Crossfire: Fire & Ice
By Niki Savage
Copyright 2011 by Niki Savage
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Niki Savage.
******
CHAPTER ONE
Marcelle stood next to the racetrack, listening to the sound of the leading car, the high-pitched whine of the engine reaching a crescendo. She tried to move, but her feet were rooted to the ground. Her lips moved in a terrified scream, but she couldn’t hear herself above the roar of the approaching Formula One cars. Jean-Michel’s car came into sight, and flashed through the finishing straight. She screamed at him to stop, to get out of the car before it was too late.
Suddenly, she found herself at the bottom of the finishing straight, and saw it in slow motion. Jean-Michel’s car came around the corner, well ahead of the rest. In her headset, she heard his cry of surprise. A second later, his car went into a spin. The vehicle spun several times before the front hit an obstruction. The tail lifted, and the car cartwheeled end over end, rotating crazily in the air before a concrete wall halted its incredible momentum, and the car burst into flames.
The marshals stormed towards the blazing wreckage, and tried to put out the fire. But it burned and burned, defying the foam. Marcelle could hear Jean-Michel’s cries coming from within the wreck, and broke free from the marshals, running into the flames to help him. She reached the ruined cockpit, but the grisly sight that greeted her didn’t look like her husband. The teeth of the blackened skeleton showed in an awful grin.
Her own horrified screams sounded in her ears, and she became aware of a terrible smell, like burning bacon. The pain she felt was red hot, and when she looked down, she saw her own flesh burning, melting from her bones. The stench filled her nostrils, and hysteria overtook her.
Marcelle woke from the sound of her screams, soaked in perspiration. Revulsion rose in the back of her throat, and she ran for the toilet, reaching it a second before her stomach heaved convulsively, and expelled its contents.
She vomited for what felt like hours, her stomach heaving anew every time her mind ambushed her with the stench in the cockpit. Eventually she fell asleep, curled up on the carpet in front of the bath, too afraid to return to her bed.
~ . ~
Marcelle became aware of the cold first, and opened her eyes to the unfamiliar sight of the white tiles in the guest bathroom. Her mouth tasted terrible. She clung to the edge of the bath for support, and pulled herself to her feet. Averting her eyes from the vomit in the toilet bowl, she flushed the toilet, and staggered to the door.
She saw the rumpled bed of the guest bedroom. The bedside clock indicted it was noon. She had overslept. Marcelle returned to her own bedroom, and went to the en-suite bathroom to brush her teeth.
What had caused such a horrific nightmare? The fact that she had slept alone for the first time in a month? It hadn’t bothered her while she had been in Belgium. What she needed was a long, exhausting ride. Then she would sleep well tonight. Her decision made, she began taking cycling kit from her wardrobe.
Dressed, she went to the kitchen. Her intestines felt sore and bruised, but she knew she had to eat. She forced down some cornflakes and milk, following it with a strong cup of coffee. Afterwards she took several energy bars from the kitchen cupboard, and stuffed them into the pockets of her cycling jersey. She bent to tighten the Velcro on her cycling shoes, and noticed something white sticking out from under the fridge. It was a soiled envelope with her name on it. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Curious, she tore it open.
For a split second, her heart lifted. The letter was from Stefan. It was more a note than a letter, containing only three scribbled lines. He said that he had to leave, and she should contact him upon her return. The last line was a telephone number.
The tone of the letter was formal, brusque, and her heart sank. This confirmed her suspicions that Stefan didn’t love her. He didn’t even have the guts to tell her in person. Instead, he had run off to his island with his men who had appeared so conveniently. Now he wanted her to phone him, so he could tell her they were a mistake, and she was better off without him. Well, she didn’t need him to tell her what she already knew.
She longed for the life she had before he entered her life, and she could certainly do without the horrific dream that tormented her last night. Stefan was bad for her, and on top of that, he was a rapist and a killer. She threw the letter into the waste disposal where it belonged. A profound feeling of satisfaction washed over her when she heard the blades reducing the note to confetti. Stefan had corrupted her loyalty to Jean-Michel, but no more.
Five minutes later, she cycled through the gates of the complex, taking a direction away from Paris.
* * * *
CHAPTER TWO
Marcelle came to her senses when she saw the cars switching on their headlights. She checked the small computer on her handlebars. The small screen displayed two hundred and fifty kilometers, ridden at an average speed of thirty-five kilometers per hour. But she rode at a snail’s pace now, exhausted and dehydrated. This was crazy. She had forgotten time before, but nothing this extreme.
What had happened? She remembered stopping at one hundred kilometers to refill her water bottles, and eat an energy bar. After that, she must have stopped again to refill her bottles, but had no recollection of it.
Signs next to the road told her she was close to Lille; a town situated a short distance from the Belgian border, in the north of France. She knew the town well, having raced in the area often. Marcelle headed for her favorite accommodation, the Hôtel Barrière Lille, a five star located near the Lille-Europe train station. Why bother to go home? Nobody waited for her there.
~ . ~
The reception desk ignored the fact that she had no reservation. Her world championship status had its benefits, after all. Immediately the fuss started, and hotel management opened the various boutiques in the hotel for her convenience. Marcelle took full advantage, purchasing toiletries, tracksuits, casual clothing and shoes.
Two hours later, she had showered and dressed in a comfortable tracksuit. She ordered a large supper of lasagna from room service, to replenish her reserves. At her request, they included a liter of Coca-Cola. Marcelle decided to give herself the night off, and indulge her weaknesses.
The room was luxurious, decorated in shades of cream, mint green and chocolate brown. This was much better, she thought, stretching out on the cream bedspread of the double bed.
~ . ~
The polite knock of the cleaners roused Marcelle at eleven the next morning. They wanted to clean the room, and she asked them to wait while she dressed.
It was a beautiful day, and she put on a pair of stylish khaki shorts and a cool blouse, rounding the outfit off with a pair of canvas lace-ups. She pulled a comb through her hair and brushed her teeth. Then she put her wallet into her pocket and stepped out of the room.
She made her way to one of the hotel’s three restaurants for an early lunch.
~ . ~
Back at La Montagne, Stefan replaced the phone in its cradle. Nobody had answered at Marcelle’s apartment.
The mission near the French-Spanish border had gone off well, and they had returned to La Montagne in the early hours of Monday morning. Most of the terrorists had died in the first assault, when Omega had dropped deadly incendiary bombs from the helicopters. The few who managed to get off some shots had been cut in half by the lethal large caliber machine guns aboard each of the three helicopters.
The thirty Omega mercenaries surrounding the compound had nothing to do, other than to deliver a mercy shot for each of the badly burned survivors. The farmhouse and outbuildings had burned to the ground, turning the bodies to ash. They had left no trace behind, just as the French government had requested. At least now, he could rest assured Marcelle was safe. Her identity had died with the terrorists. Now no one would punish her for taking pity on him, and saving his life.
Upon Stefan’s arrival back at La Montagne, Kris had informed him Marcelle hadn’t called. He had been disappointed, but decided to write his report first, to give her more time.
By Monday afternoon, he couldn’t wait any longer, and had called Paris. Nobody had answered, and he had been calling every hour on the hour since, desperate to reach her.
He looked again at the color photo in the French newspaper. It showed a defeated Marcelle sitting on the pavement, her head buried in her arms. He reread the accompanying article. It cited the champion’s misfortunes and problems during the Criterium series. She had offered no excuse to the press, but said that the strain of the past two weeks had affected her adversely.
He sighed. Most likely, she blamed him for her bad performance, and she had every right to do so. That must be why she hadn’t bothered to phone. Where could she have gone?
~ . ~
Marcelle returned on Thursday morning, driving a rented car. She looked around the familiar apartment, glad to be back. While she had enjoyed her time away, she had longed for the security of her own home. The short holiday in Lille had helped her to relax and unwind, and she had enjoyed the many patisseries and specialist chocolate shops in the city. To combat the extra calories she consumed from comfort eating, she had trained on the many cycling routes provided for tourists. The time alone had allowed her to focus her thoughts on the racing season ahead, and the damage control she would have to do after the disastrous Criterium series in Belgium. She didn’t allow herself to think of Stefan, and hoped that soon his face would be just a vague memory.
* * * *
CHAPTER THREE
Marcelle fought the bonds of sleep, apprehension running up and down her spine. But she couldn’t wake up, powerless against the dream that held her in an unbreakable grip. She heard Jean-Michel’s car approaching, and started running towards the track, waving her arms to stop him. He flashed by, unaware of the warning she shouted.
Moments later she found herself somewhere on the track, and his car came around the corner at tremendous speed. He cried out in surprise before his car went into an unrecoverable spin. His car became airborne, and hit the wall with a tremendous crash. It sounded like a sonic boom, and the shockwave smashed her into the ground.
The car burst into flames, and she could hear Jean-Michel’s screams coming from within the wreck. Marcelle tried to get to her feet, to go to him, but something or someone pinned her to the ground. She struggled to get free, frantic to get to her husband, but the weight of the person on top of her became heavier, and in the dream, she opened her eyes.
The glittering blue eyes staring down at her was familiar, and filled her with terror. She felt him tearing the clothes from her body, and forcing her thighs apart. A frozen lance invaded her, tearing into her shocked body while Jean-Michel’s cries rose to a crescendo.
Suddenly Jean-Michel was quiet. The soft surface and familiar smells told Marcelle she was in her own bed again, but the violation continued. To her horror, she felt herself beginning to respond, wrapping her legs around the stranger as he thrust into her. She closed her eyes and heard her own moans mingling with the grunts of the stranger above her.
A feeling that they were no longer alone came to her, and she opened her eyes again. Jean-Michel stood next to the bed, clad in racing overalls, watching them with shock in his eyes. Watching as she gave to another man what had been his alone.
Marcelle reached out to him, calling his name, but his face became cold and unforgiving as he turned away from her. She watched his receding back with horrified eyes as he walked out the room.
She fought against the stranger on top of her, but he would have none of it. He put his cold blue eyes close to hers and said, “I can have you, lady, anytime I want to, whether you like it or not.” He climaxed, and she felt him filling her with ice. The ice radiated from her centre to the rest of her body, threatening to smother her, cutting off her breathing. Sated, the stranger collapsed onto her, becoming impossibly heavy, crushing her into the bed. Screaming in fear and rage, she pushed at him, desperate to break free.
Marcelle woke when she hit the floor with a hard thump. Though she could hear herself screaming, she couldn’t stop, beside herself with terror. She struggled to her feet, trying to shake off the ice that crushed her to the ground. But it was impossible, because the ice was within her. She crawled on her stomach, to get out of the room, away from the terror. In the passage, she stopped for a moment, trying to get her breathing under control, shuddering with revulsion at the memory of the dream. Her head spun from the excess of carbon dioxide bubbling in her blood. She tried to turn on her side, and lost consciousness.
~ . ~
Marcelle woke the next morning with her face buried in the plush carpeting of the passage. Pushing herself to her hands and knees, she wondered at the blood she saw on the carpet. She glanced back towards the bedroom, and saw dark stains on the sheets. Closer examination revealed that the stains were blood. She looked down at her body and found numerous scratches on her arms and legs. The blood under her fingernails accused her, and she realized the scratches were self-inflicted, no doubt when she “fought off” her attacker.
She remembered the look on Jean-Michel’s face when he had “found” her in bed with her rapist. Guilt threatened to overwhelm her. Though she knew it wasn’t real, the emotions evoked felt real to her. Believing she could put Stefan’s terrible deed behind her now seemed ludicrous. Her subconscious had added the new trauma to the old trauma, producing a new nightmare to torment her nights. But not if she was too tired to dream.
A change of scenery might do the trick. Nothing could rival the exhaustion produced by a day of strenuous climbing in the Alps. She would phone Didier Corlay, Sebastien Fontaine and Anthony Delamotte and ask them to join her for a training camp. It would only be for about two weeks, and she would ask Pierre-Henri to excuse her from any further racing. She needed time to get herself back together. But first, she had to arrange to have her bedroom redecorated, and the carpet in the passage replaced. Perhaps if everything looked different, she would forget what had happened there.
She dialed Marc Morelle’s number. He could transform her bedroom in her absence. She had known him a few years, and his work came highly recommended.
~ . ~
Early the next morning, Didier and Sebastien met Marcelle at her apartment. Anthony had racing commitments, and couldn’t attend. They loaded their luggage and equipment into the American panel van, and put their bikes on the roof rack.
At ten o’clock, they were ready to leave. The van stopped at the gates, and Marcelle informed the guards they were to allow Marc Morelle and any workers with him into her apartment.
The complex faded in the distance, and she sighed with relief. Last night had been a repeat of the horrific nightmare, and she had ended up losing her supper again. She hoped the fresh air in the Alps and the strain of training with her two companions would be enough to ensure her a dreamless sleep each night.
The good spirits of the two professional riders were catching, and a holiday atmosphere reigned in the van. Didier, who had volunteered to take the first turn at driving, slipped a compact disc into the CD player, and loud music sounded through the plush interior.
* * * *
The following Monday afternoon Stefan tried Marcelle’s apartment a final time before leaving La Montagne. He and ten men were on their way to locate and destroy a terrorist camp in Cuba, and would be away a week or more.
Once in the jungle he wouldn’t be able to contact Marcelle. It wasn’t something he wanted to leave Kris to do. Then he would have to tell him what had happened, something he wanted to avoid at all costs.
His heart leapt when someone picked up the phone on the other side.
“Bonjour, Madame Deschamps’ apartment.”
“Can I speak to Marcelle, please?” Stefan asked in French.
“Who is this?” the voice lisped.
“Stefan Burger, phoning from South Africa. Where is my sister?”
“Ah, Stefan, this is Marc Morelle. Remember we met at the party. I’m afraid your sister isn’t here.” The syrupy tones flowed down the telephone lines.
“Where has she gone?”
“She went on a training camp in the Alps, with her good friends Didier and Sebastien. She’ll be away about two weeks, I think. In the meantime I’m doing a lot of work for her here.”
The mercenary decided to indulge the self-important tone in Marc’s voice. “What work is that?”
The gay Frenchman laughed. “She’s given me a free hand to redecorate her bedroom. She said I must change everything. She said she couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. She wants the color scheme in the bathroom changed too. And I must replace the carpet in the passage. Marcelle said she cut herself by accident and all the blood ruined the carpet. It’s a lot of work to do in two weeks, but she said it must be finished before she returns. So I’m working, and it will be beautiful. I’m an artist, after all.”
Stefan felt nauseated, and not just because of Marc’s lisping tones. He said goodbye after declining to leave a message. He replaced the phone, his heart tearing within him. His deed had filled Marcelle with such revulsion that she wanted to erase everything associated with him from her mind.
Now it became clear why she hadn’t contacted him. She had changed her mind about forgiving him, and decided to put him out of her life forever.
Perhaps it was for the best. But where he sat behind his desk, it felt like his world had crashed down around him. He rested his elbows on the desk, and lowered his face into his hands, seeing Marcelle’s white face, her beautiful grey eyes filled with pain. He would have to respect her wishes, and stay out of her life. He had destroyed any feelings she might have had for him.
That was how Kris found him a few minutes later. The redhead stopped dead, but Stefan had heard him, and looked up, sitting back in his chair. “What is it, Kris?”
“The men are ready to leave. They’re waiting for you.”
Kris watched his cousin push himself to his feet, looking as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Stefan pushed past him at the doorway, and Kris caught his shoulder. “What’s wrong, cousin? Maybe I can help.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
But his acting wasn’t good enough to fool Kris. “You haven’t been the same since you came back. I’ve watched you, moping around, phoning Paris at every opportunity. Something’s wrong.”
Stefan’s lips twisted in a smile. “You’re a good friend, Kris.” Without another word, he put on his dark glasses and walked out into the sharp sunlight. Three vehicles stood ready to take him and his men to the airfield, where the Omega jet waited.
* * * *
CHAPTER FOUR
“OK, who burned the toast?” Marcelle accused, confronting her two companions where they sat around the kitchen table.
Didier, a young man with sandy hair, freckles and the lean built of a long distance tour rider, was first to respond. “Why do you complain about burnt food all the time, Michel?”
Sebastien, a tall, tanned young man with shaggy brown hair, laughed. “The toast tastes fine to me, Didier. But from now on Michel’s in charge of the toast. Then she can get it just right.” His smile took the barb out of his words. “Let’s vote on that. All in favor say aye.”
Their voices rang out in unison, and Marcelle forced a smile, trying to put her bad temper aside. They lived in an apartment she had hired in the town of Morzine, in the French Alps near the border of Switzerland. During the past ten days, she had found herself becoming unaccountably irritable, though she tried hard to hide it from her companions. She slept badly, despite the hard training she put in each day.
Anything she ate seemed to taste charred and bitter, reminding her of the smell of burning bacon. The little she managed to ingest didn’t provide enough calories to cover the incredible energy demands of climbing in the Alps.
Her two companions had complimented her at first on losing a kilogram or two. But now, nearly two weeks later, they urged her to eat, alarmed that she had lost too much weight. She had to force herself to eat any cooked food, trying to keep up the act, but revulsion rose in her throat at the mere smell of food. She had taken to drinking large amounts of protein and carbohydrate supplements, because she knew the rapid weight loss would play havoc with her strength.
They were due to leave Morzine the next day, and she tried to be more like her old self. Her friends didn’t deserve her bad temper.
“Last one on his bike is a sissy,” she shouted, running to her bicycle. The plastic cleats on the soles of her cycling shoes beat a tattoo on the polished kitchen floor. The two men threw their chairs backwards and charged for the door, but she had beaten them to it, laughing in triumph.
* * * *
CHAPTER FIVE
Nearly three weeks later, towards the end of June, Marcelle stood on the start line for yet another race. The team had been on the European circuit permanently since her return from Morzine. During that time, they had ridden a small tour, and several one-day classics that counted towards world cup points.
Her rainbow jersey hung on her frame, her muscles showing right underneath her tanned skin. The hollows in her cheeks gave her the look of a starved child, the shadows under her eyes evidence of her exhaustion.
Doc Louis and Pierre-Henri were worried about their world champion. Something was badly wrong, but she wasn’t talking. They had questioned her without success. Louis had even threatened to book her off if she didn’t gain weight, but she hadn’t paid any heed.
Pierre-Henri felt disturbed. This race would be yet another failure, another disappointment for the team. The sponsors wouldn’t be pleased. They had already phoned to tell him they needed a win.
Today’s race passed through a section of the French Pyrenees bordering Spain. The start was in a town called Saint-Girons, and the route covered one hundred and ten kilometers, crossing two major mountain passes, the Porte d’Aspet and the Col de Mente.
It was a tough race, and in these unbelievably hot June temperatures, Pierre-Henri didn’t think his champion would finish, much less place. She was a great climber, and had won this race the previous year. But she didn’t have a chance now, he thought. Not unless he helped her.
Marcelle stared at the crowd, feeling isolated. Some spectators pointed at her, and she put on her sunglasses. Behind the iridium surface, she could retreat into her private world. A world where she and Jean-Michel were still together. Before Stefan came, before the nightmares and the vomiting began.
Now she was foundering, trapped in a terrible dream that didn’t seem to end. She couldn’t eat, and every night the dreams came, ending in her retching into the toilet bowl, exhausted and crying. She couldn’t do anything but watch herself fade away.
Marcelle knew she was in deep trouble. The meal replacement drinks and countless vitamins she took every day were no longer enough to halt her weight loss. If she didn’t get help soon, she would lose her career, and her life. Perhaps it would be a blessing, she thought. Then she and Jean-Michel could be together at last.
A few minutes before the start, Pierre-Henri came to her side and handed her a bottle of mineral water. “Drink it,” he urged, “all of it.”
She obeyed wordlessly, draining the small container. The water had a strange taste, but everything tasted strange to her these days.
“Doc Louis doesn’t want you dehydrating,” he said, taking the empty container from her. “Now do your best, for the team, hhmmm.”
“Sure,” she replied, wondering why her voice echoed in her ears, and why she could hear her heart beating.
A few minutes later, the starter’s gun fired, and the race was under way. Marcelle rode in the centre of the pack, but felt trapped and threatened. The riders around her scared her, and the bright colors of their jerseys were too sharp on her eyes. She looked around for her team, but they had disappeared in the sea of color surrounding her.
It was up to her. She had to get away. Out in front. Alone. Safe. Her legs felt strong, like they used to, and she felt the too long absent surge of aggression as she powered her way to the front of the pack.
At the approach of the first mountain pass, the Porte d’Aspet, she attacked viciously, scattering the pack in her wake. Marcelle soared up the mountain, feeling no pain, only deep satisfaction at finding her strength again. She was still the champion.
If she could win this race, somehow everything would be all right. Things would be back to normal, and she would feel like her old self again. The thought spurred her on, and she increased her pace, dancing on her pedals. She wished her heart wouldn’t pound so hard, and that her breathing would stop rasping in her ears.
~ . ~
On the last mountain pass of the race, the Col de Mente, Marcelle still rode like a machine, oblivious to the incredible heat. She already had a seven-minute lead on a desperately chasing pack. Her team car had come alongside her often, and Pierre-Henri had handed her fresh bottles, filled with cool water. By now, she had become accustomed to the strange taste.
Now he handed her several sachets of carbohydrate syrup, designed to give her energy. She took the sachets, and drained them. This was new stuff, she thought, feeling a new surge of energy in her body. Pierre-Henri said something. Marcelle saw his lips move, but couldn’t hear him, deafened by the blood roaring in her ears.
The world champion was three kilometers from the top of the climb, victory assured, when she felt something go wrong. Her vision decreased to a tunnel of blurred color. She tore her sunglasses off and dropped them on the road. But her vision didn’t improve. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and she watched as the mouths of the spectators opened and closed without a sound.
She felt herself beginning to sway on her bike, her rhythm lost. It was unimaginably hot, as if the sun concentrated its heat on her alone. A terrible pain gripped her chest, and cut off her breathing. The road appeared to be moving like the waves of an ocean, and she stopped her bike, dismounting clumsily before discarding it on the roadside. What was wrong? Where was Doc Louis? He would fix her.
She turned to look down the road she had come. Her team car had to be there. Her brain felt like molten lava in her skull, and she ripped her helmet from her head, dropping it on the road. Panic made her fingers clumsy as she fought with the zip of her cycling jersey, finally pulling the zip all the way down and shrugging the shirt from her shoulders. It fell to the ground, but still she couldn’t escape the incredible heat. She had to get some air into her heaving lungs.
Louis Gautier and Pierre-Henri moved to the front of the convoy that had been following the race leader. The Race Commissaire had called them forward on the radio. They shot past the front car, and saw Marcelle already off her bike, helmetless, and wearing only her white undershirt. She had a desperate expression on her face, her hands clawing at the neck of the shirt, apparently trying to rip it from her body.
“Stop the car!” Louis screamed. He threw the door of the still moving car open, impatient to get to his friend. The car stopped, and he jumped out, rushing towards her. “Marcelle!”
She turned and stretched her hands towards him, swaying. But before he could reach her, she dropped to her knees, and pitched face down on the hot tar road.
He turned her onto her back. “Move away! Give her some space!” he shouted at the crowd of spectators who had surged forward to get a closer look.
Marcelle’s face was flushed with the heat, though her skin was dry, a sure sign of severe dehydration. Her breathing rasped through parted lips. He felt for a pulse, and found her heart beating at around two hundred and thirty beats per minute. This was cause for severe alarm. She could go into cardiac arrest at any moment. He looked up at the Race Commissaire, who had come to stand behind him. “Call the ambulance! Now, on the radio. This is a matter of life and death.”
The man looked shocked, but ran to his car, and grabbed the handset of the radio.
Louis sprinted back to the team car, and grabbed his doctor’s bag. Pierre-Henri stood next to the car, shock on his rugged features.
“What did you give her? Tell me!” Louis hissed.
“I gave her amphetamines, a lot,” The manager stammered, for once not his usual self-confident and overpowering self. “They’re not testing today,” he tried to justify himself.
The doctor swore, and ran back to the champion’s still form.
The ambulance arrived with squealing tires, and two paramedics spilled from the vehicle. Doc Louis instructed them to put drips in Marcelle’s arms, and they covered her mouth and nose with an oxygen mask.
The television cameras kept filming as the world champion’s limp form was loaded onto a stretcher, and the paramedics put her into the air-conditioned ambulance. Louis climbed into the ambulance, and told the paramedics to ride up front. The ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing.
Inside, the Frenchman rummaged through his bag, searching for the antidote to the chemicals poisoning the champion’s body. It would slow her heart rate, preventing further damage. He injected the drug, and put the used syringe back in his bag to hide any evidence of what he had done. He gave his fallen friend a second injection, a masking agent, which would corrupt any drug tests the race organizers might run. Despite Pierre-Henri’s claim that there would be no testing, it was better to be safe.
Louis watched Marcelle’s wasted form as the ambulance screeched around the corners, rushing to the hospital in Tarbe.
~ . ~
It was late at night on La Montagne, and Stefan stood on the terrace of his house, enjoying the cool gentle breeze ruffling through his hair. The past six weeks since his arrival back at the island had been one hectic line of assignments. Business was booming, and he was grateful. It kept his mind off Marcelle, off his own pain. But at night, his mind relaxed, he dreamed of her, reliving the good times, before the beast in him had harmed her.
He was no longer a happy man. All he wanted was to be with the woman who now despised him. He devoured the sports pages of newspapers, searching for mention of Marcelle, or any photo published. Many articles mentioned that the French world champion hadn’t been riding well, but he had seen no more photos of her since the first one in Belgium. The papers reported that she had lost a lot of weight, and had abandoned several races in the last few weeks. Another article discussed the overwhelming odds against her retaining her world championship jersey. He walked back into the house, the guilt settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
He switched the television on, and changed the channel to CNN. Kris came into the TV room. Stefan motioned him to sit, listening intently to the newscaster. The normal news finished, and the sports news started.
The anchor read the next item, his voice rising in alarm. “Disaster struck today for the Ultima-Fabelta professional cycling team in the Coca-Cola Classic in France. Marcelle Deschamps, the current UCI Women’s Road World Champion, and captain of the team, collapsed before she could claim a second consecutive win in the Classic. Deschamps, who had held a commanding seven-minute lead in the Classic across the Pyrenees, weakened unexpectedly near the top of the Col de Mente. She collapsed soon after dismounting her bicycle. Footage is supplied courtesy of France Two.”
The screen showed Marcelle riding like a machine up the mountain, and then changed to show her swaying on her bike, snaking across the road before coming to a stop. The race commentator spoke in French, describing the situation.
Stefan watched in horror as she tore her helmet off, and started pulling at her cycling shirt, taking it off as she stumbled towards the convoy. He felt the blood drain from his face. She was a mere shadow of the healthy young woman he remembered.
The anchor resumed speaking with the ambulance’s wailing sirens in the background. “Deschamps was taken to the hospital in Tarbe, where her condition was stabilized. The cause of the collapse isn’t clear, though doctors have said Deschamps had been suffering from severe dehydration. She also exhibited signs of malnutrition and exhaustion. Experts believe that in her weakened condition the heat may have been a major factor in her breakdown. Nobody knows whether she’ll be rejoining her team in Italy at the end of the month. The team will be competing in the Milan Classic, a race the champion won by a convincing margin last year.”
Kris turned away from the screen, opening his mouth to speak. The words died unspoken at the sight of Stefan’s face. The mercenary boss was pale beneath his tan, his eyes filled with pain. He lowered his face into his hands. “My God, I did that to her,” he whispered. “It’s my fault.”
Kris was alarmed. “What do you mean?”
Stefan rose to his feet. “I struck her down,” he said. “I did that. You don’t understand.” He strode into the night, heading for his office.
A glance back told him Kris didn’t intend to follow him, and he was grateful.
The brisk walk to the admin buildings did nothing to calm him. He unlocked the door to his office and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He sank into the luxurious leather chair behind his desk, and dropped his head into his hands. What a mess. He wished he had never entered Marcelle’s life. Even though he had no choice in her rescuing him, he should have left as soon as he could.
Instead, he had hung around like a love-struck teenager, thinking he could heal her. But he had broken her, and turned her into a shadow of her former self. He closed his eyes, wishing he could have her back in his arms. He needed her to comfort him, and he needed to comfort her. Why wouldn’t she let him make amends?
He took a bottle of whisky and a glass from his desk drawer, and poured himself a double, downing it in a single gulp. Perhaps if he drank enough he could anesthetize the pain coiling in his guts like a flaming serpent. He poured another double, and downed it.
Yet despite what he had done to her, Marcelle had refused to shoot him. But he didn’t deserve to live, not after destroying the trust she had placed in him, repaying her kindness with brutality. When he closed his eyes, he could see her face and the dread in her eyes. And when he opened his eyes, the memory of her face tormented him. For the first time in his life, he cursed his photographic memory. He banged his head on the desk, groaning like an animal in pain, trying to get away from his own mind. He poured himself another drink, sloshing the amber liquid to the rim of the glass. The whiskey burned all the way down to his stomach, but gave him no release.
He couldn’t recall removing one of his pistols from the twin holsters, yet it was there, in his hand. He stared at the gun, imagining the peace a quick bullet through his brain could give him. Could he do it? He didn’t fear death, having accepted years ago that a stray bullet could kill as easily as one with your name on it. Somewhere in the future, death waited for him, sooner rather than later. But what if he ended it now?
He jammed the barrel of the gun under his chin, to see if the action would jolt him away from his intent. Nothing. Instead, his mind shouted, “Put yourself down like the rabid dog you are. You’re no better than the terrorists you hunt.” Why did his mind speak with the voice of Claude Cloarec? Never mind, he was right.
He held his breath, his finger caressing the trigger.
A polite knock on his office door jolted him back to reality, and he dropped the weapon into his lap, out of sight. A second later, the door opened, and Karl stepped into the room.
Stefan sighed. Instead of following him, Kris had sent Karl to keep an eye on him. Or maybe he had just telepathically transmitted the message to his twin. Sometimes he was jealous of the close relationship his cousins shared.
Karl eyed him curiously, entering the office without waiting for an invitation. He sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, looking at the half bottle of whiskey and empty glass. “Drinking alone, cousin?”
“Of course not,” Stefan answered, taking another glass from his desk drawer. He poured Karl a double, and poured another for himself.
“Kris told me to come after you. He thinks you need help.”
Stefan cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of the weapon resting on his legs beneath the level of the desk, out of sight. “It’s nothing.”
“You told Kris you did something to Marcelle. What could be so bad?” Karl took a sip of his whiskey.
It was time to improvise. “We didn’t part on good terms. To be honest, we had a terrible fight before I left.” That was nowhere near the truth, but would have to do.
“Couples fight,” the redhead said with a shrug. “Then they make up. Were you a couple?”
Stefan shook his head. “For a while it felt possible, but no.” He downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass, wishing his cousin would leave, but saw no chance of that happening. Karl’s alert green eyes seemed to look right through him, and Stefan wondered whether he suspected anything.
“Your fault or hers, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I think it’s my fault. No, I’m sure it is. She doesn’t ever want to see me again, but I think she’s suffering.”
“Because you’re not there?”
“No.” He wished his brain wasn’t so fuzzy from the excess of whiskey he had consumed. Perhaps then, he would be able to explain the situation with better euphemisms. He could never admit his crime to his cousin, or to any other living soul. He continued, “It’s more like what I did when I was there. She saw a side of me I would rather have kept from her, and she was repulsed by it.”
“Didn’t she like the scars? Pity for her.”
Stefan felt heat in his groin, remembering what Marcelle liked to do with his scars, but he pushed the thought from his mind. “No, it wasn’t the scars on the outside,” he tried to explain. “I scared her away.” The guilt flared up again, and he buried his face in his hands. “I have something bad inside me, and it hurt her, and I can’t live with it.”
Karl poured him another drink, and pushed it into his hand. “We’ve all got baggage, my friend, Marcelle included.”
“I just can’t understand it. She said she needed some time. She had given me every reason to believe she would forgive me. I can’t understand why she didn’t contact me after she got back from Belgium. I left her a note with my telephone number....” He tossed back the whiskey in a single gulp.
“Maybe she changed her mind. Women do that, you know.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“Well, sometimes we do things we regret, but it doesn’t help to punish ourselves over and over about it.”
“What?”
“That’s my philosophy.”
“I forgot you have no conscience.”
“No need to insult me, cousin,” Karl said mildly. “Look where your conscience got you. At least I don’t feel like splattering my brains all over the ceiling. Looks like I got here just in time.”
Stefan realized his cousin must have seen him through the half drawn blinds. He had no answer for him.
Karl laughed in amazement. “You’re not even going to try to defend yourself?”
“I was drunk. In fact, I am still drunk.”
“I can see that. Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Marcelle, and that’s fine. I don’t want to know, but I can guess it was violent, and you would give ten years of your life to take it back. These things we do, the life we live, takes its toll, Stefan. It changes us, usually not for the better, but that’s life.”
“Marcelle said something similar to me after I told her some of my early history. She wondered what price I would pay for my fight against terrorism. I guess now I know. The price was her love.”
“Now you’re getting morose. You never know, maybe she has issues she has to deal with before she can phone you. Perhaps she might still contact you, my friend.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Stefan got to his feet, staggering for a moment before finding his centre. He holstered his 9mm Glock, and came around to the front of the desk.
Karl grabbed him in a tight embrace, and said, “OK, no more drama. We wait and see what happens. Remember we love you, and we need you too. Don’t get stupid around your gun again. Promise?”
“Promise,” Stefan replied.
Arm in arm they left the office, stepping into the bright security lighting.
~ . ~
Doc Louis knew he had to get behind the reasons for Marcelle’s drastic weight-loss and exhaustion. He had her transferred from the clinic in Tarbe to a private clinic in Paris, away from the media circus that had erupted around her collapse. He kept her there for several days, under sedation, feeding her through the IV tubes inserted in her veins. On the fourth day, he discontinued the drugs.
Marcelle opened her eyes late in the afternoon, her head throbbing from the aftermath of the drugs.
Louis took her hand in his. “How are you feeling, chéri?”
“Mouth’s dry,” she whispered.
He poured her a glass of water, and helped her to drink.
“What happened?” she asked, confused. “How did I get here?”
He told her what had happened since her collapse. But he left out the details of Pierre-Henri’s part in the whole affair. The manager had received too much of a scare to attempt such a stunt again.
Louis took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “What’s going on, chéri?” He watched her face close up, and continued in a firmer tone. “You’re throwing your career away, and your health. I won’t stand by and watch it happen. If you won’t talk to me, you won’t race until I’m satisfied with your condition. Now, do you want to ride world champs this year or not?”
Marcelle had no choice. She told him about the nightmares haunting her sleep. How they were much worse than the bad dreams she had experienced in the past two years. How she screamed herself awake at night, vomiting with revulsion. She told him about her inability to eat, because everything smelled and tasted burnt. But she didn’t tell him about Stefan’s role in her dreams, and of what he had done. Some kind of misplaced loyalty halted her tongue. Louis thought she and Stefan had parted on good terms, and she saw no reason to destroy the image her friend had formed of the mercenary.
After she had finished speaking, Louis folded his arms across his chest. “It’s strange,” he murmured, “that the condition had remained stable for so long, and has now taken a turn for the worse. Strange indeed.”
Clearly, he suspected something had sparked her deterioration, but Marcelle had said all she planned to say. It was her own affair, her private humiliation, and she didn’t want to speak of it.
“OK,” Doc Louis resumed, “I’m glad you have told me the truth. Now we can deal with the situation. I have a psychologist friend who can treat you for the nightmares, and...”
“No way,” she interrupted. “I’m not about to share my private thoughts with a stranger. You can forget about it right now. I’ve managed until now, and I’ll cope again. This will pass, given time. I know it will.”
“In the meantime you’ll waste away, and you’ll have to miss the world champs.”
Marcelle sat up and grabbed his hand. “Please, you’ve got to help me. I have to defend my title.”
She sounded desperate, and Louis was touched. “OK, this is what we do. For the next few weeks, you tone down your training and no racing before the end of July. This way we can build up your strength again. I can put you on drips every day, to give you nutrients, glucose, and amino acids. In the meantime continue to drink carbohydrate and protein supplements, but try to eat. I’ll prescribe sedatives, so you can sleep. We can try this therapy for two weeks, and see how it goes. But you can’t race until you’ve gained at least five kilograms. I don’t want you dropping from a heart-attack.”
Marcelle was grateful. “Anything you say,” she murmured.
* * * *
CHAPTER SIX
Nearly a week later Marcelle was alone in her bedroom. She lay with her face buried in a pillow, sobbing, having woken up screaming again. At least with her stomach empty, the vomiting was no longer a problem, but she was desperately tired. The sedatives Doc Louis had prescribed were too mild to plunge her into the black pit of oblivion she craved. She needed something stronger, much stronger.
She wiped her tears away, remembering the sedatives Doc Louis had used on Stefan. Some ampoules of the drug had remained, but Louis had never claimed them. She had added them to her first aid box, thinking they might come in useful.
She found her first aid box and carried it to her bed. This was now a massive canopied four-poster, blending in with the feminine colors and antique furniture in the room. Marc had done a wonderful job.