead run with gun drawn. He and Corbett both froze, however, when Cassandra turned the gun and pressed the barrel against Lucia’s neck.

Lucia then heard the clatter of running footsteps, but any hopes she might have had of imminent rescue died a moment later when at least half a dozen of Cassandra’s armed bodyguards came thundering onto the scene. She could only cling to Corbett’s anguished eyes as the uniformed policeman hastily dropped his weapon, and the muscular orderly stepped in front of the wheelchair to shield its vulnerable occupant from flying bullets.

Cassandra’s cackle of triumphant laughter had barely faded from Lucia’s ears when she heard a loud metallic click very close by. And then a cheerful voice with an unmistakable Australian twang.

“Right-O, Cassandra, m’darlin’, that is, indeed, a pistol barrel you feel snuggling up against your pretty head. Now then, I want you to tell all your naughty boys to throw down their toys-there’s a good girl.”

From what seemed like every corner and nook, every door and corridor in the hospital, came a silent and deadly army, every one of them dressed in black and sporting, on caps, sleeves or jackets, green intertwined pentagrams, the logo of the Lazlo Group.

And then, for the part of the world Lucia occupied, at least, time seemed to stop. All around her was motion, noise, confusion, but where she was…all was silent. Even her heart, her breath was still. She existed in that frozen state like a princess in a fairy tale, cast under a witch’s spell, until the voice, the right voice…and the touch, the right touch, restored her to life again.

“Lucia-my God-”

“Corbett…” Dazed, she put out a hand. Felt stiff fabric, and beneath it the rigid thickness of body armor.

“Lu-are you-God, I thought-I hoped…”

She felt his cheek, bristly with beard, against hers. Heard the tremor in his voice. Her heart began to beat again, hard against the body armor. “Corbett, I’m sorry. I had to come. I found the mole. I’m so sorry. It’s-”

“Edward. Yes, I know.” His voice was guttural, thick with the grief he couldn’t show-not here, not now. Not with his men all around him and an image to uphold.

Lucia, being a woman and therefore not so stupidly constrained, drew a sharp, shuddering breath, buried her face in the warm curve of Corbett’s neck and let her tears fall where they pleased.

In the parking lot across the street from the hospital’s main entrance, Adam Sinclair leaned against the fender of his BMW and contemplated his future. Time for a change, he thought, watching the couple just now emerging from the revolving doors and making their way down the steps, arms around each other’s waists, as if they couldn’t bear to be separate from each other even for a moment.

What the hell-he hadn’t been home in a while. Maybe he’d see what sort of excitement Oz had to offer these days.

First, though, there was one last job he had to do-for the Group-and for his oldest and best friend.

He straightened and waved to the couple, who checked then crossed the street to join him, almost running together in perfect step.

“You have him, then?” Corbett asked quietly, not a muscle in his face betraying the emotions Adam knew must be tearing his guts out. Only the diamond hardness of his eyes…

“On ice, back at the shop.” Adam tilted his head toward Lucia as he climbed into the driver’s seat, but didn’t look directly at her. Didn’t have to, did he, to know her cheeks were flushed and her eyes gone misty with love. “You want me to get someone to run her home?”

“She comes with me.” The simple statement rode over Lucia’s sharp intake of breath and told Adam everything he needed to know-if he hadn’t already figured it out.

He nodded and turned the ignition key. Corbett and Lucia climbed into the backseat of his car.

At the Lazlo Group’s security entrance in the basement parking garage, Corbett took Lucia gently by her arms and looked into her eyes. “Wait for me in the apartment, love. I won’t be long. Promise.”

“Promise,” she whispered.

He kissed her-a much-too-sweet, much-too-brief moment. Then watched her step backward into the elevator. Watched the door whisk silently closed on her somber face and shimmering eyes. Together and in silence, he and Adam waited for the elevator’s return. When the door slid open, he placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“I think…I have to do this alone,” he said in a voice rough with all he couldn’t say.

Adam nodded and stepped back. “Gotcha, mate.” He held out his hand, grinning crookedly. “I guess it’s g’day, then.”

Corbett took his hand in a brief, hard grip. Unable to speak, he only nodded, released it and stepped onto the elevator. The door closed, leaving him with a lingering vision of his old friend’s face and a sharp sense of loss.

Corbett stepped silently into the steel-walled soundproof room deep in the bowels of the Lazlo Group’s basement keep and closed the door behind him. Hope flashed briefly across the face of the only other person in the room, before a shield of desperate bravado replaced it.

“Corb! What the devil is this all about? I demand-”

“Save it, Edward. I know,” Corbett replied quietly. He was gratified to discover he felt nothing. Numbness…contempt, perhaps. But that was all. He watched dispassionately as his brother’s normally florid face turned pasty, then seemed to collapse in on itself.

“Corb, I swear, I never-”

“I said, save it. I only want to hear enough of your voice to answer me one question. Why’d you do it? Why betray the Group? Why betray me?”

“It was that bloody sod, Viktor-he was blackmailing me, Corb. I swear, I had no choice.” Edward came toward him, babbling, hands outstretched, entreating. Corbett folded his arms on his chest, barricading himself and his emotions against the onslaught. “I’d got myself in a spot of trouble-my gambling. Look, I’ll get help, I swear, I will, if you’ll just-”

“People have died, Edward. Good people. People I cared about.”

His brother’s face spasmed with pain. He drew a shaking hand over his eyes…shook his head. “I never meant to hurt anyone-you must believe that. Least of all you. I thought Viktor only wanted the information to steer clear of our agents…SIS, you know? How was I supposed to know he’d turn around and peddle the stuff to Cassandra DuMont? Viktor promised you’d never be hurt. Devil take him-I trusted him, Corb. He was family.”

“Family?” It took all the self-control Corbett had to keep his voice quiet. Steady. Rigid as steel. “I’m your family, Eddie. You could have come to me.”

“Come to you?” Edward halted, his face contorted with anger, eyes filled with tears of resentment, pain. “Mister High-and-Mighty? Mister Perfect?” He made a fist and pounded himself in the chest with it. “I’m your big brother! When we were kids, you looked up to me. When you were in trouble, you came to me. I was the golden boy, not you. And look at you now. You’ve never set a foot wrong-even that dustup with SIS wasn’t your doing. That was the last time I felt like you needed me, wasn’t it? You think I don’t know you gave me a job out of pity? Come to you for help? For God’s sake, leave me some pride!”

“Pride-is that what you call it?” There was no contempt in it, only sadness for all that had been lost. Wasted. Corbett turned, unable to bear looking at his brother’s face a moment longer.

“What are you going to do? What’s to become of me now?”

Corbett shrugged and said without turning, “As someone once said, frankly, I don’t give a damn. You’re through with the Lazlo Group, of course. And with me. We’ll carry on as usual through Josh and Pru’s wedding-I won’t spoil that for them, or for Mum and Dad. After that…well, I’ll call in a few markers, I suppose, see if I can arrange some kind of deal that might keep you out of jail. If you’re willing to tell everything you know about Cass and her operation-and testify against her at trial, of course. After that, I don’t want to see your face. Ever. Do I make myself clear?”

He waited for the whispered, “Yes,” opened the door, then paused. “Oh-and Eddie, you won’t make the mistake of trying to run off, will you? Because if you do, I will find you. And all bets are off.” He went out, leaving his brother standing there. Alone.

Alone.

He stood in the empty corridor…Corbett Lazlo, legendary head of the most respected private-security agency in the world. Powerful…invincible…unknowable. The man in the shadows. Alone.

Except-it came to him then: He didn’t have to be alone anymore. And, more important, didn’t want to be. He needed…yes, needed…warmth, comfort, support. Love. He needed with every fiber of his being, every breath in his body. His need overwhelmed him. And his need had a name. Lucia.

Lucia. It was true, he didn’t just love her, want her. He needed her. Needed her with him, supporting him, comforting him, amazing and confounding and exasperating him. Laughing and weeping with him. Making babies with him. Growing old with him.

Halfway down that empty gleaming corridor, Corbett Lazlo began to run.