by Anne Stuart
“Your friends died that night. A few weeks later, when I was beginning to heal, Stephan brought me newspapers, with stories about General Matanga’s assassination and the five people found dead with him in the warehouse.”
“I was already blessed with experience and expertise.”
“But how did the men who tried to kill me end up dead in the warehouse? And how did you escape?”
“Trade secrets, princess.” He cut the wheel sharply as they skidded down a hill. “I figure I need every advantage I can get. You’re a formidable enemy.”
She didn’t feel formidable. She felt crushed, aching. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Dust-blown, shadowed, the elegant features that never showed emotion, contact lenses that muddied her blue eyes. How could he have known her?
That was a question she could, and should, ask. If she’d made a mistake, tipped him off somehow, she needed to be aware of it so it wouldn’t happen again. Assuming she came out of this mess alive. Death was waiting for her, sooner or later, and she accepted that with equanimity. But she wasn’t about to seek it out.
“How did you recognize me? And when?”
He didn’t even glance at her. Once more she was driving into the night beside this man, looking at his slender, elegant hands on the steering wheel. Bloodstained hands, figuratively if not literally.
“I don’t think you want the answer to that.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. When did you know it was me? Was it my voice?”
“Your voice is very different. Deeper, and you have a British accent that’s quite believable. Charming, as a matter of fact.”
She gritted her teeth. “How did you know me?”
He said nothing. She could see the shadowed form of something in the distance, and as they drew closer she recognized the outlines of a plane. Maybe they were going to get out of this mess, after all.
“When did you realize who I was?” she pressed.
He pulled to a stop abruptly, and she put out a hand to brace herself. Mahmoud made a piteous sound from the floor of the backseat, and then Killian cut the motor. “Let’s just say I’m very good at what I do. I’m not easily surprised.”
He climbed out of the Jeep, reached in back and tossed something at her—the dark blue burka that she thought had gone up in flames. “Better put it on. This is going to be tricky enough—we don’t need an anomaly like you getting people’s attention.” He picked up Mahmoud’s slight frame, tossing it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She hadn’t moved, just sat there, holding the cloth. “Are you coming with us, or would you prefer to take your chances on the ground?”
Her small duffel was long gone, as well as anything he’d brought with him. She unfastened her seat belt and pulled the enveloping cloth over her head before climbing out. “I still have unfinished business,” she said.
And she left it up to him to decide whether she was talking about the current mission or killing him. When in fact, it was both.
Hiromasa Shinoda was covered with sweat, dressed only in a traditional fundoshi, the strip of cloth that had served Japanese men as underwear for millennia. His was made of bright red fabric covered with tiny little Hello Kitty icons in combat gear, something that would have given his old-fashioned grandfather a heart attack. But his grandfather wasn’t speaking to him. Reno was banished to this gray, gloomy place, and while there were as many women as he wanted, he was already getting tired of it all.
That son of a bitch Taka would approve, he thought, going through the prescribed moves.
Reno’s English was becoming impressive, honed by language CDs and the assiduous study of American gangster movies. He’d started watching old Yakuza and Samurai movies dubbed in English, just to amuse himself, but he was tired of being cooped up in the city, tired of not being able to drive, tired of inaction. He had Dragon Ash on the stereo, turned up loud to annoy the man downstairs, but so far Peter Madsen had failed to rise to the bait.
Reno spun around, his long hair whipping his body, his reflexes perfectly honed. He was a weapon, waiting, and all he could do was work out in the sparsely furnished living room of the old apartment.
Not that it had come sparsely furnished; he’d shoved the chairs and sofa into the back bedroom, leaving only the wide-screen TV and stereo equipment, the coffee table and a few mats to sit on. He’d left the bed that filled up the main bedroom—he’d gotten to like the luxury of sleeping on softness rather than a thin futon. But he’d stomach even that if he could get back to Tokyo.
Not in the foreseeable future, his family had told him. The police were going to take awhile to forget his last escapade, and his grandfather’s second-in-command had given him the choice of losing two fingers or getting out of the country.
Reno was very fond of his fingers. He could deliver—and subsequently receive—a great deal of pleasure via them, and he wasn’t about to give them up lightly. He probably wouldn’t have true Yakuza credibility until he lost at least part of one, but he didn’t particularly care. When it came right down to it he could scare the shit out of most people, anyway.
Not the man downstairs. Not his cousin Taka, with his American wife and her gorgeous baby sister with the beautiful mouth who…
Not his grandfather. Reno was banished from Tokyo until they said he could come home. In the meantime he was going to raise all the hell London could handle, and more.
He stopped, breathing deeply, pulled his long hair out of the high ponytail and then stripped off the fundoshi, heading for the shower. Yes, he was sick of English women. But he might find an American, someone tall, and he could close his eyes and listen to her voice and pretend….
His eyes flew open. He didn’t need to pretend anything. He needed to get laid, he needed to hit something, and he needed to get the hell out of London.
And he wondered how long this exile was going to last.
11
Isobel fastened the seat belt around the voluminous cloth of her burka as Killian tucked Mahmoud’s unconscious body into the leather seat opposite her. The boy was so small he could almost curl up in it, and she watched as Killian adjusted the seat belt, then covered him with a blanket. Her nemesis knew she was studying him through the screened eyepiece of the blue garment, but he ignored her.
There had been two men waiting for them, strangers. One the pilot, one the money man. She’d caught enough of Killian’s Arabic to figure out they were asking about his companions. Apparently they’d expected him to come alone, not with an Arab wife and child.
The very thought had been nauseating on many levels. That she was in any way connected to this man, even in disguise, was hateful. She was no man’s wife. Her relationship with Stephan had been cool and efficient, and while pleasing her had been a matter of male pride to him, there’d been no emotion involved. He was thirty years older than she was, and when he’d died from cancer six years after they married, she’d felt a disconnected sort of relief. The Committee was her family. Her job was the only husband she needed.
“Stay put,” Killian said. “I’m riding in the cockpit. I’m not sure I trust our pilot. If Mahmoud wakes up and starts causing trouble, just hit him with another shot of this.” He tossed a syringe into her lap. “That should keep him out of commission long enough. We’re landing in Spain—after that it’s up to you to get us to London.”
“I already had plans to get us out of Morocco. Why the hell did you drag us over an illegal border and into this mess?”
“Did I ever give you the impression that I wanted to confide in you, princess? We’re doing this my way, and I don’t have to give you reasons. I had an errand in Algeria. While you were sleeping I checked in with former employers of mine, one of the few who don’t want me dead. I’ve taken care of it, we’re on our way out, and now you can take over once more, as you’ve been itching to do. But Mahmoud comes with us, drugged or not.”
She resisted the impulse to sweep the syringe off her lap. “How do you know this is e
ven the right dosage? For that matter, why is he still asleep and I’m awake?”
“You were given enough that you should have been out for hours yet. Let’s just say you’re an exceptional woman.”
“And if I were still unconscious? Would you have left me behind in the house?” She didn’t know why she was asking. At least her voice sounded no more than casually curious, and he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
“I’d already set the charges, and I only had time to bring one of you out. You or Mahmoud. What do you think?”
She tore the headpiece off, wanting to look at him without the screening between them. “I think you’re a man who’d choose someone who wants to kill you over someone who wants to save you.”
“You’ve learned a lot over the years, princess. Perhaps not as much as you think, but you’re still quite observant. However, you’re forgetting the fact that you want me dead with just as much passion as Mahmoud does. You’re just not going to act on it.”
She didn’t bother denying that. “Not now.”
“No, not now,” he said thoughtfully. “Call me if you need anything.” And a moment later he was gone, behind the door that separated the cockpit from the tiny, luxurious interior of the plane.
The takeoff into the desert night was smooth and effortless; at least the pilot knew what he was doing. Once they were at a decent altitude she unfastened her seat belt and pulled the burka over her head, shoving it under the seat. She would have preferred to throw it out the window, set it on fire, anything to get rid of it, but she wasn’t that stupid. Spain had a large Muslim population, and a woman observing purdah would hardly be remarkable. It would require life-or-death circumstances to make her put that thing on again, but unfortunately, such circumstances were the norm right now.
She looked over at the sleeping Mahmoud. She’d seen child soldiers before, of course. Seen them kill, seen them die, and Mahmoud was just one of a long line of faceless bodies. She didn’t believe in the power of redemption, or second chances—she’d been in the business too long. But she also knew that anything was possible. If Killian were dead, Mahmoud would have nothing driving him. Maybe then he might have a future.
She leaned back, looking out into the dark night, then reached inside her bra for the small device that contained her world. It was a cross between a Blackberry, a PDA and a cell phone, so advanced no one could hack into it, at least not as of the day she’d left England. Fortunately, no one had touched her, searched her. She opened the keyboard and began to text, hoping to God Peter was on call.
But of course he was. The only thing that could distract him was Genevieve, and at this hour she was probably lying in bed next to him, sound asleep.
A few minutes later Isobel snapped the phone shut, tucking it back inside her bra. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were bringing their adopted child back to the U.K. via the Bilbao to Portsmouth ferry, a nice, leisurely ride where no one would think of looking for them. Someone would meet them at the ferry terminal with the proper IDs.
How Peter would get an updated photo of Killian was beyond Isobel’s comprehension, but she didn’t doubt he could do it. He could do anything. In the meantime, she needed to get them to the northern port from wherever they were going to land. She pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the cockpit door.
It was locked. “Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, rattling the latch. “Open the goddamn door,” she snapped.
There was a low murmur of Arabic, and then Killian’s voice, clear and cool. “What do you want?”
“I want you to open the door.”
“Don’t be tiresome.” Did his tone sound odd? She couldn’t be certain. “Go and sit down. We should be landing before long.”
“Landing where? I need to make arrangements.” She rattled the door again.
“We can make arrangements when we land, Sarah. In the meantime take care of little Benjamin.”
She froze. As a code it was far from sophisticated, but the message was clear. Something was wrong, and it didn’t sound as if Killian was going to be able to fix it.
Which left things up to her. She still had the Swiss Army knife, and the engine noise was loud enough to cover her work. In less than a minute the lock clicked open, and she pulled the gun from her waist and pushed at the door.
Killian was sitting in the copilot’s seat, handcuffed, and the pilot was holding a pistol to his head. “Go back in the plane,” the man ordered. “Or I’ll shoot your friend.”
“Looks like you’re going to shoot him anyway,” Isobel said, not moving. Killian appeared singularly unalarmed, a fact that annoyed her.
“He’s worth more alive than dead, and I like money. You, however, don’t matter.” The plane must have been on autopilot, for he turned away from the controls and aimed the gun at her.
A mistake. Killian slammed his head against the pilot’s, so hard the man jerked in his seat, and a moment later the two of them were down on the floor, sprawling into the plane, Killian’s hands still bound. Isobel stepped back, out of the way. If she came too close she could be pulled into it, and if she tried to shoot the pilot they could end up with a depressurized cabin. Besides, she might miss and get Killian, which would be a great tragedy to someone in this world, if not to her. She watched, unmoving, as the pilot slammed his elbow into Killian’s unprotected stomach.
She’d witnessed violence before, participated in it. The strange silence of this life-and-death struggle gave it an eerie sense of unreality, as the unpiloted plane flew through the desert night. She ought to do something, ought to stop them, but some small part of her was taking a savage delight in watching Killian get the shit beat out of him.
Except that he was winning. He had the man under him, his knee on his neck. The cracking sound was unmistakable, and then the pilot lay still in the narrow walkway.
Killian rose, falling back into the seat, slightly out of breath. “Get the keys to the handcuffs, would you, princess?”
She didn’t move. “I think I like you better when you’re tied up.”
He didn’t even blink. “It didn’t stop me from killing him, and it wouldn’t stop me from killing you. Can you fly a plane?”
“No. Can you?”
“Of course. I was going to wait until we were closer to landing before I killed him, but you did have to blunder in and precipitate things, didn’t you?” He sounded vaguely annoyed. “Next time, remember I don’t need rescuing.”
“Next time, I’ll let you die,” she said, kneeling down and going through the dead man’s pockets with efficient distaste. She found the keys and threw them to Killian. Found a crumpled back of cigarettes and palmed them, sliding them into her pants pocket.
“You can try,” he said, unfastening the cuffs and tossing them on the body. “Cover him with a blanket or something, will you? I don’t want Mahmoud to wake up and see him. Another dead Arab won’t increase his trust in me.”
“You expect him to trust you?”
“Not exactly. But I’d prefer not to push him over the edge right now. He’s happy to wait to kill me, but he could always change his mind, and I’m not in the mood to break his scrawny little neck.” Killian slid over into the pilot’s seat, checking the gauges with reassuring confidence. But then, when had he ever seemed less than confident? “Close the door and go back to your seat. I’ll let you know when we’re getting close to landing.”
“Landing where? I’ve made arrangements to get us from Spain to England, but I need to know our starting point.”
“Our pilot was heading toward Málaga, where I expect we had a welcoming committee. I’m heading farther up the coast—there’s an airport in Almeria and one in Murcia. I don’t think this plane holds enough gas to get farther.”
“All right. We’ll rent a car to take us up to Bilbao.”
“We’re leaving from Bilbao? That’s a pretty busy airport.”
“We’re not flying,” she said, and closed the door before he could ask any more question
s.
At least she could be enigmatic, too. It wasn’t much of a weapon against someone like Killian, but it was better than vulnerability. She looked down at the dead man on the floor. Someone had betrayed them again, maybe Samuel, maybe someone else. Whoever it was, he knew far too much about Killian’s whereabouts, and her plan was a perfect way to just disappear for twenty-four hours. At this point the only person she could trust was Peter Madsen, and he was a thousand miles away.
This was up to her. She’d be bringing Killian back to the U.K. in one piece, though she didn’t mind if he was a bit battered in the process. But failure wasn’t an option.
Mahmoud was still out, and she put her hand on his forehead. Cool to the touch, and his eyes flickered open for a brief moment, dilated, drugged, before closing again. He wouldn’t be causing any trouble for quite a while, she thought, sinking back into her seat. In the meantime she could only hope Killian was half as capable as he seemed to think he was. Or else they were all going to end up in a fiery crash somewhere north of Algeria or deep in the Mediterranean.
Peter Madsen quickly wiped the memory off his PDA, deleting all trace of Isobel’s message, and tried to ignore the peculiar sense of relief that washed through him. He still wasn’t comfortable with emotions. He’d made peace with the fact that he loved Genevieve to an almost dangerous degree, but he was determined to stay icy and detached as far as his work went. Except that Bastien, the closest friend he’d ever had, had turned his back on what was most precious to him just to save Peter’s life. And Taka had almost died for him as well. Even if he’d paid that debt back in full, it made ties that Peter couldn’t break.
But his strongest ties, after Genevieve, were to Isobel. He could see her so clearly, she was like a mirror of his former self. The ice-cold control, the gnawing pain that was going to make her crazy or kill her if she didn’t find a way to deal with it. You could only stay in this business a certain amount of time before you snapped. And Isobel was dancing on the razor’s edge.
