The Three Most Wanted Read online

  “I love you…”

  “I love you too.” I kissed Bane, my arms wrapping around his hot, bare back, and tasted salt on my lips. He was crying.

  “Love you, Margo. Love you forever…” He clutched me to him with only his left arm, now.

  I kissed him, just kissed him, didn’t want to think, couldn’t think about anything else. I love you, Bane…

  My eyes opened in the vain hope I might see his face, but the darkness was too great. Save those winking lights, so close. Almost here…

  “Love you…” His voice shook… broke… he drew such a deep breath his body shuddered with it—his right arm moved unseen beside me, hard and fast.

  A sharp pain pierced my side; a coldness touched my heart. Bane’s arms were both around me again, holding me, what’d happened to my legs? I couldn’t even feel them. Bane lowered me to the ground, cradling me to him, kissed me again and again. “Love you, Margo, love you, love you…”

  The blackness was getting blacker. Even my lips were going numb.

  “Love you, Bane,” I whispered, ‘cause it seemed very important I say it, one more time.

  His tears filling my mouth and his lips on mine were the last thing I felt as darkness swallowed me…

  ...Light, beyond my eyelids. I dragged them open, crackling with sleepy dust. A plaster ceiling, sort of amber stucco.

  Bane’s face suddenly blocked it from view. “Margo?”

  “Umm...”

  “Your Friend is an idiot! No, y’know…” He sprang off the bed and paced the small, sparsely furnished room. “I don’t even believe in Him! It was all coincidence, all of it. I mean, why the hell put us on a weapons train about to be blown up by the Resistance? Why?”

  I struggled to kick my floundering mind into gear. Bane’s face was flushed more with anger than fever, so he’d found some more antibiotics. His right arm rested in a sling and he kept moving it to gesticulate then wincing—apart from that he looked remarkably well.

  “I assume since you’re yelling at me I’m quite all right?” I managed at last.

  He sat on the bed again, bent to kiss me. “Don’t wave your left arm around.” I looked down to find it too, lay in a sling. “It’s sprained or slightly fractured: the doctor didn’t have access to x-ray.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, this is just sprained.” He jerked his head down towards the sling. Of course, he must’ve held us all on the car just long enough that we didn’t fall to the ground in its path and get crushed... or something.

  “Jon?” I struggled up into a sitting position.

  “Fine.” Bane flipped his left hand. “Well, I say fine. He got off more lightly than any of us in the derailment but of course he was so much worse beforehand. But he should pull through, says il dottore.”

  I let out the breath I was holding. Jon okay. Deo gratias. “So, where are we? The Resistance blew up the train, you said?”

  “Yes, this is one of their safe houses near Milan.”

  “Have you asked them yet if they’ll help us get to Rome?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to accept any more help from them?”

  “Well, if a big enough, fast enough moving hint clackety-clacks up to me and dumps me in their lap, I’m capable of taking it. So will they help us?”

  Bane rolled his eyes. “Yes. Luciano says he’ll take us all the way to Rome, easy-peasy, then we can use one of the Rome Resistance’s tunnels into Vatican State.”

  Many of the secret tunnels dated from the Great Wars or earlier and remained in the possession of families with ancestors in the Resistance movements of those earlier times. One of the few things for which the Underground actually had dealings with the Resistance. Difficult and dangerous enough to gain access to the blockaded Free State—no one was turned away just because they came through a Resistance tunnel instead of an Underground one.

  Father Mark had given Bane the most up-to-date procedure he had for contacting the Rome Underground when we left, but we’d always known it’d probably be out of date by the time we got there. To be put straight in contact with the Rome Resistance would be—probably was—a God send.

  “So, Bane.” I smiled at him. “Why do you think we were put on a train about to be blown up by the Resistance?”

  He sprang off the bed as though he’d received a slap, not a smile. “Oh, shut up!” He strode to the door. “Why don’t you get some more sleep?”

  But he didn’t leave. Just stood, staring at me, nostrils quivering. Upset about something much more than the fact that the—previous?—night’s string of life-saving “coincidences” was dancing a jig on his determined irresolution about certain matters.

  Turning his face away, he drew in several deep breaths, then with a gulp, rushed across the room and flung himself on me. He managed to miss my possibly-fractured limb and I rubbed his back with my uninjured arm as his shoulders began to shake.

  “Bane, it’s okay, shss, it’s okay. What’s wrong, Bane? Come on, everything’s okay now, isn’t it?”

  “Okay?” he gulped, his head buried against my chest. I could feel his hot tears soaking through whatever I was wearing. “Okay? I almost… I almost had to… Back then… by the tracks… I almost… Okay?” He went back to crying harder than I’d seen him do for years and years and years.

  I hugged him as tightly as I could with one arm and gave up talking. He’d been having similar dreams to me. Nightmares.

  “Hush, hush,” I murmured at last. “I’d probably have stopped you, anyway. I hope I would’ve.”

  “Well, I don’t hope you would’ve, you lunatic!” he managed a watery snarl. “Not if the train hadn’t come.”

  “Oh, you like the train now, do you?”

  He was silent for a moment, sniffing slightly. “It had its good points.” He nestled his head against my chest.

  I let him nestle for a while, until his sniffs petered out and his expression began to suggest he was getting more enjoyment than comfort from his pillow—then prodded him.

  “Off—come on, don’t just smirk at me.”

  He made do with shifting his head to my shoulder and kissing my neck. “My beautiful Margo. I’m really starting to look forward to getting to Rome.”

  “How long have we been asleep?”

  “Well over twenty-four hours. Jon’s still out.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “No. He looks like death warmed up.”

  “Did we have to go in separate rooms? I don’t like us being split up.”

  Bane grimaced. “Nor do I, but I made a few tentative probings on that subject and it immediately became clear they’d be offended if I tried to change it. Think we didn’t trust them.”

  “I don’t trust them.”

  He gave a slight laugh. “Neither do I. All the more reason not to offend them, huh?”

  “I s’pose.” But I didn’t like it. Felt very unsafe for the three of us to be separated. The pack mentality talking? Or perhaps common sense.

  Footsteps outside. Bane sat up and swiped a sleeve across his face, removing salt from his cheeks and breaking up clumped eyelashes. His eyes were pretty much normal color again.

  A tap on the door and in came a tall young man about Father Mark’s age; dark hair, swarthy skin, looked very Italian. A—brother and sister, surely?—followed him; they shared his Italian looks and were a similar age, perhaps a little younger. Two even younger men, one no older than us, peered in behind them.

  “Thought I’d find you here.” The first man spoke to Bane in Esperanto. “And Margaret Verrall, you’ve joined us in the land of the waking.”

  “Yes, I have. Thank you for taking care of us.”

  “We did cause some of your injuries when we deprived you of your transport in such a surprising fashion.”

  “Not half as surprising as our little find,” said the young woman dryly.

  “Uh, that’s Carla,” said Bane. “Her brother, Francesco, and Luciano, leader of the Milan cell. I’
ve not met the other two...”

  “Hello,” I said.

  They all nodded in return, and the younger of the other two piped up, “I’m Lanzo, that’s Ruggiero.” He looked like he might say more but Luciano silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “So you want to go to Rome?”

  “Yes. If you could help us, that’d be great.”

  “Si, it is a very simple matter. We travel to Rome without passing through road blocks all the time. The Rome cell will have you under those ancient walls in less time than it takes to say Viva l’Italia. We are happy to help you.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t help it, it popped out. Generally the Resistance viewed the Underground with scorn if not outright hostility. The disgust was reciprocated; we did tend to preach at them rather.

  Luciano smiled at my frank disbelief as Lanzo and Ruggiero sniggered. “You have caused a great deal of trouble for the EuroGov, Margaret Verrall. I’ll wager if you live, you’ll cause a whole lot more. On this we are allies.”

  Carla sniffed pointedly.

  Luciano grinned. “Carla is a little less happy with you.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  Carla glared at me. “Our mission is to restore sovereignty to our glorious nation but since your book came out all anyone anywhere wants to talk about is Sorting and Religious Suppression. Which are pretty low on our list of grievances. Or were.”

  I snorted. “Your glorious nation wasn’t a nation at all until the beginning of the twentieth century.”

  Bane elbowed me. “Margo.”

  Luciano ignored my less than tactful remark. “Trouble for the EuroGov aids our cause, Carla. Any trouble of any kind. You don’t have to like them, but you must be able to see their actions are benefiting us.”

  Carla’s mouth twisted, but she nodded.

  “I’ll take you up to Rome myself as soon as Jonathan is fit to travel,” said Luciano. “In the meantime, please do not leave this building for any reason. It won’t be a safe house for long if Margaret Verrall and Bane Marsden are seen sauntering around outside.” He strode to the door, graceful as a lanky cat—glanced back. “Oh, if you are well enough to get up, do join us for dinner.”

  “Thank you, I’m fine.”

  “Good. Until then, Signora.” He departed, Carla and Francesco at his heels and the other two trailing behind.

  “Was he flirting with me?”

  Bane looked surprisingly unmoved. “He’s Italian. I think they flirt in their sleep. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

  “Wasn’t planning to. Can we go and see Jon? Do I have clothes?” I looked around the room. There, on a chair…

  “I’ll let you get dressed.” He stole a kiss and off he went.

  I eased slowly out of bed, wincing. Twenty-four hours was apparently long enough for every muscle in my body to stiffen up to an agonizing degree, but not to recover. It hurt to use my left arm—but not a fracture, surely? A patchwork of bruises covered me, most from the crash, no doubt. Some—especially on my battered and swollen face—from the charming specialCorps Captain. Shuddering, I slipped into the skirt and simple top as quickly as I could.

  Getting the fiddly sandals done up, I shuffled out into the passage to join Bane, who was moving stiffly too. He grinned sympathetically at my geriatric progress, slipped his left arm around me, and walked me two doors further on.

  The room was almost identical to mine. Jon lay in the bed, pale and unmoving, but his face was no longer that terrifying grey color. A peep under the blankets revealed his thigh neatly and professionally bandaged with clean white dressings. I sat on the bed and stroked his hair for a minute—but he was well out of it.

  “The faster you get better, Jon, the faster we get to Rome,” I told him encouragingly, then stood up, hissing under my breath as my muscles stretched. “When is dinner, anyway?”

  “He said six, when we spoke earlier.” Bane fished out his phone, which’d apparently survived the crash. “About two and a half hours.”

  “Oh.” Disappointing. I was unspeakably ravenous.

  Bane laughed. “Don’t look like that. We can help ourselves in the kitchen. I had a big bowl of pasta soon as I got up, but I could eat some more. Come on.”

  I let Bane sit my aching bones at the kitchen table and watched him cooking. Where did he get his energy from? Sickening. Not that it was complicated—fortunately. He put pasta in boiling water and put sauce from the fridge into a pan to heat. Slopped the result onto two plates and handed me a fork.

  After an unconventionally short grace—thanks, Lord—I tucked in like a runner leaving the starting blocks. Bane ate more slowly, chewing his food and grinning as though watching me eating was the most enjoyable thing he’d done in ages.

  “D’you have to sit there watching me make a pig of myself?” I managed eventually.

  His grin remained unrepentant. “S’just nice seeing you safe and well with food in front of you. Not exactly a common occurrence recently, is it? S’been driving me mad.”

  “You really are over-protective, you know that?”

  “You may have mentioned it. Once or twice. Don’t see you complaining, though.”

  Not when he cooked for me when my body felt like this. “Thanks for the pasta, Bane, it’s lovely.”

  He snorted into his own meal. “You haven’t tasted a bite!”

  “It’s lovely anyway.” I went back to shoveling my lovely pasta without tasting it. Food, glorious food.

  We’d just finished washing up as well as we could one handed when Carla and Francesco came in. From the way they began moving around the kitchen, they were beginning preparations for dinner.

  “You two going to want to eat?” asked Carla.

  “Oh, we’ll fit something in.” Under Bane’s short beard his cheeks were hollows.

  “Can we help?” I asked.

  “Go and rest,” said Francesco. “You’re rather, how do you say it?” He spoke the next word in English, “‘Armless?” Grinning, he went back to Esperanto, giving Bane a comradely wink, “Though I don’t expect that dismantler would agree with me.”

  Bane replied with something more like a grimace. “Is there a television here?”

  “Upstairs, room above this one.”

  We went up and switched on the TV to see if the news was on. A familiar courtroom appeared on the screen.

  “Oh my! They’re not still at it!”

  “What’s this, day four of the ‘over-by-lunchtime’ trial?” Bane sniggered. “The EuroGov must be going mental.”

  But my heart sank as the camera went to the man in the dock. They’d given up on the hat entirely—point to the prisoner—but that was the only positive. His face had been smeared with makeup in a futile attempt to make him look a little less like a walking corpse and he kept making funny batting movements with his hands, eyes darting and lips moving soundlessly.

  “If you ask me,” said Bane, “that guy is hanging on to his reason by the tips of his fingernails.”

  The camera went to the witness box... wait, that was one of the Facility guards!

  Looking anywhere but at the man in the dock, the guard proceeded to swear I’d been in the Major’s garden for over half an hour. From what the Prosecution were saying, he was the last of the four guards to tell the lie. He needn’t have worried, though—the Major didn’t look at him once.

  No doubt the guards couldn’t see any point martyring themselves for a man who was doomed anyway. Still, it was the one thing about which there were actual witnesses, and it was used by the prosecution to support their falsehoods!

  “I do believe steam is about to come from your ears, Margo,” said Bane gravely. “Would you like me to get you a cup of cold water?”

  I almost thumped him—just checked myself in time. “Don’t start, Bane.”

  “Keep your hair on.” He’d seen my fist clench.

  “Oh, shut up, would you.”

  “Someone’s grumpy.”

  “Watching a travesty of justice makes
me grumpy—funny, that!”

  Bane kindly shut up. The judge had just paused proceedings.

  “Major Everington. Do you have anything to say?”

  “Yes...” The Major looked up at last, not sounding the slightest bit collected any more. Just rambling. “I don’t understand how anyone could think I did this? Never done anything in my entire life I could be proud of, me. Never. So it’s impossible, you see...”

  “Are you saying you are proud of your heinous act?”

  “Not my act. Not heinous. I would be proud. I might as well say it. Why not?”

  “Because you speak sedition with your own lips.”

  “Sedition? I’m terrified. There are other things I could say. I could say that one of my guards—name of Finchley, nice fellow—tried to rape Margaret Verrall—ah, yes, I thought the gallery would find that exciting. He was punished, of course, but yes, hate to break it to you, it does happen, I know you like everyone to think it doesn’t…”

  “I suggest you consider your words very carefully, Major Everington,” interrupted the judge, as Bane burst out, “I thought Jon said he tried to grope you!”

  “Well, it’s a preliminary, isn’t it?” I muttered.

  “Because,” the judge was snarling, “You are digging your own grave!”

  “Am I going to get a grave, then?” the Major maundered on. “That’s nice, I always wanted a grave but recently I had assumed I wasn’t going to get one. Why should I be careful, anyway? You know what they say about dead men…”

  “Yes!” The judge was clearly goaded beyond endurance. “They tell no tales!”

  The Major paused for a moment, blinking, then he turned his head, his eyes glinting so wickedly that for a moment he actually looked like the man I remembered.

  “Oh,” he said softly, “I think you’ll find they sometimes do.”

  “Major Everington! Do you have anything to say pertinent to the case at hand?”

  The Major just blinked dazedly and plunged back into his interrupted ramble. “I was thinking of dead men have nothing to lose, actually, so I can think of lots of things to say if you want me to carry on talking. How much ink do the gallery have in their pens? There was that rumor about the Head of the EGD and your honor’s…”