by Anne Stuart
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 Jilly’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 fucked 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, sitting 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.
“I’m ready to meet him. If he can assimilate as well as the rest of you he might become the new Bastien. Things haven’t been working that well since he left. He shouldn’t have been allowed to retire.”
&nbs
p; “You put out a termination order on him. If that had been fulfilled he wouldn’t have been around, anyway.”
“I was precipitous. Operatives like Bastien Toussaint don’t show up that often.” Thomason glanced down at Peter’s bad leg. “He never made mistakes.”
Peter had wanted to kill Sir Harry for a long time, and the reasons just kept multiplying. But Isobel wouldn’t like him bloodying her office, and he counted it a good test of his sangfroid to see how far Thomason could push him.
Besides, the old man was out of shape, smoked and drank—a walking heart attack. “I’ll get Reno down here,” Peter said in a dulcet tone.
“Reno? I thought he had a Japanese name…which we ought to change. Maybe some plastic surgery to fix his eyes.”
Peter’s mood had lightened considerably. At least this was something he was going to enjoy. He strolled back into his office, picked up the encoded cell phone and punched in a few letters. Reno was slavishly devoted to text messaging, and able to type faster than most court stenographers, even in a foreign language. He’d appear in a moment, and Thomason could enjoy him in all his glory.
In the meantime, Sir Harry could either sit alone in Isobel’s office or come out here to badger him. Either way, Peter would win.
Thomason emerged just as Peter heard the clatter of Reno’s high-heeled, pointy-toed boots on the staircase outside. His old boss looked distressed.
“Is that our new operative? Because he needs to learn to be a little quieter. You can’t just announce your presence—you need to blend in, become a ghost, as you did, Peter.”
“Not everyone needs to work that way. Bastien was never invisible.”
“No, but he knew how to immerse himself in his character. Damned pretty boy should have been an actor,” Harry grumbled. “He didn’t have the stones for the job.”
Peter just looked at Thomason. They both knew perfectly well just how efficiently cold-blooded Bastien Toussaint could be when called upon.
Reno punched in the security number in the keypad outside, pushing open the door without hesitating, and Peter leaned back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself.
For once in his life Harry Thomason was struck dumb, and if for nothing else, Peter felt suddenly in charity with his new recruit. Reno was dressed in black leather, a lime-green T-shirt the only color besides his flame-red hair. He was wearing his omnipresent sunglasses, but when he saw Thomason he pushed them up, exposing his aquamarine-tinted eyes and the tattooed drops of blood on his high cheekbones.
“Who’s the old dude?” he asked in a bored tone.
There was a reason Thomason had never been an operative. He had a singular inability to hide his reactions, and the sight of Reno was almost enough to send him into shock. As it was, he simply sank into a chair, staring at him in horror.
“Harry Thomason, this is our new recruit, known to all and sundry as Reno. And this is a member of the overseer board of the Committee, the man who used to be in charge of all this.”
Reno looked him up and down with withering contempt. “I know who he is. Taka told me.” He dismissed him, turning back to Peter. “What do you want?”
“How’s the English coming? Better, I see.”
“Fuck that,” Reno said. “Where’s Isobel?”
“Madame Lambert,” Peter corrected.
“Fuck that,” Reno said again. “This old fart know where she is?”
Thomason was looking apoplectic. “I haven’t the faintest idea where she is, young man, and I’ll have you know—”
“Later,” Reno said. And he was gone, his boots clattering up the iron stairs once more.
Thomason had turned a satisfying red color, but it was already fading. No heart attack today, unfortunately, Peter thought. “That’s Hiromasa Shinoda, Taka’s cousin. He’s quite smart, once you get past his appearance.”
“Get rid of him,” Sir Harry gasped. “Send him back to Japan or wherever the hell he came from. We can’t use a freak like that.”
“Oh, I think he might be very useful indeed, sir,” Peter said, enjoying himself. “And that decision will be up to Isobel when she returns.”
“And if she doesn’t come back?”
What did the man know that he didn’t? Peter’s instincts were on full alert. Thomason’s sudden haunting of the Kensington offices was more than suspicious, but how could he possibly have more intel than Peter had?
He was being paranoid, in general a sane and healthy thing to be in his line of work. And Thomason went out of his way to needle him; the last thing Peter was going to do was jump through his hoops.
“She’ll be back,” he said. “She’s only a couple of days overdue. We sometimes have to go dark for weeks at a time. But then, you were never an operative, were you? More of a bean counter.”
The cigar in Harry’s hand snapped in half, the crunch audible in the soundproofed room.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from her,” Peter continued. “But don’t expect anything soon—these missions tend to be unpredictable. If something’s happened to Serafin the entire world will know it, and we’ll know that Isobel has been compromised. In the meantime, I wouldn’t worry. She’s the Ice Queen, the coolest, most capable human being I know. She can handle anything.”
I can’t handle this, Isobel thought numbly, clinging to the bouncing Jeep. Only the sliver of moon and the sand-covered headlights illuminated the desert landscape, and for the first time in more than a decade she felt out of control. Her world had turned upside down a few short days ago, with the sudden reappearance of Killian, and nothing had gone right since then. Now they were heading God knew where, a comatose child on the floor in the back, a ruthless killer at the wheel, and her only weapons were a small handgun, a Swiss Army knife and her wits. That would be more than enough in most circumstances, with most individuals. But this was Serafin the Butcher, the most dangerous man in the world, and he probably wanted her dead just as much as she wanted him gone.
When had he recognized her? She would have thought that was an impossibility. Her own father had known her for her first nineteen years, although admittedly he’d paid little attention. She’d run into him on purpose about eight years ago, just to see how well her new identity worked. He’d carried on a casual conversation with the elegant woman beside him on the plane, and not for one moment had he realized he was talking to his long-lost daughter.
Killian had known her little more than two weeks, and he’d been lying the entire time. He was probably barely aware of her, using her as a shield while he completed his bloody job. During those long nights in the car, when they’d talked about anything and everything, his words had all been lies. And he probably hadn’t heard a thing she’d said.
She wasn’t naive enough to think the sex had mattered. Men could have sex anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances. Screwing her had been his way of keeping her compliant—it meant nothing. She remembered the earlier part of that final night with crystal clarity, even if what came after was a blur. He’d made no more than a token protest when he’d heard a killer had been sent to finish her.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to me?” she said abruptly. “The last time you saw me I tried to kill you. That’s not what you would have expected from the stupid girl you drove around France with.”
He glanced at her. “All right, I’ll bite. What happened to you?”
“I shot you, and I ran out of the warehouse.”
“That much I remember.” He didn’t sound particularly interested, and she realized in his scheme of things it had been only a minor incident.
“You killed Etienne Matanga, didn’t you?”
“That was my job.”
“And you were going to kill me if I hadn’t shot you.”
“If you say so. But apparently you got away scot-free.”
“Not exactly. Your friends caught up with me.”
“Did they?” He sounded barely curious.
“Yes,” she said. “They did. They
were very good with knives, and they were very unhappy with me. I remember thinking I was going to die, and not caring.”
“Such a very sad story. I expect you never made the mistake of falling in love with a mysterious stranger again.”
“I didn’t fall in love!” she snapped. “You used me.”
“You enjoyed being used.”
“You drugged me.”
He shrugged. “Once we got to Marseille I wanted to hedge my bets. I couldn’t afford to have you showing up in the middle of my job. Trust me, you would have done anything I told you to by that point. I just figured drugging you would make things a little easier.”
She had a flash of memory; his hands holding her down, hot, wicked words in the darkness, as his mouth…
“Your friends left me for dead, lying in a pool of blood in a slum alleyway. If it hadn’t been for a Good Samaritan, that would have been the end of me.”
“How touching. I’m glad there are still good people in this world. So who was this Good Samaritan who saved your life?”
“I don’t know. When I woke I was in a bed, covered with bandages. I was in such pain he kept me unconscious as much as he could.”
“Your savior?”
“My doctor. My husband. He was a plastic surgeon with a slightly shady clientele. He kept me hidden, rebuilt my face, rebuilt my life. And married me.”
“Charming,” Killian said, his voice cool. “Fairy tales do come true, after all. You should thank me for hooking you up with your true love.”
“I should thank whoever knew the French underworld enough to dump me on his doorstep,” she said. “Unfortunately, Stephan had no idea who had brought me there.”
“Quel dommage,” Killian murmured.
“I thought you were dead.” It came out of the blue, and she would love to bite back the words.
“Unfortunately for you, you didn’t know what you were doing. You winged me, and I decided I’d just stay down. I’m sure you’re much better at it nowadays. Killing requires experience and expertise.”
“I have both.”
“Yes,” he said.
