Free At the Edge of the Sun by Anne Stuart

your sister a drink? It’s been a long, cold night and she could use one. We both could.”
    Holly hesitated, torn. Then she nodded, turning toward the much-depleted Irish whiskey and splashing a generous amount in two glasses. She presented them without a word, noting with concern that Maggie used two hands to hold her own glass.
    “So?” Ian said finally. “Did you see O’Banion?”
    “Maybe. Or maybe we found Flynn himself,” Randall said. “What does O’Banion look like?”
    Ian’s cursing was sharp and fluent. “Damn his soul to hell. Rory O’Banion’s a great bear of a man, six and a half feet tall, red hair, red beard, black eyes.”
    “And Flynn?”
    “Medium height, medium build, reddish hair,” Ian supplied.
    “A charming smile?” Maggie questioned. “Blue eyes that would put Paul Newman to shame?”
    “That’s Flynn!” Ian said. “Where is he now?” Andrews was already halfway to the door.
    “On his way to Beirut,” Randall said.
    Maggie took another healthy swallow, and a trace of color returned to her pale face. “He set us up, the bastard. He knew exactly who we were, and he had us walking right into a trap.”
    “What sort of trap?”
    “A group of them opened fire on a pub that catered to British soldiers. We were supposed to be in there too, waiting for O’Banion, or Flynn, or whoever he was,” Maggie said. “They didn’t bother to check, but no one was left alive. They were very thorough.” She shuddered and drained her glass.
    “Who were they?” Ian demanded, his voice cold and hard.
    “IRA, I presume. They were working with Flynn, whoever they were. There were six or seven of them, including a woman.”
    “Woman?” Ian echoed hoarsely.
    “The leader called her Maeve.”
    “I don’t believe it,” Holly said.
    “Believe it,” Ian said bitterly. “Women can be very deadly, and Maeve O’Connor is one of the worst. Flynn saw to that.”
    The three of them turned to stare at him. “You want toexplain that, Andrews?” Randall inquired suddenly, his voice deceptively gentle.
    “If I thought it would be of any use I would,” he replied. “But it won’t help you in the least, and it’s my business. So we’re heading for Beirut, are we? The whole bloody bunch of us?”
    “The whole bloody bunch of us,” Holly verified. “Got any objections?”
    “A thousand,” he said. “But I know none of you will listen. When do we fly out?”
    “There’s a flight back to London first thing tomorrow,” said Randall. “I suggest we catch it and work from there. In the meantime we’d better get what sleep we can. I sure as hell hope you don’t snore, Andrews.”
    “I’m sure he does,” Holly muttered under her breath to Maggie.
    Ian raised his head, his piercing gaze stabbing into hers. “You’ll die wondering,” he said.
    “Thank the Lord for small favors,” she said devoutly.
    “Amen,” said Ian.
    Maggie huddled down in the narrow bed, shivering. It seemed as if she’d never get warm again—the cold had penetrated to the very marrow of her bones.
    She looked over at her sister’s sleeping figure in the twin bed. It had taken Holly close to forty-five minutes to properly clean and cream her flawless complexion, to brush and floss her perfect teeth, to arrange her flowing midnight hair so that the hard pillow the little hotel offered did no damage to the rippling curls. Maggie hadn’t minded. As long as Holly puttered around, humming under her breath, cursing Ian when she discovered she only had seven suitcases out of her original twelve, the longer Maggie could have the dubious protection of the light.
    Not for anything would she confess to her sister that she was afraid of the dark. There were many reasons she couldn’t tell her, one of which was habit. She was used tobeing considered the strong one. She didn’t want to admit to an irrational weakness at a time when Holly needed to count on that strength.
    But most important of all, she didn’t want