The Mist

Chapter 2

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

5:50 p.m., IST

August 25

Will Davenport stabbed the toe of his shoe into the wet gravel in front of the small, traditional stone cottage where Keira was staying while Simon was in Boston. The cottage was situated on a narrow lane cut along an ancient wall that ran parallel to the bay and the mountains. A steady wind blew dark clouds across the rugged, barren hills that swept up from the harbor to the spine of the peninsula.

He had resisted the temptations of Eddie O’Shea’s pub-a pint, a fire, camaraderie-and returned to his car, finding his way here. Rambling pink roses scented the damp, cool air as the remains of the storm pushed east across Ireland. To the north, across Kenmare Bay, he could see the jagged outlines of the McGilli-cuddy Reeks of the Iveragh Peninsula, another finger of land that jutted into the Atlantic.

Keira’s car was parked in the drive by the roses, and a light glowed in the cottage kitchen, but she hadn’t come to the door when he’d knocked.

Was she having a bath, perhaps?

She had arrived in Ireland in June to paint and look into the Beara Peninsula origins of the folktale she’d heard in a South Boston kitchen. The Slieve Mikish-the Mikish Mountains -at the tip of the peninsula held rich veins of copper that had drawn settlers to the region thousands of years ago. Will had driven along Bantry Bay on the southern side of the peninsula, the weather deteriorating the closer he came to the Atlantic and Allihies. He’d talked to Simon briefly and had hoped to find Keira poking around among the skeletal remains of the long-abandoned Industrial Age mines scattered across the remote, starkly beautiful landscape. When he hadn’t found her, he’d headed to the pub on Kenmare Bay, discovering not his friend’s new love but a hiker with striking light green eyes and one of Keira’s books.

Pushing back a nagging sense of worry, Will checked his BlackBerry and saw he had a message from Josie Goodwin, his assistant in London, who had arranged for his flight into Cork and the car that had awaited him.

Josie’s words were straight to the point:

Estabrook free 9 AM MDT.

With a grimace at the unpleasant, if not unexpected, news, Will dialed Josie’s number.

“I was about to call you,” she said without preamble when she picked up. “I have more. Apparently Estabrook couldn’t wait to get off his ranch and left in his private plane immediately after signing his plea agreement. I gather he’s never been one to sit still. He must be stir-crazy after two months.”

“Did he go alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then he kept his promise to provide authorities with all he knows about his drug-trafficking friends?”

“The Americans must be satisfied or they wouldn’t have let him go free.”

“Josie, the man threatened to kill Simon and Director March.”

“He insists he was speaking metaphorically.”

Someone who didn’t know Josie well could miss her wry tone, but she and Will had worked together for the past three years. He didn’t miss it. “Metaphorically,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“ Ireland is a long way from Montana, Will. Estabrook has no history of violence, nor is he suspected of having been involved with his associates’ violent crimes. Not that participating in the spread of the poison of illegal drugs isn’t a kind of violence.”

“I’m at Keira’s cottage now,” Will said. “Her car is here, but she’s not. She must have gone for a walk.”

“From what Simon’s told me, she does love to walk. They’re a remarkable pair, aren’t they, Will? True love is a rare thing, but they’ve found it.”

This time, Will heard wistfulness in Josie’s voice. She was the thirty-eight-year-old single mother of a teenage son and a woman who had faced more than her share of heartbreak. She was also a capable, resourceful member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and Will trusted her without hesitation. She understood, as he did, that their lives and work ran more smoothly, more easily, unencumbered by romantic entanglements. She’d learned her lesson the hard way through personal experience. He’d learned his by example.

Matters, he thought, for another day.

“Have you talked to Simon?” he asked.

“Briefly. He appreciates that you’re in Ireland and Keira’s not alone. He’d never have left her if he’d known Estabrook would be released. He and March had hoped they could keep him in custody.”

Will resisted any comment on the FBI director. He and March had a history, not a good one. “A woman was at the pub just now, reading one of Keira’s books. A hiker. Small, slim, light green eyes, black hair. American. Do you recognize the description?”

“Long hair, short hair?”

“I don’t know. Long, I think. I only saw a few strands. The rest was under a red bandanna.”

“Ah.”

Will sighed. “She said she’s from Las Vegas and is here hiking the Beara Way.”

“Alone?”

“As far as I could tell, yes.”

“Seems a lovely thing to do,” Josie said. “But you don’t believe her, do you, Will?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“You wouldn’t be drawn to an Irish village where an ancient, magical stone angel was reportedly discovered in a ruin?”

“Josie…”

“I’ve jotted down the description and will see what I can learn. One never knows. Good luck finding Keira. Simon trusts you completely.”

“I owe him, Josie.”

“Yes, you do.”

Will stared down through the gray mist and fog down toward the harbor, remembering back two years to a tragic, violent eighteen hours in Afghanistan that ended with Simon Cahill saving his life. It was a debt they both understood could never be repaid-and yet Will kept trying. But it wasn’t why he’d come to Ireland. He had come, simply, as a friend.

“Will,” Josie added crisply, “Simon knows you’re not some fop who spends all his time fishing and golfing. He’s aware by now that you weren’t in Afghanistan to catch butterflies.”

She disconnected before Will could respond.

He shoved his BlackBerry into his coat pocket, but part of him was still back in Afghanistan, alone, dehydrated, bruised and bloodied, determined to stay alive for one reason: he owed the truth to the memory and the service of the two SAS soldiers-his friends-who had died at his side hours earlier on that long, violent night. At great risk to himself, with only an ax, a rope and his own brute strength at his disposal, Simon had come upon the bombed-out cave and freed Will. Together they then dug out the bodies of David Mears and Philip Billings, who had died because Will had trusted the wrong man.

Another friend.

Myles Fletcher.

Will made himself silently say the name of the man-the British military officer and intelligence agent-who had compromised their highly classified mission, only to be captured and dragged off by the very enemy fighters he had embraced as allies.

After reuniting Will with his SAS colleagues, Simon had returned to his own classified mission on behalf of the FBI. He had never asked for an explanation of Will’s presence in the cave-or thanks for saving his life.

After two years, Myles Fletcher’s remains had yet to be recovered. Presumably his terrorist allies had turned on him and killed him after he’d served his purpose. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that he was still alive, but Will wouldn’t be satisfied until he had definitive proof.

The FBI had been onto a drug-trafficking and terrorism connection that had evaporated due to Will’s failed mission. John March considered Will ultimately responsible for Myles’s treachery.

Simon didn’t blame Will for anything, but Will had discovered in their two years of friendship that little fazed Simon Cahill.

Except being on one side of the Atlantic while the woman he loved was on the other.

Will buttoned his coat and locked the memories back into their own tight compartment as he walked out to the lane in search of Keira.