Ice Storm

by user

  The monster, the butcher, the man who’d put a bullet in the head of a pregnant fifteen-year-old, who worked for terrorists and sadists and genocidal maniacs, had told her he loved her.

  And even more horrifying was the undeniable fact that she loved him, and always had. Even when she’d thought she’d killed him. Even if she had to kill him again, she loved him.

  And there was no way she could live with that sick, awful knowledge.

  She could run. She, who never ran, never faltered, never shirked her duty. She could slip out of his sleeping arms, pull on her clothes and leave this place. Just vanish, into the night air.

  She could do it—she had the skills. Peter wouldn’t find her. He’d certainly be able to, but he wouldn’t do so. He’d let her go, because he’d know that she wouldn’t run unless she absolutely had to.

  And he could take over the Committee in her place. He was better al keeping Harry Thomason’s delusions at bay, and he knew everything she knew. She still had to fight her emotions, the feelings breaking through her icy calm. Peter had made peace with that long ago. He had no emotions, except when it came to Genevieve. He could take care of business with icy composure, find out who and what was behind this latest string of disasters, and make sure whoever they were stopped. He could see that Killian was set up in the style he was demanding. And meanwhile Isobel would be gone. Where no one, not even Killian, could find her.

  It was almost as if he were hearing her thoughts in his deep, exhausted sleep, because he stirred, his grip tightening, and muttered a soft grunt of protest under his breath. As if he knew she was going to run.

  He’d try to stop her, of course. He was good enough to get away with it. Almost.

  But in the end he’d let her go. Because he didn’t want to love her any more than she wanted him to.

  Their lives were ones to be lived alone. Solitary, empty. No room for other people.

  The room smelled of sex, creating a thick, drugging atmosphere, and her body hurt. She slid out of his arms, carefully enough that he didn’t waken, and made her way to the small, rusty shower, closing the door and turning on the water full blast. They hadn’t been able to upgrade the plumbing, not without involving outsiders, and as she’d told Peter with macabre humor, they’d then have to kill them. But the water was hot and plentiful, and she let it steam down over her as she cried.

  And then Killian was there with her, crammed into the metal cubicle, holding her, pressing her head against his shoulder as she wept, her face against the place where she’d shot him.

  She thought they’d have sex again, and she wouldn’t have argued, though her legs were so weak she could barely stand. But he only held her, taking the cloth and washing her body with a slow, exquisite tenderness that had nothing to do with sex.

  He kissed her gently, brushing the water and tears from her face. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he whispered, meaningless words of comfort.

  She didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. Taking comfort from him was even worse than loving him, and after a moment she made herself push away from him, step out of the shower and grab a towel.

  She expected him to follow. She expected him to take her back to that bed, and she would have gone.

  But he didn’t. He stayed in the shower, and through the glass door she could see him leaning against the wall, the water beating down on him, his eyes closed. He looked...defeated. Just as she felt.

  There was fresh underwear in the closet. Her clothes were still on the living room floor, and she didn’t want to put them on. Not the tailored trousers, not the cashmere sweater, not the leather heels. She didn’t have any choice. She dressed quickly, twisting her wet hair up into a tight bun at the back of her head. There was a mirror, and she didn’t want to look. But pride made her.

  No one would think she was ageless. She looked exactly like what she was: young and stupid again. In love with a monster.

  She heard the signal from the hidden doorway, and she snapped to attention, pulling the mask of Isobel Lambert back over Mary Curwen’s lost face.

  By the time Peter made it into the room, there was no sign that poor girl had ever existed.

  “Sorry,” he said, “Were you awake?”

  He had blood on his clothing. “What happened?”

  “They took Mahmoud.”

  “Who did?” Her last moment of weakness vanished, replaced by an icy rage. “Did they kill him? Whose blood is that on your clothes?”

  “As far as I know, Mahmoud’s still in one piece. They’re holding him for ransom. In exchange for Serafin, in fact. And it’s Reno’s blood.”

  She could feel the ice spreading through her veins, stinging, numbing. “Did they kill him?”

  “No. He’s got a gash on his forehead and a broken arm. Maybe a concussion, but there was no way we could keep him in hospital. We figured it would be easier to keep an eye on him if we had him with us— otherwise he could be nothing but trouble.”

  “Bastien’s here. He brought Chloe and the children— they’re staying in the Golders Green safe house with Genevieve. Someone tried to take them out, back in the States.”

  “No one could get through the kind of security he had set up there,” she said, her voice flat. “No one even knew where he was, outside the Committee.”

  “Exactly.” Peter pulled a small piece of equipment out of his pocket and set it on the table. “The kidnappers left a GPS with instructions. Killian’s supposed to follow it, alone, and they’ll let Mahmoud go.”

  “Why would they think he’d do that?”

  “Why would he insist on bringing the kid halfway across the world with him? It doesn’t matter why, only that he hasn’t let go of him and isn’t about to.”

  “Were you able to download the information from the GPST

  “Not yet. But Bastien figured out the coordinates. It’s someplace in Wilders.”

  “Shit,” Isobel said, as things fell together in her mind. “Have we been complete idiots all this time? That’s where Harry Thomason’s country house is. But why? He’d kill all these people because of his hurt pride?”

  “Oh, it’s more than that:’ Peter said. “I expect he wants to take over the Committee again, and the best way to do that is to prove how incompetent you are. Operatives dying under your watch is a perfect example.”

  “Hell, he put out termination orders on half the people working under him!” Isobel snapped.

  “I don’t think he’s planning to give you a chance to argue. These attacks on Serafin—Killian—have been just as dangerous for you. I think you were the real target.”

  “I already told her that.” She hadn’t even heard Killian come into the room. He was dressed, his hair still wet from the shower, his eyes hooded. She could see the mark her mouth had made on the side of his neck, and she turned her face away, shivering. “Isobel didn’t wan to believe it.”

  Peter looked at Killian for a long moment, sizing him up. “You haven’t given us much reason to believe you in the past. I’m Peter Madsen, by the way. I’m one of the people who carried you up here. If you’ve got a few bruises you can thank me for them.”

  “Oh, I think Isobel contributed her share,” he said, casting an oblique glance in her direction. She ignored him, keeping her expression stony.

  “How long have you been listening?” Peter said, his voice cold.

  “Since you got here. They have Mahmoud and they want me in exchange. Simple enough.”

  “Not so simple. They really want Isobel.”

  His smile was slow and cool. “It’s still simple. He’s the bad guy. We don’t give him what he wants. I go get Mahmoud and you keep her here.”

  “You think you can just waltz in there and pluck Mahmoud out?” she asked, her calm cracking. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be fool enough to underestimate an enemy.”

  “Sounds like he’s more your enemy than mine,” Killian said. “And I never underestimate anyone. Except you, perhaps.” The enigmatic words hung in the air. �
�I’m quite good at ingratiating myself with bad people, Isobel. Like to like. I’ll tell him that I’ll set you up if he gives me Mahmoud.”

  “Would you? Give up Isobel for Mahmoud? Why?” Peter didn’t bother to disguise his hostility.

  “I didn’t say I would. I’m not very trustworthy,” he said with a wry smile. “Once Mahmoud is safe, you and whatever operatives you have left can go in and clean up the mess.”

  “I’ve got an old friend of yours downstairs,” Peter said. “Bastien Toussaint.”

  Killian didn’t even blink. “It’s been a long time.”

  “But Bastien has a long memory.”

  “As do I.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Isobel demanded. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Peter glanced at Killian. “You want to enlighten her? Or shall I?”

  “I think this isn’t a very good moment to complicate things. We need to get Mahmoud out of there, though if the boy is still armed I’d back him against whatever thugs Thomason has managed to hire.”

  Isobel felt Killian’s eyes on her, but she wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t meet his quizzical gaze. She’d betrayed everything she’d believed in, by falling into bed with him, and now the worst kind of disaster had happened. There were a hundred different ways she could have handled this, each of them an improvement over what had happened. She had to become who she was, make the hard decisions, do what needed to be done.

  “You’re staying here,” she said. “No arguments. You’re much too valuable a commodity to risk for one small child. I’ve told you he’s too much of a liability— you should have gotten rid of him long ago.”

  “Is that why your back got shredded when you protected him from the car bomb?” he said, his voice silky.

  “Mistaken impulse. We’ll get him out if we can. But this is internal business—they’re just using you, and I’m not going to let that happen. You’re staying put.”

  “And if I choose not to?”

  “No choice. This place is as hard to get out of as it is to get into.”

  She was prepared for anger, for arguments, but he simply shrugged. “All right. If I’m out, then I’m out. I’m going to make myself something to eat. For some reason I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

  No color flooded her face, no expression flitted through her eyes. She was back in control, and the crazy, endless hours might never have happened. “Just give me a minute. Peter,” she said.

  She’d left her elegant leather purse in the bedroom, next to the rumpled bed. It was custom made: the inner pockets held two handguns, a syringe, a Tazer that could be set to kill levels, and an emergency tracking device. She moved into the bedroom and switched on the overhead light.

  And froze for the briefest of moments. It still smelled of sex. The mattress had slid halfway off the bed, the sheets were a tangled mess, the pillows gone. She could see her purse under one corner of the bed, and made herself kneel down on the floor to get it. When she felt the presence of someone in the doorway, watching her, she froze.

  It was only Peter. Peter, who took in the room with his cold blue eyes and didn’t miss a thing. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She started to put her hand on the bed to push herself up again, but didn’t want to touch it. With anyone else she could have held up, but this was Peter, the only family she had, so she smiled crookedly. “I screwed up. I guess everyone gets fucked by a monster at least once in their lives.”

  “There’s something I should tell you

  “What’s Killian doing?” She sat back on her heels. “How did you know his name is Killian, by the way? Is that even his name?”

  “It’s his name. Bastien told me.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  There was a faint, creaking noise deep within the walls, inexplicable. “What’s that?”

  “Rats?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s no way out of here, is there? He can’t open the windows?”

  “You know as well as I do how secure it is. They’re nailed shut.” The squeaking noise got fainter, and a look of horror crossed Isobel’s face. She surged off the floor, running past Peter into the empty living room. The deserted kitchen. There was no sign of Killian anywhere.

  “How the hell did he get out?” Peter demanded, coming up behind her.

  “The dumbwaiter,” she said. She yanked open the aging kitchen cabinet to expose the empty shaft. “How did he even know it was there? We left it in place in case someone needed it for an emergency escape, remember?”

  “All right. But he’s still not going to kill Bastien.”

  “Why not?”

  Peter hesitated for only a moment. “Because Killian’s CIA. This is just one more undercover sting, trying to take down the Committee, but this time Harry Thomason is getting to it first.”

  “What?” Isobel felt as if she were falling, twisting and turning, and she grabbed on to the kitchen counter, her knuckles white. “He’s what?”

  “One of the good guys. Or let’s say one of the not so bad guys. We should have figured it out, since each time he fucked up, disasters were averted and lives were saved. He’s good at what he does, he’s very good. But he and Bastien came to an understanding years ago. He’s not after us.”

  “I’m going to kill him:’ she said in a tight, determined voice.

  “I would have thought he’d told you,” Peter said. “Considering...”

  She knew he was referring to the wrecked state of the bedroom. “I would have thought so, too:’ she said grimly. “Let’s get out of here. We need to get to Thomason before he does.”

  “Why? Thomason will keep him alive until he gets his hands on you.”

  “Because I want to be waiting there to kill him myself.” Isobel said.

  “Thomason or Killian?”

  “Both,” she snapped. “Both.”

  22

  Killian had a solid head start. By now Bastien or Peter would have told Isobel what he couldn’t tell her. She’d know just how deep his lies had been. In a dream world she’d be relieved that he wasn’t the international war criminal he’d pretended to be.

  But it wasn’t a dream world, and even when he could have, should have, he hadn’t told her the truth.

  It wasn’t his truth to tell. He couldn’t compromise his mission, couldn’t walk away without telling his superiors first. He’d spent too many years doing what had to be done, and that was a part of him he couldn’t change. His moral code would never be recognized as such by most people, but it existed.

  The Committee was imploding, eating itself alive from within. It didn’t need his help to bring itself down. He wasn’t even sure the Committee needed to be brought down. He tried to keep things simple, follow orders, never question the how or why. Though in truth he always had. Blind obedience had never been his thing; if he’d always followed orders he’d be dead.

  He couldn’t afford to be thinking about her right now. She’d put a bullet in his brain if she had the chance—and right now she’d be sorely tempted. Fortunately, Harry Thomason was higher upon her shit list.

  Killian actually didn’t give a damn what happened to himself. Happy endings weren’t made for the kind of man he was, the kind of life he’d lived. But he was damned if Mahmoud was going down, too. He’d saved the murderous little brat’s life time and time again. Right now the kid had one thing to live for—Killian’s eventual, torturous death. It didn’t matter that Mahmoud would have died along with his foster sister—he didn’t see it that way. Killian was responsible; Killian must pay.

  And Killian didn’t have much of an argument with that.

  If he didn’t get out of this alive, and there was a very good chance he wouldn’t, then Mahmoud would be cheated of his eventual revenge. But maybe Isobel would see he had something else to live for.

  Killian could count on her for that. He could see through the lies she told him, the lies she told herself. She’d protect the child wit
h her life, instinctively, without question. He’d be leaving Mahmoud in good hands.

  If he made it through...well, he wasn’t going to think about that. One thing at a time.

  He could feel the ice-laden fog in his bones as he slipped down the quiet streets of Kensington. He’d already figured out they were somewhere near the Committee’s phony office front, which made orientation easier. In an expensive part of town it wasn’t that hard to find a late model SUV with killer tires, and no alarm system known to man could slow him down. He had to get the hell out of town, following the instructions on the tiny little GPS to the letter.

  But he had one important stop to make first.

  “Good to see you, too. Isobel,” Bastien murmured as she pushed past him, climbing into the backseat of the car and slamming the door behind her. Reno was sitting in one corner, looking like hell. He had a bandage across his forehead, his arm wrapped, his clothes bloodstained, and there was death in his eyes. No cat’s-eye contact lenses. Just black, implacable rage.

  She said nothing, settling into the opposite corner, frozen with fury and disbelief. Her whole world had been turned upside down, and worst of all was how damn stupid she’d been. Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Now that she knew the truth it was painfully obvious. The botched missions that had saved so many lives. The unprecedented access to Intel he would have had over the years.

  She knew what deep cover was like, but that was nothing compared to what Killian must have lived through. Two decades of lies and betrayal, of dealing death while he was ostensibly on the side of the bad guys.

  Of killing people who didn’t deserve to be killed, just to keep up his cover. Yes, she knew what that was like.

  In their life there was no such thing as good guys and bad guys. He was still a monster. He was simply the same kind of monster she was.

  “There was no sign of him,” Peter said from the front seat as Bastien pulled out into the rainy street. “It’s going to take him some time to get there—first he has to steal a car, then he was to figure out the roads, and there’s been some bad weather out there. Freezing fog. It’ll coat everything with ice, and he’s not likely to steal a car that can handle it.”