Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  “Unlikely.” Peter’s voice on the other end was cool and detached. “In any case, I sent Morrison to fetch you in the Bentley. I need to stay here. You should be safe enough.”

  “What’s Morrison doing home from Germany?”

  “There are problems. We’ll talk when you get our friend back here.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.” He broke the connection, and Isobel looked up at Killian.

  “You may be right,” she allowed. “Something’s going on, and Peter wouldn’t be more specific. However, Charlie Morrison is just about as good as it gets, and he’s the one coming for us. The Bentley is armored—if someone decides to follow us it’ll take a rocket launcher to stop us.”

  Killian said nothing. For a moment she gazed at him, seeing him clearly in the bright light of day. Other women were noticing him, too. He was the kind of man women looked at, wanted. His gray-blue eyes were cool and flinty as they stared at her, his strong, lean body deceptively relaxed, his mouth…

  She wasn’t going to think about his mouth. It hadn’t happened. She could arrange reality to what was bearable. It hadn’t happened.

  He could have no idea what was going through her mind; she was too good at dissembling. And he seemed less than interested. He was surveying their surroundings with a casual air that belied his high level of alertness. She was just as cautious. If anyone made a move, she’d flatten Killian, taking him out of the line of fire. She’d come this far, and wasn’t going to let anyone get to him.

  But the passengers from the ferry seemed more interested in disembarking than watching the odd-looking family. Killian managed to get them to the front of the line, and, despite their lack of luggage, the customs officials barely glanced at their forged papers. It was a security breach that could cause trouble in the future. She’d have Peter pass on the word, Isobel decided. It could keep Thomason busy.

  The terminal was new and clean, and it took a sharp reprimand to keep Mahmoud from the cafeteria. Killian had them walk straight through the crowded building. There were short-and long-term car parks surrounding the facility, but he kept going, expecting her to follow him with Mahmoud taking up the rear.

  She recognized the Bentley from a distance, and beside it, Morrison’s sturdy body dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform that would have infuriated him. His father had been a chauffeur, and he had class issues that flared up at inconvenient moments. She knew how to handle her people, and once they were heading out on the A38 she could soothe his ruffled feathers.

  “There he is,” she said.

  Morrison caught her eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, climbing back into the heavy car, preparing to come pick them up.

  The blast hit them like a heat wave, several seconds ahead of the noise, and Isobel barely had time to fling her arms around Mahmoud, throwing him to the ground and covering him as debris rained down on her.

  Not that the little beast was grateful. He was using all his deceptive strength to try to dislodge her, but despite her unimpressive weight she could flatten a full-grown man if she needed to. A tiny twelve-year-old was no problem.

  Noise and smoke were everywhere. She could hear people screaming, crying, the crackle of fire, but she was busy trying to keep the squirming kid out of harm’s way when strong hands caught her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.

  Her back stung, but she couldn’t afford to pay attention and keep hold of Mahmoud at the same time.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Killian said mockingly. He had a cut over one eye, oozing blood, but apart from that he seemed to be in one piece. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the police show up.”

  “Morrison…” She tried to look past him, but Killian blocked her.

  “You don’t need to look,” he said.

  “Oh, bite me,” she snapped. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.” She pushed him out of the way, then paused.

  It wasn’t pretty. The Bentley had exploded, sending shrapnel spraying through the crowd. There were at least seven people down, and she could thank heaven it was the off-season, or the body count would be far worse.

  She recognized what was left of Morrison by the uniform. He’d been a good man, loyal and brave. He would have hated to die dressed like a chauffeur, she thought, dazed.

  Killian had an iron grip on her arm, and the pain pulled her back into reality. In turn, she grabbed Mahmoud’s hand, hauling him after her. The place was in chaos, but ambulances and police were already on their way, and the sooner they got out of there the better.

  They ran. Into the heart of the city, past people rushing in the opposite direction. “Hold on a minute,” Killian muttered, pulling them toward a tea shop. He yanked off his jean jacket. “Put this on.”

  She wasn’t wearing anything of his, particularly something still holding his body heat. “Forget it.”

  “Put it on,” he said. “Or people will see the blood on your back.”

  She didn’t question it, didn’t think about it. There wasn’t time. She took the jacket from him and pulled it on. She didn’t wince at the pain in her back, simply pulled the damn thing close, ignoring the crazy fact that it felt as if he was putting his arms around her.

  Mahmoud said something, and she glanced down at him.

  “Mahmoud says you’re a warrior woman,” Killian translated. “Worthy of being a suicide bomber.”

  “Charming,” Isobel responded, chilled. “Tell him I’m flattered.”

  “Later,” Killian said. “Keep your head down.”

  She stopped thinking at that point. The sunny day had vanished, and a cold rain began to fall. All she could do was follow him, the child trotting beside her, and hope Killian wasn’t leading her into a trap.

  16

  Harry Thomason lit a cigar, leaned back in the leather chair that had cradled the backsides of generations of English civil servants, and contemplated the goodness of life. The glass of whiskey in front of him was just the right blend—no single malts for him, thank you very much. He was a traditionalist, and he liked his whiskey blended, his cigars Cuban and his power absolute.

  A street rat like Peter Madsen didn’t belong in a gentleman’s club like this, he thought. In these sorry times Peter could probably get membership, but at least they drew the line at a bitch like Isobel Lambert. Sooner or later some idiot in the government would try to change that, as well. But by then Sir Harry would have regained enough power to see that sort of bullshit never happened.

  The first thing he was going to do was get rid of that Oriental freak Madsen had brought in. Were they out of their minds? Takashi O’Brien had been bad enough—there was no room for third world operatives in their line of work. He’d proved useful, there was no denying it, but it would have been just as well if Van Dorn had finished him, and he could have been replaced by any one of the shadow agents Thomason was still running.

  He should probably dispense with Madsen, as well. The fellow knew too much. Harry had picked him up in the first place, trying to murder an MP’s son, no less. A bloody, violent little brat who’d cleaned up well enough, he’d now outlived his usefulness. Besides, he was unfit for duty, a cripple, and only a sentimental fool like Isobel Lambert would keep him on. Maybe he could just be retired out to that place in Wiltshire with his obnoxious American wife. Then again, Peter never did listen to warnings.

  At least Bastien Toussaint and his family would be gone. He’d always been a thorn in Harry’s side; had it not been for Toussaint he never would have been replaced. The knowledge that he had, at last, made it right, was sweet indeed. Sending three of Stolya’s men was probably overdoing it, but he didn’t like to take chances. Word hadn’t filtered over to this side of the Atlantic, but it would soon. It was something he was looking forward to.

  He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it roll around on his tongue, blend with the taste of the cigar. It had been a frustrating few days, but he’d learned to be patient. Good things seldom c
ame without drawbacks. The Serbs had screwed up the information he’d carefully leaked, and Serafin and the bitch had gotten away. The pilot had screwed up, as well—they’d found the plane and the body on an airfield just outside of Zaragoza, with no sign of his passengers.

  But by now it should be finished. The incendiary device on the Bentley had been precisely timed, set to blow the moment the ignition was turned a second time. Just when Serafin and Isobel and the child they were dragging along with them got in the car.

  Let it never be said that Harry wasn’t a practical man. He had no idea what had happened in Isobel’s past, how she had come to know a man like Serafin. And now he never would, because they would all be gone in a cloud of smoke and shrapnel and blood. He could live with that. The Committee had lost too many good operatives, and Stolya would see that Madsen would provide no difficulties. A tragedy involving Peter and his new wife could go either way—a sad accident or a preemptive strike from an unknown enemy. In either case, they would have to turn to him, with Isobel dead in a car bomb blast.

  Things were far too lax. In Harry’s day, someone like Hiromasa whatever his bloody name was wouldn’t have gotten as far as London. In his day, a woman would never be put in charge of a job only a cool, practical man could accomplish.

  And Thomason had every intention of getting back there, where he belonged. Back to the good old days, where enemies were straightforward, where you trusted no one, and any inconveniences and anomalies were wiped out. The ends justified the means.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was going to be a busy man the next couple of days, once the word about the car bomb came through. His cigar had gone out, and he relit it, drawing in a deep, mellow stream of smoke. He’d be ready.

  It felt like they walked for miles through the busy streets of Plymouth. The smell of the car bomb lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of diesel fuel and the distant tang of the ocean. A cold, light rain was falling, and Isobel kept her head down, huddled in Killian’s jacket.

  Mahmoud seemed impervious to the cold, scampering along after them like a child on holiday as they moved through the streets. It was hard to believe he was keeping Killian in his sights because he wanted to murder him, but Isobel didn’t doubt it. She wanted to murder him as well, and she wasn’t letting him get too far ahead.

  She shouldn’t be letting him take charge—there was no reason to trust him, and now that she’d gotten him into England, he could just take off. If he had any sense, he’d kill the two of them first—or, at least he’d try.

  Right then she wasn’t sure she could stop him. Her back was on fire; she was cold and wet and numb. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to find out who the hell had put the hit out on them. But for the time being, all she could do was trudge after him, wishing she still had her burka.

  At one point he pushed them into an alley and left them, and she and Mahmoud had no choice but to stand there, shivering, not looking at each other. She should be hoping Killian hadn’t abandoned them for good, striking out on his own, but in fact she would have welcomed his disappearance. Enough was enough. She wanted him gone, she wanted him dead, she wanted her life back. If he didn’t return she’d get back to London on her own, with or without Mahmoud dogging her heels.

  For forty-five minutes she stood there shivering, though her back was on fire. Her fingers were numb, her feet soaked, but Mahmoud just kept waiting, expressionless. And then he perked up, hearing something she was too miserable to notice.

  “Serafin,” he said. The first word he’d spoken directly to her since the deserted village in Morocco.

  He was right. The bright blue Jaguar was gorgeous and striking, and Killian was behind the wheel, looking impatient. He pulled up at the end of the alleyway and lowered the window.

  “Get in the front seat, princess,” he ordered. “Mahmoud will ride in the back.”

  The boy seemed to know the drill, for he’d already scrambled into the backseat and slammed the door behind him.

  “Isn’t this rather a conspicuous car to steal?” Isobel said, stalling.

  “I didn’t steal it, I rented it. The leak’s on your end, and they don’t know the names we’re using.”

  “And if the leak’s on your end?”

  “Then we’re toast. It’ll make the day more interesting. Do you want to put some money on it? I’ll give you excellent odds.”

  “I think life or death are high enough stakes,” she said. “I can sit in the back with Mahmoud.”

  Killian just looked at her. “It happened,” he said flatly, and she didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Get over it, and climb in the front seat. It’s already growing dark, and at the least they have our descriptions. We need to get the hell out of here.”

  She was a practical, unemotional woman. He was right, and she was cold. She got in the front seat, closing the door behind her, and he took off into the twilight, driving fast and well.

  She heard a rustling sound, and looked back to see Mahmoud already chowing down on a bag of crisps. “You stopped for food?”

  “I stopped for supplies. Take off my jacket and lie down.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Take off the jacket, Isobel,” Killian said. He didn’t sound patient.

  “I’m not…” She leaned back against the seat, then jerked erect as fire spread through her.

  “You heard me. Take off the jacket and lie down.”

  “There isn’t room.”

  “Put your fucking head in my lap,” he snapped. “And stop playing games. I need to get you cleaned up and we can’t afford to stop. Take off my jacket before you get any more blood on it, and lie down. Unless you have a damn good reason not to.”

  She had a million reasons not to, and she wouldn’t admit to any of them. She pulled the jacket off gingerly, trying to ignore the tiny shards of pain that sped through her body, and put it in her lap. Even in the dusky interior of the car she could see the blood.

  “The shirt, too,” he said.

  It was the T-shirt he’d bought her on the ferry, the one with Ibiza Is for Lovers emblazoned on the front. She pulled it over her head, carefully, not making a sound as her flesh screamed in pain. The back of the shirt was shredded, stained with more blood.

  “I haven’t lost that much,” she said, not moving closer. “I’ll be fine until we reach London.”

  “You have a dozen or more tiny pieces of glass sticking out of your skin, Isobel. Put your face in my lap or I’ll make you.”

  He was the man who’d fucked her and hadn’t come. He was the man who’d used her, tricked her, treated her as one more weapon in his destruction of the world. He wouldn’t give a damn if her face was in his crotch, and neither would she.

  “You could have gone for a bench seat,” she muttered, lying down, putting her head on his thigh beneath the steering wheel. She could feel his heat, bone and muscle. She already knew how strong he was; he carried Mahmoud’s slight weight without seeming to notice, and he could probably haul her around as well. She lay there, balancing tentatively, ignoring the fact that she was wearing jeans and a bra and nothing else. He didn’t care.

  Mahmoud chose that moment to lean over the seat and make an observation, and Killian laughed, damn him. “Don’t translate,” she said between clenched teeth. “Just get the damn glass out if you think it’s so important.”

  He put his hand on her head, silencing her. It was getting darker, the roads were crowded and he couldn’t afford to watch—he had to keep his eyes on the road. One hand was on the steering wheel, the other left her head to drift gently down her raw back.

  “Got one,” he murmured, and one tiny spike of pain lessened as he pulled the shard free, dropping it in the space usually used for coins. “Hold still.”

  “Couldn’t Mahmoud do this?” she said. The hand moving across her back, so gentle, was worse than her face in his crotch. She didn’t want gentleness from him.

  But then,
he’d offered her violence last night and she’d taken it. Without argument.

  “Stop thinking,” he said. “If you tense your muscles, it’ll be harder to pull the glass out.” Another piece gone. She was holding her breath, and she forced herself to let it out, concentrating on calming exercises. It wasn’t the pain, it was the position that was making her tense, but in the end the effect was the same. She knew how to slow her breathing, how to make herself relax no matter what the circumstances, and she brought all her resources into play, relaxing, softening her body, sinking into the seat. Sinking against his hard, hard thigh.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. She could hear the steady swish of the windshield wipers, the hum of the tires, the sounds of traffic. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the dubious ministry of his hands as he plucked shards of glass from her skin.

  “Why did you save Mahmoud?” Killian’s voice was so low she almost didn’t hear him.

  “Instinct,” she muttered sleepily. “I certainly wasn’t about to save you.”

  His laugh vibrated through his leg, through her body. “Of course not. Mahmoud’s grateful.”

  She couldn’t be relaxed and hostile at the same time—that much multitasking was beyond her at the moment. “Sure he is,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t trust him not to thrust a knife in my ribs if I got between him and what he wanted.”

  “True, but he’d feel bad about it.” Another piece gone. She’d lost count. She could open her eyes and look at the little pile of glass shards in front of her, but she didn’t want to. One thing she’d learned over the years was to give in when there was nothing she could do about a situation. Killian was heading to London—he’d have no reason to do otherwise, and self-preservation was his number one priority. She could let go of that responsibility for the time being. He was probably just picking the stuff out of her back because he needed her in good working order, in case someone else tried to hit him. That, and the fact that it humiliated her, were two strong motives.