Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

Mary Isobel 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 he 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 pool 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, a 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 wrong.

  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.

  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 discarde
d 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. “But 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 court yard, 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 top, 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 re grettable 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 some thing 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 prefe
rable 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 screwup 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.