The sky was a flat black, the air dense with the promise
of snow. Distant laughter sliced through the cold; on its
heels came a spattering of cheers and clinking crystal.
Cain MacAlister tossed off a double shot of hundred-year-
old Scotch, embracing the bite on his tongue, the burn
when it hit his gut.
He didn't believe in happily ever after.
Hell, he didn't believe in happily ever anything. Cain
settled into the terrace shadows, enjoying the darkness
that stretched around him. He poured himself another
drink — three fingers high this time — from the bottle
he'd grabbed from the bar.
His mother had certainly outdone herself with the
reception. Politicians, celebrities and the world's
wealthiest packed the ballroom in honor of his sister
Kate's wedding. He'd even noted a royal or two. None,
however, outshone the newlyweds he'd left twirling around
the dance floor, laughing and hugging, oblivious to those
watching.
Mr. and Mrs. Roman D'Amato.
The wind — driven upward from the Manhattan streets —
snatched at Cain's shirt collar, its icy fingers flexing
in the night air.
Unhurried, Cain leaned back against the wall, welcoming
the chill from the cement when it penetrated the thin
layer of his tuxedo. As the days approached the end of
March, the weather tended to hang on to the colder
temperatures of the Atlantic. But the bitter cold, the
razor-sharp cuts of the wind, simply assured his solitude.
He set the liquor bottle onto a nearby ledge just as a
muffled thwump hit the air. Careful, a warning whispered —
its hum vibrating through his Celtic blood. Cain
straightened, his stance predatory.
A clump of snow falling?
Maybe.
His hand slid over the Glock nestled in his shoulder
holster, only to stop mid motion, the polymer cool beneath
his fingertips. Hearing nothing, he shifted forward until
he detected the faint scent of cigar smoke. Heavily
spiced, unmistakably Cuban.
With a grunt, Cain let his hand drop from the
pistol. "Joining me for a celebratory drink, Jon?"
"No." Jonathon Mercer, the director of Labyrinth — an
elite branch of the CIA — stepped from the darkness into
the fringe light of the ballroom's French doors. In spite
of his sixty-odd years, Jon was a strong, broad-shouldered
man with a shock of white hair and features so sharp, he
looked as if he'd been hewn from granite.
With a jab of his cigar, he pointed toward Cain's
glass. "Isn't that a bit much, even for you?"
"Not tonight." Cain had been weaned on Scotch.
Both men knew it would take more than a few shots to put
him under the table.
"It won't bring Diana Taylor back," the old man bit out,
his tone surly enough to spark an argument.
Cain brought the tumbler to his lips. "You're right." In
one gulp, he drained the glass, using the alcohol to blur
the memories of long hair the color of polished mahogany,
the laser-blue eyes that were quick to flash with
intelligence and, when spurred, passion.
"Damn it, Cain. It's been three years. Diana's murder was
unavoidable. No one could've anticipated that car bomb."
"Let it go, Jon." Diana had been petite, delicate in
nature as well as build. She'd deserved a better...what?
Cain caught himself. Death? Life? A better fiancé? An ache
pulled somewhere under his heart, but this time he didn't
pour another drink. Tonight, even the bite of whiskey
couldn't fill the emptiness.
"Not until you let her go." When Cain didn't answer,
Mercer tried again. "Look, I might have been only her
boss, but I cared for her, too," he said, his tone edged
with irritation over the admission. "Not only was she the
best damned profiler we had, but she was a hell of a
woman."
"Your point?"
"Labyrinth is Black Ops. You've worked for me long enough
to know the game. Hell, in the last ten years, you rewrote
the damn play book." Mercer took a short puff on his
cigar. After a moment, he glanced over the balcony to the
hazy glow of the city street seventy floors below. "She
understood the risks of the job, Prometheus," he murmured,
his voice rough, sandpaper against sandpaper. "We all do."
"Do we?" Cain ignored the use of his code name and set his
glass on the ledge by the bottle. Living with the grief
had become easy, but the emptiness? He'd found that words,
no matter how sympathetic, couldn't fill the void that
entombed him.
"What if she had lived? What then?"
"We'll never know will we?" But Cain knew. "And what about
Diana's grandmother? Did she deserve to die with Diana?"
"There are always casualties."
"And if it had been Lara, Jon? What if it had been your
daughter burning to death?"
Mercer's blue eyes became twin shards of ice, but the man
didn't answer. Cain suspected he couldn't. "Forget it."
Cain said, even though he knew they both wouldn't.
Ever. "You didn't come out here to play counselor. What do
you want?"
Mercer sighed, admitting defeat. "Peace and quiet." He
leaned his hip against the balcony railing and unbuttoned
his coat. The wind caught at the front tails, slamming
them against the cement until metal jingled. Frowning,
Mercer patted his jacket, then reached in the
pocket. "This was the closest I could come to both."
"Lucky me."
"I thought so." Mercer's hand froze. "What the hell?" He
pulled out a small, white envelope and ripped it open.
Several coins spilled into his palm. "Damn it!"
"Quarters?" Cain asked as another warning whispered from
the far recesses of his mind. In the space of one
heartbeat, Cain palmed his gun.
But he was too late. Two muffled pops hit the air, so
close together each sound almost blended into one. Mercer
jerked, then took a step back trying to recover. His
features slanted with shock.
Cain grabbed for Mercer, his fingertips snagging the older
man by his tuxedo lapels preventing him from tumbling.
"Jon." Deftly, he lowered Mercer onto the mosaic tile,
using the cement railing for cover. Cursing, Cain
unbuttoned Mercer's coat. The air between them clogged
with the metallic scent of blood. Gut-shot. Two perfectly
placed holes — an inch apart — tattooed his stomach. "Stay
with me, Jon."
For a brief second, Cain tilted his head, obtaining a
clear view of the highrises, stories of glass and steel,
flanking their hotel. The shot could've come from any one
of a hundred different places. Although unlikely, the
possibility remained that whoever had taken Mercer down
was out there, still observing.
Mercer drew a shallow breath. "The coins...a warning." The
words were barely audible, forcing Cain to place an ear by
his friend's mouth. "Find Diana."
"Diana?" Disbelief ripped through Cain, tearing his heart
wide open. He grabbed Jon, fisting the lapel this
time. "Diana's dead," he demanded in a harsh whisper.
"No." Mercer shoved the coins into Cain's hand — warm,
sticky blood now coating the metal. "Hiding."
Mercer's eyes fluttered shut. "Shadow Point. Do...it." The
coins dug into Cain's palm, his jaw tightened.
Diana alive? His mind raced, calculating the
possibilities, searching for reasons.
Finding none, the betrayal settled deep, merging with
rage, filling the void.
If Diana was alive, he'd find her.
Then after?
She'd better run like hell.
The asphalt path — wet and salt-ridden — dulled the
rhythmic slap of Celeste Pavenic's running shoes. She
tried, unsuccessfully, to concentrate on the sound and
ignore the fatigue burning behind her eyelids, leaving
them gritty and sore.
In the distance, Lake Huron bellowed. Its ice-ridden waves
hammered the rocks, agitated by the strength of the
northeasterly wind.
Feeling the same restlessness, she doubled her pace. Her
muscles screamed in protest, her lungs dragged in the
frost-bitten air, but she only pushed harder. Under her
sweatshirt, Lycra clung to her damp skin — and to her gun,
its holster snug against the small of her back.
God, she hated running.
Dodging patches of ice, Celeste veered past a rusted pipe
gate, where a No Trespassing sign banged an unsteady
rhythm in the wind.
She turned onto the lighthouse's gravel road, more snow
than pebbles, and navigated the steep incline that spilled
out to the keeper's cottage — now a small museum for the
summer tourists.
Several yards beyond, the lighthouse's lone, whitewashed
column of stone appeared stark and haggard against the
craggy rocks of the point. A few windows dotted its walls,
all framed with emerald-green shutters, vivid enough in
the dimming light to soften the harshness.
She circled around the side of the tower, stopping only
when she reached its weatherbeaten door. With one last
step, she collapsed against the pine then grace-lessly
slid to the ground.
On her knees, she sucked in long, deep jags of oxygen and
waited for the blood to cease pounding through her
temples. Overhead, the seagulls cried, their evening rant
somehow soothing now that she'd finished.
Every day, for the past three years, she'd forced herself
to run five miles. Never the same route, never the same
time, but always five miles.
And twice a month she rewarded herself with a visit inside
the lighthouse. With a slight shift of her head, she took
in her surroundings. Pleased that she was alone, she
slipped a piece of strong but flexible plastic from her
sock and shoved it into the lock. Once placed in contact
with the metal, Celeste counted to ten while it expanded,
shaped then hardened into a key.
After having lost her other key earlier in the month,
Celeste grinned over the fact that once again she had
access to the tower, access that was usually limited to
the county's historical society.