Free Rogue Angel 50: Celtic Fire by Alex Archer

to. But he’d never tell Roux that. Likewise Roux would have done anything in his power to help Garin if he was up to his neck in it, and he’d be every bit as grudging in admitting that Garin was the yang to his yin.
    She stayed behind the wheel, waiting for Garin to debark the Gulfstream.
    After a moment the seal around the airtight door popped and the door came down, the built-in ladder descending until it reached the ground. Garin emerged a moment later, dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, jacket slung over his shoulder, aviator sunglasses in place.
    Roux came a moment later, gray and grizzled and most of all tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
    He saw her car parked up on the asphalt and descended the steps, waving a hand toward her as he approached. He had an overnight case in one hand and a smaller leather grip bag clutched in his other. Garin carried one in his free hand. They were clearly prepared for this—whatever this was—to take more than a day to resolve. She’d expected nothing less, really. Roux wasn’t keen on forgoing his creature comforts if it could be helped, so whatever had happened was important enough to keep him away from the poker tables and the château. Add to the fact he’d called in both of them, and that spelled trouble with a capital T. But at least he was in one piece. She realized she’d been holding her breath, half expecting the worst; hell, if Roux could do one thing well it was get into trouble.
    “Annja, you’re a sight for sore eyes, girl. Good to see you. Thanks for agreeing to come,” Roux said as she got out of the car to embrace him. Annja decided not to tell him she hadn’t agreed to anything, as much fun as being pedantic could be. He knew he’d not given her an actual choice.
    “Not a problem,” she said, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt as she popped open the trunk. They slung their luggage inside. Roux kept ahold of the leather bag.
    Garin smirked. It was the kind of smirk that he thought made him look raffish and debonair but really only made him look like a smug fool. At least he didn’t hold out his hands for the keys. She had no intention of letting him drive. He slid onto the passenger’s seat without a word. Annja hoped that he was going to stay that way. Every now and then silence really was golden.
    She gave it a few minutes, pulling out of the airfield and out onto the main road, before she asked, “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
    She watched the older man through the rearview mirror. He stared straight ahead, clutching that leather bag to his chest.
    He didn’t speak, but neither did he relax his grip on the bag.
    Annja couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him like this—half there, half somewhere else. Probably back when he’d been so manfully convincing her to surrender the fragment of Joan’s sword, back when Garin would have happily killed her to make sure her reconstituting the sword wouldn’t jinx whatever weird curse was supposedly keeping the pair of them alive. The worst of it, she realized, was how frail Roux looked.
    She knew him well enough to know he’d talk when he was ready and not before.
    “Sorry I had to drag you from your vacation,” he said at last. “I know you’d been looking forward to it, but needs must when the devil drives.” The road swung away from the last of the shoulder-to-shoulder houses and out into the country again.
    “Garin said you were in trouble,” Annja replied.
    She glanced at him but his eyes were still firmly set on the road ahead.
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “And what manner would that be?” Annja asked.
    “The pretty damn blunt manner,” Garin said. “Tell her, old man. No need to dress it up all pretty, she’s a big girl.”
    Roux took a deep breath, like he was preparing to off-load some huge confession. “I shouldn’t have involved you...not yet. Not until I was sure.” This didn’t sound like him; this sounded like a man who