Read At the Edge of the Sun for Free Online Page B

of his mind. “And if I did, I’m more than capable of extricating both of us.”
    “All right,” Andrews grumbled. “I don’t like it, mind. But all right. We’ll be waiting for you at midnight.”
    Timothy Seamus Flynn admired his handiwork with a silent whistle of pride. Explosives had never been his particular forte, but he’d been trained like everyone else, and that training had come in handy. This charmingly compact piece of equipment would blow the elegant confines of Champignons to hell and back again, and take most of the block with it. And there would be that many less British stuffed shirts to feed off the Irish.
    The club hadn’t realized with whom they were dealing, he thought, closing the leather attaché case. Whom they accused of cheating, whom they politely requested leave their hallowed premises when he’d made a graphic suggestion or two to some lord’s daughter. He’d gone quietly enough, earlier this evening after his initial rage. Because he knew he’d have the last word.
    He rose. Eleven o’clock would be perfect. The club would be packed, and the only drawback was that they’d never know what hit them. He preferred his victims—no, his enemies—to know their crimes and their fates. He liked to see the fear in their eyes, he liked to hear them beg. He’d miss that this time, but you couldn’t have everything.
    All he had to do was drop the bomb in the alleyway behind Champignons’ stuffy facade and head on to the airport. He could hear all the delicious details when he arrived in Ireland later that night. He started down the sidewalk, an elegant sight, the briefcase a fitting accessory to his well-tailored figure. And a stuffy, well-dressed matron met hissmiling face with a start of surprise and an instinctive, answering smile.
    “Lovely evening,” she murmured politely, inclining her head regally.
    Flynn imagined that head atop a pike. “Lovely,” he agreed, and walked on down the road.

four
     
    Holly allowed herself a furtive glance at the tall man beside her in the rented Bentley. She’d met Randall Carter once before, years ago when Maggie was in the midst of her abortive career at the CIA. She hadn’t liked him then, and she didn’t really like him now. He was too cold, too remote, with that faintly supercilious smile and those blue-gray eyes that showed emotion only when they rested on Maggie. No, she didn’t like him, but anyone was better than that pigheaded, rude, overbearing son of a bitch, Ian Andrews …
    “Something wrong?” His voice wasn’t solicitous, it was coldly curious.
    She forced her clenched fists to relax and flashed Randall a weary smile. “Just thinking about Andrews. I don’t see what help he’s going to be.”
    “It never hurts to have British Intelligence on your side,” he replied. “And if we don’t work together we’re going to be undercutting each other. Flynn’s a formidable enough adversary—we’re going to need every advantage we can get.”
    “One man against the four of us and practically every law enforcement agency in the western world?” she scoffed, smoothing the fuchsia silk harem pants over her long legs. “I think we’re overestimating his danger.”
    “Do you really?”
    The question was softly spoken, but unwillingly Holly remembered the man she’d seen across the expanse of her mother’s swimming pool, remembered her instinctive distrust and fear and once more she relived the guilt that had haunted her ever since. She should have gone with her instincts,she should have known there was something terribly wrong. Sybil had looked like hell, haunted, worn out, a faint tremor to her hands and dark circles under her eyes that even the world’s finest makeup couldn’t hide. If only Holly had done something about it, instead of shrugging and withdrawing, leaving her mother to make her own bed. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that it was her fault that bed might be turning into a coffin.
    Randall was