She slipped from the chair, moving into Malcolm’s shaded room like a shadow. He knew she could walk, and he’d left his door open. Of course, he must realize that someone who’d trained with the Committee could easily pick any lock, but the open door seemed almost too good to be true.
She moved quickly and carefully, going through the drawers again, this time with the benefit of sight, searching between the mattress and box spring of the king-size bed, then underneath it. He’d left nothing incriminating behind, but she hadn’t expected he would, at least not in an obvious place. If he had, she would have to assume it was planted. She knew how to search a room swiftly and efficiently, and the last thing she reached for was the suitcase in the back of the closet, hauling it out in triumph.
It was too heavy to be empty, and he’d left it unlocked this time, though when she opened it the expanse of gray fabric revealed nothing. It took her only a moment to find the fake bottom, and she sat back on her heels and stared at the cache of weapons with awe. There were a total of seven handguns of varying brands and sizes. How often would he check his stash? He’d have no reason to—if she took one, there was always the chance he wouldn’t notice. And if he did, what could he do about it?
She took the smallest, a Beretta Bobcat .22 that was a newer model than the one she’d trained with. She didn’t know if a .22 bullet would stop Archer if he were in a rage, but an elephant gun probably wouldn’t either. She was an excellent shot, or she had been, and a .22 between the eyes was just as effective as a .45 Magnum.
There were even extra bullets for the gun, though none for the larger handguns, which surprised her enough to wonder if this cache was actually a trap. It didn’t matter—she needed any kind of help she could get. He couldn’t be sure she was the one who’d taken it—by the time he discovered the gun was missing, there could be any number of people in the household who could have helped themselves to his cache of weapons. She shoved the small gun into one pocket, the extra bullets in the other, looking to see if she might find anything else useful.
The small knife could come in handy, and it would be easily hidden, but she’d didn’t like the intimacy of using a knife on someone, despite her talent for it. She opened the knife anyway. Funny—it looked like the blade was rusty, or no . . . that was more like blood. Mal was not the kind of man who wouldn’t take care of his weapons, and she stared down at the knife curiously. He must have cut someone, and since there was no current uproar, he had to have killed whoever’s blood was on that blade, and recently, before he had time to clean it. She dropped the knife back into the case, closed it, and put it back in the closet where she’d found it, controlling her instinctive shiver. He was most likely to have taken down one of the outside crew, probably when he was prowling around. If he’d killed Marco, her one chance at an ally, she was going to have to kill Malcolm.
She bounded up the two steps and slipped back into her wheelchair, pausing long enough at the edge to look down at the sea. The boat had been beached, though it looked a bit battered, and everyone was standing around talking. She saw with relief that Marco was out there. In fact, everyone she remembered on the island was out there. So who had Malcolm stabbed?
Malcolm and Archer were off to one side, talking, and Rachel was fl
ashing her magnificent tits around, Sophie thought with a curl of her lips. They seemed to be deep in conversation. About her? Or had they moved on to more interesting topics?
It didn’t matter. Before she left, she was going to kill Archer MacDonald, and she wasn’t going to let Malcolm Gunnison get in her way. She had to figure out where to shoot Archer, so he’d die slowly and painfully but be unable to come after her. She had enough time to consider her options. She took a deep breath, looking out toward the dark, angry sea and the world that lay beyond it: freedom, and a world without Archer MacDonald.
She headed back into her room. It would be a waste of time to call downstairs when everyone was out on the beach, but sooner or later someone would bring her some food, and she could get Joe to carry her back down. That, or she’d sit at the top of the stairs and yell until someone came to get her.
Until then, there was always War and Peace.
Malcolm resisted the temptation to open Sophie’s door, going straight to his own. He had no idea how she was going to manage the truth that was now uncomfortably between them, and he was looking forward to finding out. Her training, if it had come from Isobel Lambert, the Ice Queen, had to be some of the best, but she’d been under a form of solitary confinement for years. She could still fight—his bruised kidney could attest to that, and she seemed more than capable of carrying off a long-term deception, which impressed him, though he was reluctant to admit it. Would she be able to be around him and not give anything away? The only way for two people to keep a secret was if one of them was dead, and he intended to be very cautious in the following twenty-four hours until he was certain she could handle things.
His grim laugh was silent. As if he wasn’t very cautious when he was on a mission, cautious until it was time to move. Nothing had changed as far as he was concerned. If she couldn’t handle it, if she started acting suspiciously, then he’d have to take her out, and that would probably precipitate everything else. He didn’t have a clear sense of which was more important—killing MacDonald or destroying access to RU48, and his boss Madsen had been similarly vague. He’d do what he could do, as quickly and neatly as possible. In the meantime, he would simply have to watch.
Mal toweled off when he came out of the shower and headed to the closet. The suitcase was two inches off the imperceptible mark he’d left that morning, and he nodded in satisfaction as he dragged it out. She’d taken the Beretta and the bullets, just as he’d intended. Did she think he wouldn’t notice? She probably didn’t give a damn. Some nearly forgotten sense of fairness told him she needed at least a fighting chance in this volatile situation. That didn’t mean she could be trusted—leaving that handgun for her might backfire, and she was probably already considering taking him out as well.
Serves me right, he thought, shoving the suitcase back. Leaving a gun for her had been quixotic at best, more likely bone-stupid, and if he ended up with one of those tiny bullets in his brain, he could at least be sure she’d finish Archer as well. Mission accomplished, and he really didn’t give a shit about anything else. He was burned out and everyone knew it, but there’d been no one else to send, no one with the right qualifications.
There was, of course, always the remote possibility that someone else might stop him as well. He was going to have to make sure she knew everything, and he hated that. He didn’t like working with partners, and when he did, it was at least someone he’d known for years and could trust.
He wouldn’t trust Sophie farther than he could throw her, and she was a more solidly muscled handful than she had seemed. He had to consider that her entire wheelchair act might be a conceit of Archer’s—they could both be playing him. She certainly made it convincing, though, when she looked up at Archer with melting adoration.
He needed to remember that, in case she ever turned those pansy-brown eyes up to his with similar passion, unlikely though the thought seemed. She’d betrayed the Committee; she seemed ready to betray Archer. She’d probably do anything to stay alive, including selling him out at the first chance she got.
He was going to have to be very, very careful.
Chapter Twelve
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Archer MacDonald said to Mal with one of his affable grins. “It’s a cloudy day, but the weather never stays bad for long, and you look to me like a man who needs a vacation.”
Mal stretched back in the wicker chair in Archer’s office, letting the glass of iced tea warm in his hands. He made it a habit to avoid drinking things that were handed to him whenever he could get away with it, and Archer wasn’t paying attention, clearly focused on other matters entirely. Mal waited patiently for Archer to come to the point.
“I don’t need vacations,” he said in the bored voice he used for this incarnation of Malcolm Gunnison.
Archer looked shocked. “Everyone needs vacations! You aren’t a machine.”
“I try,” he said, as low affect as he could manage. “I will admit it’s been very pleasant here, whether I needed it or not.”
Archer’s grin widened, and Mal gazed limpidly at his long, aristocratic teeth. Had the upper classes once been crossbred with their horses he thought absently. Almost everyone of the so-called upper crust seemed to have large, slightly protruding teeth. “I knew you liked it!” Archer crowed. “If I really thought you weren’t having a good time, I would have had to do something about it.”
“Like what?”
Archer shrugged. “Have you killed,” he said affably.
“I doubt that would improve my enjoyment of Isla Mordita.”