by Anne Stuart
“Taka told me to. That way you learn things.”
“What if people refuse to answer?”
“You can learn as much from what they don’t say as what they do,” Reno said in as maddening a tone as he could manage. He’d been working on it for a while, and it came naturally to him. Unfortunately, Peter Madsen wasn’t the best subject to try it on.
“You’re going to find out, anyway. There’s a hidden apartment behind the offices, just below this one. It’s totally soundproofed and blocked off, but we’re going to have to keep Serafin there for the time being, until we find out who’s been coming after us.”
“Us?”
“Someone’s targeting Committee operatives, which includes you, so no more sex.”
Reno simply snorted. It hadn’t taken him long to get tired of it; he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for here, and substitutes weren’t fixing the problem. He wasn’t about to admit that to a hard-ass like Peter Madsen, though.
“Whatever,” he said, one of his favorite English expressions, right up there with “holy motherfucker.” “I thought he was going to the safe house.”
“Genevieve’s there.”
Peter wasn’t quite the Iceman he thought he was, Reno observed, keeping his expression blank. “Why?”
“We’ve lost three agents in the last two weeks. I’ve warned Taka, and there’s no way Madame Lambert’s going back to her apartment. Golders Green is safe enough for Genevieve, but I’m not putting someone like Serafin anywhere near her. The more scattered the targets the better our odds.”
“And what did your wife say to that?”
“None of your business,” Peter said, looking harassed. “She wasn’t happy. If she didn’t have some kind of stomach bug I wouldn’t have been able to make her.”
“Stomach bug? You’re certain no one’s poisoned her?”
“Son of a bitch,” Peter muttered, opening his phone and texting quickly, then clicking it shut again. “You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“For your first assignment. To meet Serafin the Butcher, the most dangerous man in the world.”
“Sounds like he’s got a good PR firm,” Reno said. “And I’ve been ready for days.”
Peter didn’t look happy, Reno thought. But then, he hadn’t looked particularly pleased since he’d first set eyes on Reno at the airport. It must gall him that he’d have to put him to work. Which was just an added bonus for Reno, banishing the last of his temper at being awakened so rudely. Besides, he’d gotten rid of Lucy or Angela, so everything was fine.
“Just follow orders and don’t make the mistake of thinking for yourself,” Peter said in a tight voice. “Serafin’s an unknown quantity, and God only knows what’s been happening to them.”
“Unless Madame Lambert has changed, she probably has him on a leash and collar,” Reno said.
“You’re young,” Peter said dismissively, annoying him. “You shouldn’t take people at face value.”
“You mean Madame Lambert isn’t a coldhearted bitch who could take down an army single-handed?”
“Meaning Isobel Lambert isn’t as invulnerable as she likes to think she is. None of us is.”
“Not even you?” Reno asked mockingly.
“No, kid. And not even you.”
The Kensington streets were empty when they stepped outside the white stone building that looked just like all the other white stone buildings. It had taken all Reno’s concentration to recognize it in the first couple of days—whoever had built this upscale area of London hadn’t had much imagination. The street was lined with parked cars, and he picked out the milk truck immediately, heading for it.
Peter was at his side. “How did you know?”
Reno smirked. “Taka sent me here for a reason. We’re picking up two people, one who might put up a fight, and a small car would be too dangerous. People are less likely to pay attention to a commercial van, and a milk van is more likely to be out very early in the morning making deliveries than any other company. I don’t suppose you’re going to let me drive?”
“Your first time in England? I don’t think so.”
“We drive on the left-hand side of the road in Japan, too, and London’s nothing compared to Tokyo. Besides, that’s probably a standard shift and you’ve got a bad leg. You’ll put us in danger.” He held out his hand for the keys.
Madsen looked at him for a moment. “You don’t waste time on tact,” he said. “I like that.” And he dropped the keys in Reno’s hand, climbing in the passenger side.
They were already leaving the city when his mobile beeped. Peter flipped it open, then sat there reading the screen, an odd expression on his face.
“Something wrong?”
“Concentrate on your driving,” Peter said finally, snapping the phone shut. “I had the nurse take a look at Genevieve. She hasn’t been poisoned, and she doesn’t have stomach flu.”
“So?”
“She’s pregnant,” Peter Madsen said in a voice of utmost doom.
And Reno, heartless creature that he was, laughed.
18
Killian opened his eyes very slowly, not convinced that he actually wanted to see where he was. The room was dark—no natural light whatsoever, and the artificial light was muted. He was lying in a bed, his hands tied to what presumably was a bedpost, his feet bound together with some kind of cording, and someone had stuffed a gag in his mouth. And he was in a very bad mood.
It had been a long time since someone had gotten the drop on him. More than a decade, maybe two, since he’d lost focus long enough that he was no longer calling the shots. The last thing he remembered was pulling over to the side of the road, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d thought Isobel was thoroughly demoralized by the incident on the boat and she’d been pissed as hell to have to lie with her head in his lap. He’d assumed she wouldn’t want to get near enough to him to try to take him out. He’d underestimated her.
In the end, it hadn’t taken much. He could still feel the faint sting at the side of his neck, and he must have gone down hard. Someone had pulled his clothes apart, obviously looking for weapons, and he lay on the bed with his shirt open, his jeans unzipped, barefoot and pissed off.
How the hell had she managed to get something to knock him out? He’d been all over her body the night before, and there was no way she could have hidden something. It must have been when she insisted on a rest stop. He couldn’t very well follow her into the loo at the petrol station, tempted though he might be. And she’d come right out again. He was disgusted with himself, letting her sucker him. First she’d shot him, then eighteen years later she’d tricked him. He was beyond annoyed.
Isobel wasn’t strong enough to have dragged him to wherever they were if he was unconscious, therefore she must have had help. He was slowly assessing his surroundings—one smallish, dark room with the bed in the middle, and he could just see the faint outlines of a shuttered window. Not much light coming through, but it probably wasn’t daytime yet. He hadn’t been out that long, which meant they must be somewhere in or near London.
He wondered how Mahmoud was doing. He wouldn’t have taken Killian’s abduction well, for despite his elaborate and oft-voiced plans for Killian’s eventual torture and murder, the boy was fiercely protective. He would have put up a hell of a lot better fight than Killian’s own piss-poor performance.
He jerked at his hands, but the ropes were thin and tight, and Isobel’s friends had found just about every weapon he carried. Not that that would stop him; it just might slow him down a bit. He lay still, listening for anything that might give him a clue as to his whereabouts.
He had no doubt Isobel had called for reinforcements; anyone else would have killed him by now. Probably why he’d been so lax—most people simply wanted to kill him, and he was good at avoiding just that. A simple kidnapping was unexpected.
There was at least one other room beyond the small bedroom, and the light emanating from it was dul
l and yellow. He could see blankets on the wall—for soundproofing, he assumed. He tried to spit out the gag, but someone had put tape over his mouth. He had no choice but to wait until his captor made her appearance. In the meantime, he could work on the ropes that bound his wrists.
He knew she was there before he saw her, before he heard her. It was a sixth sense he’d developed over the years, and when it came to her it was fine-tuned. He turned his head to meet her calm gaze in the shadowed room.
She’d changed her bloody shirt, presumably taken a shower. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant knot at the base of her neck—part of her armor. She looked elegant and unapproachable, the Ice Queen, the Iron Maiden. Madame Lambert—a lifetime removed from Mary Isobel Curwen. She’d probably thought that girl was gone forever. Until he’d reminded her last night on the rumpled bed in the ship’s cabin.
His eyes met hers, and her faint smile was flinty. A bit too sure of herself. “I suppose you want me to untie you?”
Since he wasn’t able to reply he simply looked at her, daring her to move closer. She was a smart woman—she knew how dangerous he could be, and she skirted the bed, keeping out of the way of his long legs. Even tied together at the ankles they could sweep her, knock her onto the bed. He could break her neck in a matter of seconds if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to. She came at him sideways, away from his legs, reaching down to pull the duct tape away.
He didn’t even notice the pain, spitting out the rag someone had put in his mouth earlier. She turned, and handed him a bottle of water. “You’re probably thirsty. The drug I gave you tends to make your mouth dry.”
“No, I think that was caused by the sock someone stuffed in there,” he said. “Your work?”
“Peter’s.”
“What made you think you’d have trouble getting me to come with you? Haven’t I stuck with you for the last few days?”
“I thought it would be better if you didn’t know where you are. That way no one can torture it out of you.”
“I wasn’t planning on being tortured,” he said in his most amiable tone. “So why the bondage? If you wanted sex games all you had to do was ask.”
She didn’t even blink. However close he’d gotten to her before, she’d managed to recover. Now appeared immune to him, immune to their history. “It seemed better to keep you immobile until we were sure you were going to cooperate.”
“I’m the soul of cooperation, princess. Is Madsen in the other room?”
“He had to go check on the safe house. I told him I could handle you without any difficulty.”
“Oh, really? That remains to be seen. In the meantime, untie me and tell me where the hell Mahmoud is. You didn’t have to kill him, did you?”
“Unlike you, I don’t kill children. Or maybe you don’t consider fifteen-year-olds to be children—not to mention twelve-year-olds.”
For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about. “You mean Mahmoud’s sister? Since she was pregnant, I considered her an adult.”
“And therefore you shot her. What was she doing, coming at you with a burning pike?”
“You want some nice, noble excuse for it? I’m not giving it to you,” he said. “I put a bullet in her forehead and she died instantly. You don’t need to know anything more, as long as you realize what I’m capable of doing.”
“I know all the horrors you’ve been capable of doing over the last two decades,” Isobel said in a low voice.
“Where is Mahmoud? Because he’s not going to like having me out of his sight, and you need to be careful. He can be a brutal little bugger when he’s thwarted.”
“He’s fine. Reno’s keeping an eye on him.”
“Who’s Reno?”
She sighed. She didn’t seem any closer to freeing his wrists, but he wasn’t concerned. Even tied up he could take her down when he was ready. “Reno is our newest recruit. Takashi O’Brien’s cousin.”
“Reno’s not a Japanese name.”
“His real name is Hiromasa Shinoda. Apparently he took his American name from a video game character.”
“That doesn’t sound like Committee material.”
“He’s not. But beggars can’t be choosers, and he had to get out of Japan. In the meantime he’ll be able to keep Mahmoud out of trouble.”
“Untie me.”
She looked at him. “I’m not sure I trust you.”
“Of course you don’t trust me. But you’ve brought me here, as originally agreed upon, even though I’m missing a bit of the liberty I expected, and this is a far cry from the Ritz-Carlton. However, given that your organization is going down the toilet, fast, I can be open-minded. Untie me, get me something to eat and I’ll start telling you all the things you ever wanted to know about third world violence in the new millennium.”
“You think I’m going to cook for you?”
“I think neither of us has eaten in quite a while, and I’m guessing this is an apartment complete with a kitchen. I’m also guessing that since we’re holed up in here, we probably have plenty of supplies. I’ll take coffee or Scotch, depending on what time of day it is.”
“It’s just before dawn.”
“That makes it tough. It’s either the end of a very long night or an early start. Tell you what—make me some coffee and put some whiskey in it. That way I don’t have to decide.”
For a moment she didn’t move. “All right,” she said finally. “Stay put.”
“And where would I be going, princess?” he taunted.
The moment she was out of sight he finished untying his right wrist, then made quick work of the other ropes. It was an old trick he’d learned long ago, a way of compressing his wrist bones that made him able to get out of almost any kind of restraint. He was a tall man, but his bones were thin and narrow, and that fact had saved his life more than once.
He was tempted to stay there until she came back, then pull her down on the bed and finish what he should have finished last night. The sight of her, the smell of her was driving him crazy, and he hated the way she tucked her hair in a bun, like some sexless bitch.
She was far from sexless. He’d made her wet last night, and she hated him for it. She’d been so damn proud of her frigidity, and it had come crashing down at the touch of his hands. There were women who could climax just from having their breasts touched, just from being kissed. He was willing to bet Isobel was one of them.
No wonder she’d thought she was frigid. She’d forced herself into a suit of armor made of dry ice, letting nothing come near her. Because she’d explode too easily if it did.
He was going to make that happen. First he needed to find out exactly what the hell was going on with the Committee, and why the operatives were being picked off one at a time. Was he right—had they really been after her all the time, and not him? And how was an untried Japanese kid with a fake name going to protect Mahmoud when some very powerful, very dedicated people seemed determined to take the notorious Josef Serafin out?
He pushed himself off the bed, pulling his shirt back around him but not bothering to button it, zipping up his jeans reluctantly. Had Isobel been the one to search him so thoroughly? He’d hate to think he’d missed it.
There was a small living room, a dining room with a laptop set up on the table, and a tiny kitchen. Her back was to him, but her voice was calm and accepting. “It’s really hard to keep you shackled, isn’t it?”
He moved into the kitchen, crowding her. On purpose. “Just about impossible.” The windows were boarded up, allowing in no light. “I take it this isn’t your apartment.”
“You think I’d take you to my home?”
“Hope springs eternal. This seems like the kind of place you’d live. The perfect place to do eternal penance.”
“My flat is very large, elegant and airy,” she said, pouring boiling water into the coffee press. “And I have absolutely nothing to do penance for.”
“Not anymore. You didn’t kill me.”
She turned around to glare at him. “I never regretted killing you. Only that I’d been such a fool in the first place.”
“You were out of your league, princess. There was no way you could even guess how well you were being played. I’ve got skills you wouldn’t even imagine, and you were nothing more than a kid, infatuated with me, just as I planned for you to be.”
To his amazement there was a faint stain of color on her pale cheekbones, the only clue to her rigidly repressed emotions. When she looked at him her eyes were clear and cool. “As you say, I was young and stupid. I’m neither of those things now.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid. Just vulnerable.”
“Trust me, I’m not currently vulnerable.”
He didn’t move. “Trust me, you are.”
She’d managed to will the color away from her face, and when she turned she was the picture of calm efficiency. “I suggest we start the debriefing process as soon as you’ve had your coffee. I’ll admit things aren’t going as planned, and we shouldn’t waste time if we can help it.”
“I thought Madsen was going to do the questioning.”
“He’s got other things to deal with.” Her voice was flat and unemotional.
“Like what?”
“Like none of your damn business. I don’t have anything better to do at the moment.”
“I thought you wanted to get back to that elegant and airy apartment of yours.”
“I do. Unfortunately, the people who are after you are far too determined, and it’s not safe. Given their recent track record they would probably figure out where I live quite easily. We need to conserve manpower.”
“You still think it’s me they’re after?” Killian took the coffee press from her. “Don’t you think the Committee has more than its share of enemies? Why take out MacGowan? He was in Central America, and he had nothing to do with me.”
She slammed the mugs down on the table. “How do you know everything about our operations? We don’t even know if MacGowan’s dead. He may have just gone to ground—his cover was so deep no one should have broken it. Did you set him up? He was a good man….”
