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“Goddammit!”
His face contorted. He pivoted toward the fireplace and slung the glasses into the flames. Then he grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a long swallow.
He thought of all he should have said before letting her leave. How sleeping with her hadn’t meant anything to him. How he’d slept with a dozen other women who’d been better in bed than she could ever hope to be.
How holding her in his arms through the long nights had just been part of the game.
He took another drink.
It had all been a game. For her and for him. And that was okay. It was fine. Hell, after a while, it might even make for a good story. How the hotshot ex-operative had spent a wild couple of weeks in Colombia, screwing a woman who’d turned out to be operating him.
One more shot of brandy. And then another and another until the bottle was half-empty. Then he killed the fire. Grabbed his jacket. Made sure he had his keys, his wallet, his passport.
“Time to go home,” he said to the silent house.
Time to go back to his life.
To Dallas.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS AMAZING, the things that money could buy.
Matthew was rich.
He never thought of himself that way. He’d grown up rich, but that money was his father’s. He hadn’t wanted any part of it.
Risk Management Specialists had made him wealthy in his own right, but he never really thought about it. He’d bought a bi-level condo in Turtle Creek and a Ferrari. He lived well, traveled well, bought things that caught his fancy, gave the women he dated expensive gifts.
Now, for the first time, he knew what money could do.
It made it possible to put a piece of your life behind you.
He drove out of the valley, heading for a small, private airport, tearing along the narrow roads at speeds that would have been foolish even if he hadn’t drunk all that brandy, but he didn’t give a damn.
The night, the fast-moving clouds, the sharp drop-off to his right, all suited his mood.
The truth was, he didn’t much care what happened next.
It was the way he’d started feeling just before he left the Agency, that I-don’t-give-a-crap state of mind that he knew was dangerous as hell—and couldn’t prevent.
He’d always survived those black moments in the past and he’d survive this one, too.
It was close to midnight by the time he pulled into the airport. It was unstaffed—he’d figured as much— but there was a telephone number posted on the gate. For Emergencies, it said in English and Spanish.
Matthew decided that’s what this damned well was, and took his cell phone from his pocket.
A couple of calls, and he was talking to a sleepy-voiced guy who owned a Learjet 60. Si, he could fly the señor to the States but no, he could not do it now. It was impossible. He could not fly out of the Cachalú at night. The darkness, the mountains… It was too dangerous.
In the morning, and for the right fee…
“What’s the right fee?” Matthew said.
The pilot hesitated. “Fifty thousand dollars American,” he said.
Matthew didn’t blink. “Fly me out now,” he said, “and I’ll double it.”
An hour later, they were in the air.
