HEART OF MIDNIGHT Read online

  A ripple of black humour surfaced. For Harper, he was willing to go for a little drama.

  For Harper, he would be one with the jungle.

  Chapter 16

  Nightfall came quickly in the bush, heralded by the swiftly fading light beneath the dark shroud of the forest canopy, the abrupt cessation of birdsong, and the mournful boot of moreporks readying for the hunt.

  Despite the subtropical lushness of the forest, there were no snakes, no large natural predators aside from wild pigs to worry about. The danger lay in the terrain: steep, bony hills covered with a slippery layer of decomposing vegetation, streams and waterfalls lined with algae-slick boulders, sudden drop-offs and massive granite cliffs.

  Gray kept a steady pace, his ears attuned to Sam and Harper, who were directly behind him as they climbed ever upward. With every step he had to use his shoulders to push aside tree branches and fern fronds. His face was repeatedly stung by whipping branches, and sweat channelled into the myriad small scratches, making them sting.

  They came out on an old abandoned logging skid, a raw flattened area gradually being reclaimed by a forest that was now apparently protected from all logging. A break in the massively tall stand of ancient kauri gave a sweeping view of the dark valley they'd spent the last few hours traversing. There was a glimpse of a road slashed out of the wilderness, and higher still the regular lines of a building – a cabin, perhaps – straddling the curve of a broad spur.

  Harper pointed at the distant hut. "That's where we're going." He waved his gun at the centre of the skid. "But this is where we stop for now. Lombard. Over there!"

  Gray walked to the centre of the skid, his gaze coldly assessing as he studied Harper, fear and rage eating at his restraint like acid searing through metal.

  The gun jerked in Harper's hand, as if he had actually considered pulling the trigger, then hauled himself back from the brink. "Sit down," he snarled.

  Gray sank down, not shifting his gaze from Harper. If he did, he would look at Sam, and that would probably break his heart. Worse, he would do something stupid and get them both killed.

  Harper sank onto a tree stump on the perimeter of the skid and eased off his pack. He didn't look good. He was limping and sweating profusely, and his skin was greyish, his eyes fever-bright.

  Gray gave in to the compulsion and allowed his gaze to settle on Sam. She was hollow-eyed, weaving with exhaustion, but she hadn't collapsed – she was watching Harper, her hands clenched into fists, and Gray tensed.

  "Sam," he warned in a voice so rough it sounded like gravel breaking.

  Sam flinched, startled by the sound of Gray's voice when she had been so concentrated on Harper. Her eyes fastened on Gray. She had been watching his back for hours – watching his muscles bunch with exertion, his clothes plaster to his skin with sweat, the trickle of blood from the cut on his head. With every step she had taken, at times pushed along by the sharp nudge of that gun on her spine, rage had built inside her. Harper had hurt Gray.

  But even hurt and bound, vitality had radiated from him, flowed in the sleek shift of those muscles, the relentless rhythm of the pace he'd set.

  And Harper wanted to kill him.

  Somehow she couldn't be frightened by her own death, but Gray's… Anguish and fury pumped renewed vigour into her tired muscles. Her hands balled into even tighter fists. Harper would have to go through her first.

  "Sit down, Sam," Gray warned softly.

  Sam was caught and held by the low, even timbre of his voice, the staggering force of his will even across the desolate width of the clearing. His reassurance was a tangible thing, as real as if he'd reached out and touched her. Slowly her hands relaxed. Wearily she reached up and wiped sweat-dampened tendrils of hair from her face. There was something else in Gray's gaze, something that made her heart leap with wild hope.

  Harper tossed an empty water container at her feet, rudely breaking the spell. "She doesn't have time to sit down." He jerked his head in the direction of the small stream that rippled between steep, fern-covered banks. "Fill that with water, then you can start a fire. And don't try anything stupid," he warned gently. "If you do, I'll shoot Lombard, then I'll shoot you."

  Sam stared into Harper's burning gaze as she retrieved the plastic container from the sparsely grassed, hard-packed clay pan of the clearing. If he wanted a fire, that meant they would be spending the night here. Relief flowed through her, as cool as the water she could glimpse drifting over the shallow, broken stream bed below.

  The hut they were heading for lay high up in the hills, too far to reach before nightfall, which meant they had the hours of darkness to catch him off guard. Anticipation made her heart pound. An opportunity would present itself; it had to. She would bide her time until it did.

  The first stars appeared, wheeling in a sky washed from buttery gold on the horizon to the clearest, darkest, midnight-blue. The air had taken on a refreshing edge, already heavy with condensation as the temperature cooled.

  Harper motioned with the gun. Sam started down the bank, clutching the container in one hand and using her free hand to grab at the coarse ferns to hold herself steady. The brief moments of rest seemed to have destroyed her coordination. Her legs wobbled with exhaustion, and the clay bank crumbled beneath each cautious step. Her heels stung, and she noted numbly that the blisters that had formed over the last couple of hours must have lost their skin. She half scrambled, half fell the rest of the way down the bank, ending up hard on her knees in the water.

  Sucking in a shaky breath, Sam sat back on her haunches. Blood welled on one palm where she had cut herself on a sharp rock.

  A sharp rock.

  She stared at the bright well of blood, then down at the whitish, sharp-edged rock. The water was as cool as she had thought it would be, and it smelled delicious, laced with the tangy, woodsy scent of the bush. Her mouth instantly felt as dry as a desert; she longed for a drink. Harper had kept the water for himself through the long, hot afternoon, and she was dehydrated, but her need for water was instantly shoved aside in favour of another more urgent need. Survival.

  Harper bit out a harsh phrase, and she hurriedly began filling the water container. In the same movement, she plunged her bleeding hand into the water and let her fingers close around the rock. It was slightly rounded where it nestled into the stream bed, narrow and jagged on top. As she got to her feet she scooped the rock up and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans, jerking her shirt from the waistband so that it concealed the bulge. She was wet to her knees and her shirt was splashed with water; surely he wouldn't notice the wet patch spreading down from her pocket.

  Harper drank greedily when she handed over the water, then watched coldly as she gathered wood for a fire. When she had finished, he tossed her a lighter. He had several candy bars in the knapsack and proceeded to eat them while she tried to get the fire going.

  After her third attempt, a small blaze flared up. Harper pushed the water container in her direction, indicating that she could drink first, then offer what was left to Gray.

  Sam lifted the container to her lips. The water was cool and brackish and tasted like heaven. She took several swallows, careful not to drink too quickly or too much, then walked over to Gray.

  His gaze was on her, dark and coolly assessing as she approached. Sam knelt, leaning close and angling her body so she could ease the rock from her pocket without Harper seeing what she was doing.

  "You're limping," Gray said softly.

  "It's noth—"

  Harper reared to his feet and advanced a few steps, stopping just short of the fire. "No talking!"

  Sam flinched, water spilled down Gray's chest, and the rock flipped to the ground with a small thud. Breathing fast, she tilted the container to Gray's lips, at the same time nudging the rock around where he could reach it with his hands. His gaze flickered as he drank deeply and rhythmically. When she glanced down, the rock had disappeared from sight.

  Gray watched grimly as Sam returned t
o her cross-legged position several metres from him. The risk she had taken in bringing him that rock made him break out in a cold sweat. If Harper had caught her, he would have been merciless.

  Harper didn't need Sam except as a prod to get Gray to do what he wanted while they hiked to the cabin. When they reached their destination, he would have no use for her at all. His eyes slitted with barely controlled fury as Harper brought out a length of rope and tied Sam's wrists and ankles.

  Harper resumed his position. This time he sat on the ground, his back resting against the stump, his legs sprawled out in front of him.

  Gray felt the jagged edge of the rock with his almost numb fingers, and suppressed a fierce grin. Turning the crude blade against the cord that bound his wrists, he began to saw, careful not to betray by even the smallest movement of his shoulders, what he was doing.

  Dusk deepened to a crystalline blackness pierced by the subtle glitter of stars and the rich, full-bellied glow of a rising moon. Leaves shivered in a faint breeze, and a morepork drifted overhead, its call echoing eerily.

  Harper tossed a piece of wood on the fire. Sparks leaped in the air as the flames curled hungrily around the new fuel. "Do you remember," he muttered harshly, "in the warehouse? I almost killed you."

  Gray didn't reply. His shoulders ached from the sheer restraint of holding still while he continued to saw at the rope, and his swollen fingers burned with the exquisite agony of simply gripping the rock.

  Minutes passed as he concentrated on sawing. His hands were slippery with sweat and blood; he was slicing into his own flesh as often as he managed to connect with the nylon.

  The rock slipped from his fingers. Sweat beaded Gray's forehead as he began to search with fingers that were growing increasingly numb, increasingly useless.

  Harper got to his feet, his movements jerky, his breathing rapid. He strolled over to Sam.

  "Son of a bitch," Gray snarled beneath his breath as he recognised the wildness in Harper's eyes and finally understood what was happening to the man.

  Gray began working systematically through all his muscle groupings, flexing and releasing, improving the blood-flow, readying himself to spring if he had to. His window of opportunity would be small. He would have to get Harper off guard, then take him down hard and fast before he could use his gun or the knife he had concealed up his sleeve.

  In close-quarter battle terms, it would be one wild-ass move, but in his favour was the fact that Harper wasn't stable. He had a habit, and he'd been separated from his supply. Cocaine, most probably. That would account for the paranoia, the shaking hands, the hay fever-like symptoms.

  "So easy to kill," Harper muttered. "It's a wonder more people don't take it up."

  Gray's jaw locked. "Any fool can pull a trigger. Why don't you pick on someone more your size?"

  Harper swung toward him. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall," he snapped. "Do you know how long I've waited for this moment?"

  "Seven years, at a guess," Gray drawled in a deliberately goading tone, relieved that he'd succeeded in drawing Harper's attention away from Sam. His fingers found the stone, and once more he clumsily forced the jagged edge up against the rope.

  Harper advanced another step. The sudden rage drained from his face. "You've got balls, Lombard, I'll give you that."

  "And you're a gutless weasel, even with a gun."

  Gray heard Sam's swiftly indrawn breath. She was behind Harper now, and struggling to her knees, but Gray didn't dare take his eyes off Harper.

  Harper lifted the gun, sighted. "I could kill you."

  "Yeah, you could kill me, but that won't stop what's going to happen."

  Harper rubbed fiercely at his nose, the gun shaking in his hand. "What are you talking about?"

  Gray named a series of locations from Costa Rica to Ecuador and the upper reaches of the Amazon Basin, giving the precise map coordinates of every bolt-hole they'd raided, every arm of the terrorist network they had systematically destroyed.

  Harper moved another step closer, the gun now held in a two-handed grip. The full moon had lifted behind him, outlining his head and shoulders, darkening his face so that his eyes glittered. "How do you know about those places?" he demanded hoarsely.

  A section of cord gave way. Gray sucked in a breath, forcing himself to stillness while he tested his bonds. "I know about them because I was there. His voice dropped to a cool whisper, drawing Harper in closer, closer, as the other man strained to hear. "I got close to you, Harper. That day you killed that prostitute in Bogotá, I almost had you then. How old was she? As old as your mother when she was pregnant with you?"

  "What do you know about my mother?"

  Gray flexed and tensed. The cord went slack, he eased his hands free. He stayed in position, working his hands and fingers. Sam was on her knees swaying, her gaze fixed on Harper's back.

  Gray suppressed a violent curse. She had risked herself by bursting out of that church to warn him. She was going to try something similar now. But if she distracted Harper, and he spun… "I know your mother didn't want you," he answered softly. "She was young and pretty and ambitious, and she married a British peer. She had another baby two years after you, only this one had a last name. I heard your half-brother came into his title a couple of months ago."

  "That title should have been mine!"

  "Is that why you killed Jake? He stumbled across your gun running operation, uncovered your half-assed attempt at building a terrorist empire from beneath a raft of paper companies. You couldn't stand being exposed by a man so similar to your legitimate half-brother."

  For a moment Harper didn't seem to hear, then he jerked. "What?"

  "Is that why you killed Jake, you son of a bitch?"

  Harper sucked in a sharp breath and shook his head, as if disoriented. "What do you know about the prostitute?"

  "Carmita Chavez. Eighteen, no dependants. Worked for a scumbag called Tito Garcia."

  The gun jerked in Harper's hands; his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You can't know about her. Nobody knows, except…"

  "The agent who's been dogging your trail for years, getting so close that sometimes he could almost reach out and touch you. Take a real good look, Harper, because I'm that agent – your shadow. Every time you looked over your shoulder, I was there."

  "You can't be him."

  "Say the name, Egan. You know it almost as well as your own. You heard it whispered in bars and back rooms, from San Salvador to Quito."

  "Lombard," he muttered. "I killed you!"

  "In the brothel? You didn't kill me, you killed your own man." Gray's voice flattened with contempt. "Always screwing up, Egan. You screwed up again. Maybe you should look at kicking that nasty little habit you've got. How long's it been since you snorted your last line? The man who ran away from the van – Billy – he took your supply with him, didn't he? You must be hurting by now."

  "I don't need it!"

  "What are the symptoms?" Gray continued in a conversational tone. "Although you don't have to tell me. You're shaking. You can hardly hold that gun straight. And you're sweating – I can smell you from here. Your nose must be on fire. I've heard that white powder eats you from the inside out."

  "Shut up!" Harper lowered the wavering gun, centering it on Gray's chest.

  "No!" Sam surged to her feet and hurled herself at Harper's back.

  Gray sprang, a hoarse cry ripping from his throat. Harper spun, already firing. Gray crashed into him, sending him spinning. The gun discharged again and again, the popping detonations distinct in the stillness of the night.

  Gray rolled, surged to his feet and threw himself bodily over Sam, protecting her as best he could from the wild shooting. He didn't know if she had been hit. All he knew was that she was lying still beneath him. Too still.

  The silence that followed was as deafening in its own way as the shots had been. The scent of cordite lay heavy on the air, sharply acrid against the richer, softer scents of bush and river.


  Gray lifted his head, expecting to see Harper, the gun once more pointed directly at him. There was … nothing, nothing except the rustling of leaves, a distant curse, the sound of a crack – a branch breaking – something heavy sliding down a hillside.

  Harper. He had run, blundering into the bush.

  Sam moved beneath him, making an odd gasping sound. "You can … get off me … now."

  For a frozen eternity Gray couldn't move; then he clambered off Sam. The flickering embers of the fire and the bright wash of the moon were enough for him to see the dark stain all down the front of her shirt. She tried to get up. He put his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back down. "You're hurt," he said hoarsely. "Stay still."

  "Harper?" Sam drew another shuddering, gasping lungful of air.

  Gray tried to unfasten her shirt, but his fingers were still swollen and clumsy. He was sweating, shaking, panic making his fingers even more useless. There was so much blood he couldn't see where exactly it was coming from.

  She was having difficulty breathing. He shuddered under the lash of a wild fear. He had goaded Harper, reeled him in, exploiting the unexpected advantage of his shakiness, driving him to the point where he would be vulnerable enough for Gray to try for the gun. Instead, Sam had made her move, and Harper had used the gun.

  If Sam was hit in the chest, he wouldn't be able to stabilise her; he would lose her. The shoulder he could handle, the stomach, maybe, as long as nothing vital had been nicked…

  Dammit, how could Sam ask about Harper when she…