Ice Storm Page 9

  But it could work to their advantage, as well. She looked up at the man pinning her against the wall, and turned to ice.

  It was Killian. Killian as she remembered him. The beard was gone, and so were the blackened teeth. He must have used wads of cotton to fill out his face. He still had his hair, and the bulk around his middle had been left in a pile with his discarded clothes. He was Killian, eighteen years older, and even more devastating than back then, when she’d been young and stupid. She couldn’t reach her gun, but the Swiss Army knife was close at hand, and even with a short blade she could do a lot of damage. She jerked against him, and the fool gave her enough room to get the knife open against his skin. He didn’t react.

  “I should gut you now and do the world a favor,” she said, pressing the knife a little harder against the base of his throat.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Bu you aren’t going to. You need me. And look at it this way—I came back for you.”

  “I didn’t need your help. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Hello, Mary Isobel. It’s been a long time.”

  She had pale skin, her freckles long gone, and she didn’t even blink. Her reactions were so well schooled that even he was impressed. If he’d rattled her she didn’t show

  it.

  She took a breath, and if it was just a trifle shakier than normal, most men wouldn’t have noticed. But he wasn’t most men. “I killed you once,” she said calmly. “I wouldn’t hesitate to kill you again.”

  “I imagine not. However, I’m your only chance of getting out of here. And you’re not the sort of woman who’d let a mission fail because you were pissed off.”

  “You think you know me?” He could feel the knife nick his skin, the faint trickle of blood running down inside his collar.

  “Better than you think. Are we going to stand here and rehash old times, or are we going to get the hell out of here?”

  She appeared to consider it for a moment. She was more than capable of slicing his throat—he’d kept very close tabs on her activities for the last eighteen years for no reason he was willing to admit to. She was capable of it, but he was equally adept at stopping her. Because he did, in fact, know her better than she could ever guess. The truth would horrify her.

  But he could save that news for later. In the meantime they had to get the hell away before the three Serbs caught up with them.

  It must have taken a lot of money to turn Samuel. Each friend was only as good as the price paid for his loyalty, but Samuel knew Serafin was good for staggering amounts. It was hard to believe someone had a bigger pocketbook. The knife pulled back from his throat, and he heard the almost silent click as she closed it. A fucking pocketknife—he’d been dangerously lax. “Lead on.” she said. “But know that if you do anything funny I’ll put a bullet in your back.” She reached in her pocket and handed him a piece of white cloth.

  “What’s this?”

  “A handkerchief. You’re bleeding,” she said. “I don’t want you leaving a trail.”

  “Thoughtful.” he murmured. But you don’t have to trail me like a Muslim wife. I prefer you where I can see you.”

  She said nothing. He could hear the voices in the courtyard now, the three men arguing. He’d already ascertained that they were heavily armed: if it was a question of firepower, he and Isobel were toast.

  But the day he couldn’t outthink and outrun even the best hired muscle would be the day he deserved to die. He looked down at Isobel—with her new face he couldn’t think of her as anything but that. His body was on high alert, and he finally had some unfinished business by his side. This was what he loved. “Then let’s go, princess,” he said. And he basked in the flash of hatred in her eyes. He didn’t bother trying to take her hand—she’d get that knife out in seconds flat, and this time she’d cut deeper. Not that he couldn’t stop her, but he didn’t want to waste a moment. He simply moved toward the back of the structure, keeping in the shadows, knowing she would follow his lead. He paused before an open section of the walkway, half hoping she’d stumble into him, but she didn’t.

  “I smell explosives,” she whispered. He shouldn’t be surprised; he knew she was one of the best. “I set them. Samuel tends to keep things well-fortified, and it only took a moment.”

  “You’re going to blow this place?”

  “With the Serbs in it.”

  “But what about Samuel and Shiraz?”

  “Who knows? Though I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if they were caught in the blast. I don’t like being sold out.”

  “Isn’t the explosion going to draw too much attention?”

  “A nice distraction. We’ll be long gone by the time anyone realizes what happened.”

  She didn’t argue, which surprised him. “Okay. But...” Her voice trailed off as they heard a muffled thump. It was nearby, coming from behind a closed door. The three Serbs were still at the far end of the courtyard, and the noise of the fountain masked the bumping sound. For now.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Go on ahead. Push the bed in our room out of the way and you’ll find a broken screen that leads out into the desert at the back of the house. Climb through there and start running. There’s a ridge about half a mile away—you’ll see it if it’s not too dark. I’ll catch up with you.

  “Don’t you think Samuel knows about the screen?”

  “Nope. I never go anywhere without a way out. Get going.”

  “And what are you doing”

  “Just checking out the noise. Don’t tell me you’re worried about me?”

  It was the right thing to say. It annoyed her so much she pushed. “You’re a job,” she said.

  “That’s right. Keep remembering that, and I’ll meet you behind the ridge.”

  He expected her to hesitate. He expected some sign—anger, regret. She just looked at him, her perfect face blank. “Be there,” she said. “I don’t like failure.” And she was off.

  Isobel figured she had no more than five minutes to cry. It was a simple release of stress, where no one could see her, and she did it silently. She did it silently as she moved, shoving the bed out of the way, scrambling through the broken screen and taking off across the rough ground. She was a good runner—she’d always made sure that when the cigarettes started to affect her wind she stopped smoking. But right now she wanted a cigarette even more than she wanted to make it over the ridge. By the time she slid over the op. onto the other side, the tears were gone and she was cool, collected and very very angry. She shouldn’t have left him behind. It had been a regrettable weakness on her part, but she was afraid if she’d stayed there she would have killed him.

  He knew her. It had been her one powerful weapon against the unwanted emotions that were roiling through her, that he had no idea who she was. She’d briefly entertained the fantasy of telling him just before she shoved a knife in his heart, and in her dreams it had always been a knife. She didn’t want to shoot him. She wanted something up close and personal. She wanted to see the pain, wanted his blood on her hands, wanted...

  To get over it. If he didn’t make it out of the building she’d move on with her life. If he did, she’d protect him for as long as necessary. And in the best of all possible worlds she wouldn’t even hate him anymore. She could let him go, to live out his murderous, evil existence in the luxury he’d earned in blood. There was a Jeep waiting at the ridge, not hers but another one, and she could just imagine Thomason’s reaction to her latest expense report. Sir Harry was a little man, and his loss of power had hit him hard. He made up for it by nickel-and-diming them as much as possible. The loss of her vehicle was not going to sit well. At least the thought of Thomason’s displeasure gave her spirits a momentary lift. She shouldn’t care, but she despised that man, and any way to make his life unpleasant cheered her. She slid the rest of the way down the ridge and headed for the Jeep, giving it a quick once-over. No incendiary devices�
��it wasn’t going to blow when she turned the key. Which she had every intention of doing if Killian didn’t show up in the next few minutes. There was always the possibility that in this case a failed mission might be preferable to a successful one. A moment later he appeared, moving fast, a bundle of rags in his arms. Get in,” he said. “I’m driving.”

  She didn’t bother to argue. He dumped the bundle in the back, climbing into the front seat, and she had no doubt he would have taken off without her if she’d hesitated. Settling in the seat beside him, she glanced at the still form of the child in the back.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Just drugged to keep them out of trouble. I realized if Samuel was going to sell me out, then he probably wasn’t going to leave any traces. Too bad, too. The Christian school would have done wonders.” Killian started the car, and at that very moment the sky erupted in noise and smoke and flames. Samuel’s expensive house, gone in a moment, the flames shooting to the sky. “Did you do that?” she asked. “Of course.”

  “Let’s hope your trusted friend was really well paid for selling you out.”

  Killian headed into the night, driving fast, not even looking at her. “Let’s hope my trusted friend was still inside and went up with the Serbs.”

  “Is that what they were? I didn’t recognize the language they were speaking.”

  “Serbs, I made a few enemies there.”

  She remembered the failed execution of thousands of ethnic Bosnians. The notorious Serafin had been responsible for the screw up and the prisoners’ subsequent escape. Yes, he’d undoubtedly made enemies. The Jeep went over a bump, and Mahmoud’s unconscious form slid to the floor. “Don’t worry about him,” Killian said. “He’s safer down there, anyway.” They were driving very fast over the rough terrain, and all Isobel could do was hold on.

  “So you knew it was Mahmoud when you stayed behind? Why?” The night was mercifully dark, the headlights spearing straight out into the desert, so she couldn’t see him clearly. Sooner or later the moon would come out and she’d have no choice but to look at him, search his face for the ghost of the man she’d loved. But for now things were thankfully anonymous. He didn’t answer, and Isobel’s senses went into high alert. “I thought you said he wasn’t your sex slave.”

  “He’s too young for me,” Killian said, unruffled. “And stop being so obsessed about my sex life. I’m keeping Mahmoud alive because—” He stopped.

  “Because?”

  “I killed his sister,” he said finally, his voice casual, belying his uncharacteristic hesitation.

  “You probably killed a lot of people’s sisters in your time. What makes this boy special?”

  He didn’t deny it. How could he, when she knew the facts? “Mahmoud was a street kid, recruited as a child soldier. He’s probably killed more people than you have, princess. I’m guessing his mother’s Arab, but no one knows for sure. The father’s something else. Mahmoud’s a mongrel, with no side to take him in.”

  “Except the people who put a gun in his hand. If he had no parents, how did he have a sister?”

  “She wasn’t really his sister. But she looked after him, and was the closest thing to family he had.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Isobel felt the cold settle in the pit of her stomach. “And you killed her?”

  “Shot her in the head, point-blank.” Killian said, with calm detachment. “She was seven months pregnant.” There was no sound in the car, just the noise of the engine and the wind rushing past them. “So you see, he has a pretty good reason for wanting to torture me to death.”

  For a moment Isobel was speechless. “You could tell him you’re sorry. Not that that would help much.”

  She could feel Killian’s eyes on her as they sped through the night, but she wouldn’t turn to face him. “I’m not sorry I killed her,” he said. “And Mahmoud knows that. So in his mind I must pay, slowly and painfully.”

  “And you’re encouraging him?”

  “Let’s just say I’m willing to accept him as the instrument of divine retribution if that’s what’s going to get me. He has as good a reason as anyone.”

  She glanced back at the small figure lying on the floor of the Jeep. He wasn’t the first casualty of a crazy, violent world, and he wouldn’t be the last. She’d learned long ago that she couldn’t save anyone’s soul, and she’d given up trying.

  “Where are we heading?”

  “Samuel said he’d arranged a plane over by the western cliffs. I figure he’d hedge his bets, have the plane there anyway and play innocent when he hears about the Serbs.”

  “Don’t you think the plane could be a trap?”

  “Anything’s possible. But Samuel has no particular reason to want me dead, apart from material gain, and he’ll have already been well paid. He wouldn’t sell me out for less than twice what his house is worth, so he should be feeling benevolent. He gets the money, a new house and a good friend survives.”

  “You don’t mind that he betrayed you?”

  At that moment the moon came out over the desert landscape, and Killian looked as he had eighteen years before. Young and beautiful and honorable.

  “I’d have done the same thing, and he knows it. I’m not holding a grudge.”

  She stared at him. “I would.”

  He snorted. “I’m well aware of that. Which is why I’m going to watch my back. You killed me once—I’m guessing you’d be even better at it this time around.”

  “Count on it,” she said in a cool, deadly voice.

  He smiled at her. “I look forward to you trying,” he said.

  Isobel wondered if she could shove him out of the airplane somewhere over the Mediterranean. No, a knife would be best. Hand to hand, with blood. She leaned back in the bouncing car, still clinging tightly. For the first time in her life she was actually going to enjoy it.

  10

  The last thing Peter Madsen needed was Sir Harry Thomason sitting in his office, smoking a cigar and badgering him. Genevieve would smell the smoke on him and grumble, and he had more important things to concentrate on than keeping Thomason’s nose out of their business. Business like the Japanese punk living upstairs, ostensibly perfecting his English but—from the credit card bills—spending far too much time playing video games. buying hip-hop and nailing every attractive female in the city. Peter once more cursed his old friend Takashi, who’d been remarkably unhelpful when he’d called him.

  “We needed him out of the country.” Taka had said in his slow, deep voice. “He got into a little trouble with the daughter of a rival oyabun, his grandfather’s ready to chop off half his fingers, and the Tokyo police are on the lookout for him. To top that off, Summer’s little sister is coming over for a few months, and I don’t want Reno anywhere near her. He’s smart, he’s got skills and he’s not nearly the punk he tries to be. You remember the night on White Crane Mountain—we might not have made it without his help. He’s got potential.”

  “Like a slum apartment in Brighton,” Peter said gloomily. “When can I send him home?”

  “You can’t. At least not until things quiet down around here and July’s gone back to the States. Besides, you’re shorthanded, I’m tied up over here and Madame Lambert’s on assignment. You need the help.”

  Peter had merely grunted. Taka was right—Reno was smart, ruthless, inventive and fresh blood. He could be useful, if Peter could just figure out how.

  In the meantime, Sir Harry Thomason was a pimple on his ass when he was already beginning to worry about Isobel. She hadn’t checked in. She hadn’t met her transport in Morocco, she hadn’t called in, and there’d been no word from Serafin. Peter had been monitoring trouble spots, looking for some clue, but the region was so flicked up that there was no way he could tell whether a car bombing or a kidnapping or a house exploding had anything to do with her. Thomason was the last person with whom he was going to share his concerns. Their old boss had been sitting in Isobel�
�s office when Peter came in, sating in her chair as if he belonged there. It was no surprise that he wanted back in—Harry Thomason liked power. The only surprise was to see him being so blatant about it.

  “Where is she?” he demanded now. “I gather she’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and you weren’t going to tell me. Do you have even the faintest idea what kind of mess she’s in?”

  “Nothing she can’t get out of:’ Peter said. Short of physically ejecting Thomason there was no way he could get him out of Isobel’s chair, and. much as he’d love to do it, Thomason still held some power within the Committee.

  Sir Harry frowned. “We’re not running a rogue operation here, Madsen. You have to report to somebody.”

  “I do. I report to Isobel. If and when I deem it necessary to inform the Committee of any change in those circumstances, then I’ll do so”

  Thomason said nothing, puffing furiously on the cigar. It was an affectation; he wanted to be Winston Churchill and he’d ended up like Stalin. The thought would have amused Peter if he wasn’t uneasy about Isobel.

  “What’s going on with the new recruit?” His old boss changed tactics. “How much goddamned money are you giving him?”

  “He’s new to the country. We set him up in an apartment, gave him spending money and a debit card. Relocating is expensive.”

  Thomason didn’t look mollified. “I suppose he’s going to get a Saville Row wardrobe to try to blend in. I’m not sure we ought to be hiring Taka’s cousin. One Asian comes in handy. Two might stick out, no matter how well they dress.”

  Peter’s expression didn’t crack. “I already suggested a new wardrobe, but so far he’s resistant. He’s concentrating on English lessons and getting comfortable in his new environment. I have every expectation that he’ll work out just fine.” Actually, Peter felt nothing but gloom at the thought of the flamboyant Reno let loose on the world, but he wasn’t about to share that information.