Ice Storm Read online

  “I’ve sent Ahmad to take care of the girl,” one man said. “I don’t know why you didn’t kill her when you had a chance. She served her purpose.” She heard Killian’s voice, familiar and yet strange, cold-blooded and devoid of any emotion. “She provided excellent cover, and I pumped her so full of drugs she won’t remember a thing. Another dead body will just bring more attention, particularly when it’s a young American’

  “I don’t think that’s all you pumped her with.” The next speaker gave a snigger of a laugh. “Loose ends are a mistake.”

  “So is overkill” Killian said calmly.

  “We’ll live with the consequences. She’s dead by now, and Ahmad will get rid of the body. Everyone minds their own business in that part of town, and no one’s likely to question her disappearance. You’re sure her family has no idea where she is?”

  “She hasn’t been in touch with them for the last two weeks. I made certain of it. I know my business. She was the perfect mark—no family or tics to speak of, entirely at loose ends. No one will miss her.”

  “So why didn’t you finish her? You have a reputation for taking care of details.”

  “I’ve been more concerned with completing the job and killing General Matanga. The girl knew nothing— she wouldn’t have caused us any trouble.”

  “And if she did?”

  “Then I would have killed her.” Killian said in a cool, dispassionate voice. “As it was, I didn’t think she was worth the trouble....”

  Their voices were trailing off. She didn’t dare move, to see which direction they were heading, but the sound of a metal door opening and closing suggested they’d gone into the warehouse. She sank down slowly, the tarp still shielding her, so that she was sitting in the dirt and mud, her legs unable to hold her any longer. She shut her eyes, forced herself to breathe deeply, steadily, when she wanted to scream. She didn’t dare draw any attention to herself; if she was going to make it out of there alive she needed to run, fast, before anyone saw her.

  But Etienne Matanga... She kept out of politics whenever she could, nonetheless even she had heard of him, head of the revolutionary forces in his small African nation. A decent man, a leader, despite the fact that most of the free world found him a threat. He was the best hope for stability in a diamond-rich nation torn by tribal warfare, genocide and lawlessness. And Killian had murdered him. She couldn’t believe it. This freakish nightmare had to stop—she’d been a weak-minded idiot. She’d find gendarmes, bring them to the old warehouse, tell them everything. She had no idea what Matanga was doing in France, or what Killian had to do with him.... The smart thing would be to run, as far and as fast as she could, and forget all about it. Forget about Killian. She couldn’t do it. During the long, cold hours she’d searched the docks, her anger had turned to a solid knot, mixed with an undeniable need for revenge. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Get away with anything. But maybe there was still time; maybe Killian hadn’t killed Matanga yet. She had no idea how long it was since he’d left her, drugged and helpless, at the hotel, but he might not have committed murder.

  She shoved the tarp aside, struggling to her feet. If she moved fast, she could.—

  “There you are, chérie,” a rough voice said. “I’ve been looking for you.” She turned, slowly, to face a very large man with a very large gun. Killian still had blood on his hands. They’d had to work quickly, arranging the bodies and scattering the broken packets of heroin. It was an expensive setup— the smack could have gone for half a million on the open market, but it was an important part of the show. The French police would confiscate it, and somewhere down the line someone who shouldn’t, would get his hands on it, but that wasn’t Killian’s business. His business was almost done.

  Etienne Matanga, so-called savior of Western Leone, had died in a shoot-out with his fellow drug smugglers, leaving no one alive. That he’d been supporting his resistance movement with drug money would destroy any reputation the former priest had left. He had led his army of followers in attempting a peaceful coup, and he was so popular he’d almost made it. But his plans for the country were at odds with those of Killian’s employers, and he had to die, disgraced and discounted. And Killian had seen to it, with his usual efficiency. He was sorry about Mary Isobel. He’d tried to set it up so that she could get away unharmed. He’d found a great deal of pleasure in her semi-drugged body the last few days, a good way to keep his mind off what he’d been ordered to do. And he’d found pleasure in the last few weeks, an odd kind of companionship he didn’t remember feeling before. Maybe if he’d lived a different life he really would have loved her. Instead of being the death of her. He was sorry they’d sent Ahmad. The West African wouldn’t have been able to linger over his work—time was of the essence. But he would have made it hurt, because he was a master at inflicting pain, and Mary Isobel Curwen hadn’t deserved that. She hadn’t deserved anything that she’d gotten, but then, life was a bitch and then you died. She’d just died a little earlier than expected.

  He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. As soon as he got to Southeast Asia, his next destination, he was going to dye his hair, maybe grow a beard. He popped out the green tinted contact lenses and stared back at his own grayish-blue eyes. He looked exactly like who he was—a cool, ruthless bastard who always finished what he started.

  He heard noise in the warehouse—voices, when they shouldn’t be talking. No doubt President Okawe’s men were thinking he was dispensable. After all, they owed him a great deal of money for shepherding the current operation through to its successful conclusion, and dictators seldom liked to part with anything they didn’t have to. Killian sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for this. It had been a rough night.

  Then again, he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between Ahmad’s close-set eyes. Just because.

  Someone rapped on the thin door of the toilet. “Entre,” he grumbled.

  “We’ve got a problem.” It was Jules, the weaselly half African, half French liaison.

  “No, we don’t,” Killian said. “I did my part. I want my money, and then I’m out of here. The rest is up to you.” “Your girlfriend showed up.” He paused as he was shoving clothes into his duffel bag, just for a moment. “So?”

  “So we don’t know who she’s talked to. You said you kept her drugged, but she seems to know far too much already. What the luck is going on?”

  “The drugs would have worn off by now,” he said, weary. “And what’s going on is that Ahmad blew it. When I left her she was out of it, and not likely to remember a thing.”

  “Then how did she get here? I don’t think she’s the innocent you think she is.”

  “Trust me, she’s an innocent. Clueless to the point of recklessness. If she showed up here it’s nothing more than dumb luck.”

  “Not lucky for her. Ahmad’s got her out in the warehouse, and he’s annoyed. He figures she owes him a little time for the aggravation she put him through searching for her.”

  Killian had seen Ahmad’s handiwork in the past.

  There wouldn’t be much left of Mary Isobel Curwen when he was done. Which was probably the best thing that could happen. “Then Ahmad’s happy, you’re happy, everyone’s happy. Except for the girl, but she doesn’t count. What’s it got to do with me?”

  Jules looked at him for a long, contemplative moment, searching for weakness, regret, any emotion whatsoever. He didn’t find it. “All right,” he said finally. “You can go out he back way if you don’t want to see her. Just turn left.” It was a challenge; one that Killian had every intention of ignoring. He didn’t need to see her again, didn’t need to know what she was going to go through before she died. He already had a fairly good idea. The smartest thing to do was head out the back way, straight to the small cargo plane waiting to take him out of here. These things happened, and the wise decision was move on with his life, he couldn’t care less,” he said, shouldering his duffel. He headed toward the sound of voices, Ahmad’s, low and
menacing. And Mary’s voice, the one that had whispered in his ear when he was inside her, the voice that had cried his name when she came. The voice that had kept him company the last two weeks, keeping him entertained, charmed, distracted. He turned right, pushing open the metal door to the huge expanse of empty warehouse. She was standing there, silhouetted by the open door and the rainy night beyond, holding a gun in her hand.

  He was momentarily astonished. Had he been that inept to not recognize an agent when he’d spent two weeks with her? But then he saw the way she was holding the gun, and it was clear she’d never touched one in her life. There was no sign of Ahmad. Killian dropped his duffel. He had a handgun tucked in his belt—he didn’t need to draw it. She could see it clearly enough, and he could move faster than she could. She’d be dead before she managed to pull the trigger; if that was the way he wanted it. “Where’s Ahmad?” he said.

  She didn’t blink. He wondered if all the drugs had left her system. She was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, which, in fact, she was. “He left. He asked me if I wanted to kill you, and I said yes. So he gave me the gun and he left.”

  Killian couldn’t help it—he laughed. If this was Jules’s way of getting rid of him, it was a singularly ineffective way of doing so. If Mary Isobel had been a professional she’d still have been no match for him. As it was, she was doomed.

  “You’re not going to kill me, princess,” he said. “You don’t even know how to hold a gun. Just set it down, and maybe you can leave here without any more fuss.”

  The gun was shaking in her hands, and he couldn’t see whether the safety was off. Ahmad was a thorough man; he’d probably set it for her before he disappeared.

  “Did you murder Etienne Matanga?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you drug me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you save me in Plymouth, take me with you?”

  “Because you provided a good cover. They were already looking for me—someone tipped off the authorities that a single male was planning a hit, but they didn’t know who, and they didn’t know where. I didn’t want anyone looking too closely at me, and you were enough to distract them.”

  “Marie-Claire?”

  “I made her up.”

  Mary Isabel didn’t ask what else he’d made up. She knew. He’d made up everything. If he’d been a different man he would have felt sorry for her.

  But he was who be was, and he felt nothing at all. Apart from a mild concern about the gun she was holding.

  “If you shoot me, Ahmad and Jules will finish you off. You’d be smart to just put the gun down and walk away.”

  “And let a murderer go free?”

  “It’s not your business.”

  “You made it my business.”

  He sighed. He was going to have to kill her, after all. She was too hysterical for him to let her go, and her gun was wavering dangerously. He was seriously annoyed with Jules and Ahmad—this was the last thing he’d wanted to do.

  “I’m afraid...” he began, reaching for the gun.

  He flew backward, spun around and landed on the floor, momentarily stunned. The bitch had shot him. She had actually pulled the trigger. If he weren’t so pissed off he would have laughed. She was more of a survivor than he would have guessed.

  He was bleeding like a stuck pig, but he didn’t move. As he’d fallen, he’d managed to get his hand on his gun, and if she approached him to finish the job, he’d roll over and shoot her before she could blink.

  It’s what he ought to do, anyway. She was just standing there, unmoving, and he could hear her choked breathing, as if she’d been running for a very long time. He waited for her, as he felt the blood poor beneath him.

  A step. Two. She was coming to check on him. He should roll over now, shoot her between the eyes. It would be so fast she wouldn’t have time to realize what was happening.

  But he didn’t move.

  Then, a moment later, she was gone. She’d vanished into the rain-swept Marseille night. And he pushed himself up off the cement floor and started after her.

  9

  Now

  The room was dark when Isobel opened her eyes. She’d somehow managed to fall asleep sitting on the floor in Samuel’s back bedroom, and she scrambled to her feet, reaching behind her for her gun. There was no sign of Serafin. The bathroom door was open, but he’d finished his shower long ago—there was no scent of water and soap in the air. His discarded clothes were piled on a chair, along with what looked like bandages and other trash. She checked the bathroom, but the surfaces were already dry. She checked the door to the main section of the house. Locked, of course. If she wasn’t so annoyed she would have laughed. Who did he think he was dealing with? Granted, she’d fallen asleep at an inappropriate time, and slept heavily. She could thank Shiraz’s doctored coffee for that. She’d been a fool to drink it, but she’d needed the caffeine so badly she’d risked it, and now she was paying the price. Serafin must have been careful not to drink enough to affect him.

  Unless his coffee had been drugged as well, and he’d been taken while she slept. Possible, but unlikely. If his enemies had found him they wouldn’t have left her alive; they’d both be dead by now. She could only assume he’d watched her sleep and gone off on his own, for God knew what reason. She wasn’t happy. She’d come all this way to rescue a man who was, in every possible way, reprehensible. A mercenary, a warlord, terrorist, a man responsible for thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of deaths. A man who’d used her, betrayed her and planned to kill her. The first man she’d ever killed—or thought she’d killed. For all those years. She’d be entirely happy to

  have him be the last man she ever killed. She had no choice. She never let emotions get in the way of her work, and she wasn’t about to Start. When she was finished she could let go. For now she had a job to do, a monster to find and protect.

  It took her less than a minute to open the lock, only to find the door had been chained shut. as well, so she could only open it a few scant inches. She considered banging it until someone came, then rejected the thought. That would be childish, and, even if she felt like a thwarted child, she wasn’t going to give in to it. There was a large window looking onto the inner courtyard. She pushed the curtain aside, but the window was grilled and barred—probably to keep the women inside, she thought grimly. For now there was no way out. She had no choice but to wait until someone, presumably Serafin, returned.

  She put her hands on the grille, yanking at it in frustration, only to find it moved. She looked up. The house was new, the grillwork fastened in with Phillips screws. And two of them were missing. God bless MacGyver, she thought wistfully, and headed for the small duffel she’d brought with her. The Swiss Army knife was still there. In a matter of minutes she had the heavy ironwork unscrewed and out of its frame.

  The courtyard was silent in the darkness. How long had she slept? She was still feeling slightly dazed from the drug, a fact that annoyed her enough to chase the last sleepiness out of her brain. She didn’t like it when someone made a fool of her. Someone was going to be very sorry. She climbed out the window, dropping to the ground below. The house was built Arab-style, with all the windows and doors opening onto a central, tiled courtyard. The only sound she could hear was the quiet splash of the fountain.

  The rooms she and Serafin had been put in were at the bottom of the square courtyard. and from outside Looked like storage space and nothing more. Maybe Samuel had a habit of hiding people. A safe haven would be a valuable commodity in any part of North Africa. She ducked into the shadows, moving down the covered walkway that lined the courtyard and separated it from the house. She still had the gun tucked at the small of her back, and she was more than ready to use it. Preferably on Serafin.

  There wasn’t a sound in the entire place. It was getting close to dinnertime, and yet there were no lights, no murmur of voices. Just the steady splash of the fountain. strangely ominous. Something was very wr
ong. She sensed someone there. The sound was so small another person might have missed it—just a faint breath of wind, a slight shuffle of clothing. Then she heard voices, in a language she didn’t recognize. Not Arabic—something European, maybe Slavic. Hadn’t Serafin done some of his dirty work in Bosnia? Was there any trouble spot in the world that he hadn’t contributed to?

  And now they’d found him. Or at least they’d found where he was hiding—she could tell from the tone of the voices that they were frustrated, tense, still searching. So Samuel had managed to get him away, leaving her like a sitting duck. No matter. She could handle herself. Now she was going to have to incapacitate the men who were looking for Serafin, and there were at least three, from the sound of things. Once she got rid of them, she’d find the son of a bitch, her nemesis, and drag him back to England. She hadn’t come this far to fail. She’d started forward silently, heading toward the intruders, when she heard the sound again, the almost- not-there breath, and a moment later she was slammed against the wall by a large body. He didn’t bother slapping a hand over her mouth— he knew she wouldn’t scream and alert the Serbs. She let him push her back into a corner of the walkway, knowing who it was, hating him.

  “Samuel sold us out,” he whispered against her ear. In the darkness it was Killian, and eighteen years ago... and she wanted to weep.

  “Who can blame him?” Her answering whisper was ice-cold. “I’d do the same.”

  “I’m sure you would. I happen to know a way out. Just be glad I decided to take you with me.”

  The lights in the courtyard came on suddenly, and the eerie sound of music filled the air. Either the stereo was wired with the light switches, or someone wanted some noise to cover his movements.