Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  “What was that?” Peter asked.

  “What was what?” she snapped.

  “Did you moan?”

  “Just fucking drive. And if we pass an open store we’re getting me some cigarettes.”

  “Here,” Bastien said, passing a gun over the seat back. “Play with this instead.”

  It was a nasty piece of weaponry, heavy, solid. It would blow a good-size hole into anyone she aimed it at. Right now she was thinking Killian would make a good target. They could explain it to their so-called allies later.

  “Just keep driving,” she muttered. Stroking the gun.

  Mahmoud sat cross-legged on the cot, leaning back against the rough stone walls, the violent waltz of the video game reflected in his blank eyes. Reno was dead. He’d seen him go down, seen the blood before they’d hauled him out of there. His friend, his brother. He’d lost too many.

  The man who’d brought him here, the one with the blond hair. Russian, Mahmoud thought. He’d seen Russians before. They drank too much, but they bled as much as any man. The one who took him, who’d ordered Reno’s death, would die.

  He knew what they were waiting for. He was unimportant—Mahmoud had learned that long ago. They were using him to get to the man who’d killed his sister, and a month ago he would have helped them.

  Not now.

  Reza would have killed him, and a hundred others. He hadn’t known until the last minute, but he wouldn’t have stopped her. She had loved him, looked after him. He wouldn’t have minded dying with her—it would have all been over in a flash.

  But the man had stopped her. Killed her. Saved him. And in the end, maybe it was all even.

  They would come for him. He had fought in the wars long enough—he knew how these things worked. They would promise the man that they would let Mahmoud go, and the man would come, because he hated what he had done. Weakness, Mahmoud thought. Killian had had no choice but to kill Reza. It was a waste of time to feel guilt.

  But the man would come, and they would kill Mahmoud, anyway. Unless he did something to stop them.

  Right now he wasn’t sure what that was. Mahmoud didn’t care whether he died or not—the way he saw it, death was an old friend, one who took everyone he cared about, from Reza, the sister he’d known for years, to Reno, the brother he’d known for a day. It could take him as well.

  But it would take the Russians, too. In the meantime he stared at the video screen, the only light in the dark, cold room, and set the blood-splatter level on high in the game he was playing.

  And he killed.

  Killian knew they would be waiting for him. For the last ten miles the road had been a skating rink. As the sun began to rise the freezing fog had coated everything, and the first glints of sun sent prisms of color through the heavy mist. They’d routed him along back roads, and there’d been no other traffic out in such dismal weather. He nearly missed the turn to Wilders—one touch of the brakes and he went skidding past it. Cursing, he let the car drift to a stop, put it in Reverse and carefully backed up, taking the right-hand turn toward Harry Thomason’s estate.

  Not that he was supposed to know that. He’d had just enough time to pick up a few things, including some basic intel. There were a few deserted cottages on the far end of the estate, scheduled to be torn down and turned into high-priced country housing. And there was an old bunker that had been used during World War II for some sort of covert activity. He was guessing that was where he was heading.

  He had little doubt Isobel would be close behind him, but with only the coordinates, she wouldn’t be able to pin down his location exactly. Chances were they’d head for the main house first, giving him even more time to put his hasty plan into action.

  Killian pulled the stolen car up in front of one of the old cottages. The roof had caved in long ago, and birds flew up into the dawn-lit air when he slammed the door of the vehicle. The ground was slick and icy underfoot. It would be damn funny if he were to fall and—

  He knew where they were moments before they appeared out of the mist, reaching for him. He already had one of Isobel’s small guns in his hand, and he shot the thug on the right, sweeping his long leg so that his companion fell on the ice. The man rolled as he slid, coming up on his knees with a gun pointed straight at Killian, but he just had time to pull the trigger before Killian finished him.

  The bullet hit Killian, knocking him back against the stolen car, and after a breathless moment he laughed. It had hit the fleshy part of his shoulder, in almost the exact same spot Mary Isobel had shot him eighteen years ago. That hadn’t killed him; this wouldn’t, either. He needed to stop the bleeding, and then find Mahmoud before they sent reinforcements.

  He could see a heavy door in the side of a hillock. So it was going to be the bunkers. Even better. An enclosed area had a great deal to recommend it.

  He was freezing cold, the icy mist clinging to his body, and blood was oozing from his shoulder at an enthusiastic rate. He’d learned to deal with pain a long time ago, and he knew just how long he could go without getting a wound treated. The cold would slow down the bleeding. All he needed to do was pack it with something for the time being.

  It was a good thing the dead man’s aim hadn’t been a little lower, or everyone in the surrounding area would be very unhappy, he thought as he stripped the leather jacket and T-shirt off the first man he’d killed, leaving him lying on the frozen mud. The T-shirt was bloody already, but he pressed it against his wound, beneath his own shirt, then pulled the jacket around him. It was big enough—the man had been a little shorter than he was, but burly—and it still held the dead man’s warmth.

  Killian started for the bunker as the morning mist began to rise, the birds began to sing and the stink of death filled the air.

  23

  Harry Thomason pulled out his father’s gold pocket watch for the hundredth time and wound it very carefully. It was half past five in the morning. You had to have a delicate touch with fine clockwork—too rough a turn and it broke, too light and the watch stopped prematurely. His father had worn it every day of his life since the day Winston Churchill had presented it to him, and Harry had hidden it when his father died and his older brother inherited everything. Maurice was long dead by now, childless, thank heavens, and Harry had stepped up to the task at hand.

  He wouldn’t have children, either, unless he adopted someone. Perhaps a pretty young boy, innocent enough to be molded. It would be a shame not to leave all this to someone, and life did get lonely.

  He snapped the watch shut. Stolya should have called him by now. The sun had risen on an ice-coated world—maybe the roads had slowed his quarry down. Stolya was supposed to notify him when it was done, and Harry had been patient for three years, ever since that bitch had taken his job and his power. He could be patient a few more minutes.

  The day staff would be coming in soon. He had a housekeeper and an executive assistant, but both of them knew to keep their distance unless their presence was specifically requested.

  There was just so long a man could sit and stare at the frozen landscape. He was truly going to enjoy setting that charge once Stolya called him. If there was one thing Harry couldn’t abide, it was incompetence in underlings.

  The mobile phone made a quiet little chirping sound. He hated the things, but it was the only way to ensure absolute privacy, and he punched the button, growling into the receiver.

  “There’s been a hitch.” Stolya’s thickly accented voice came over the line. “Your presence is requested.”

  “Out of the question. You know your job. Do it!”

  “Not possible. Not this moment. Your presence—” The voice ended abruptly, and a new one came on the line. An American voice, drawling, annoying.

  “This is Killian, Sir Harry. If you want any chance to get to Isobel Lambert, then I suggest you come down here. Immediately, or I’ll kill the three men who are still alive, take Mahmoud and leave you holding the bag.”

  “I’m afraid you’re
mistaken, Mr. Killian. I don’t care what happens to those men—they knew the risks when they entered my employment.”

  “But you do want Isobel Lambert, don’t you? And all I have to do is walk out of here and warn her.”

  “Dear me, now why do I have trouble believing you?” Harry said softly. “You and Isobel were once involved, a long, long time ago. Surely the gentlemanly thing would be to protect her.”

  “The bitch tried to kill me. More than once. You’ve got ten minutes, Thomason. And then I’m gone, and Isobel is never letting you get near her again.”

  The connection was broken. Harry set the phone down gently on the table. And then he picked it up and smashed it against the stone fireplace.

  It took him less than a minute to get the gun. He would have liked to take one of the matched set of dueling pistols, also a present to his father, this time from Lord Mountbatten himself. Pretty things, antique. But he needed something more functional and totally deadly. He was going to put a bullet in that woman’s brain himself, and he wanted to make sure he had plenty of them. By the time he got his hands on her he’d deserve it.

  He wasn’t fool enough to think he wasn’t walking into a trap. Somehow Killian must have gotten away from his keepers, but they’d be close behind him. And once Isobel realized they were heading to Wilders, they’d know who was behind everything. Chances were they’d come straight for the house, but he was better off waiting for them in the bunkers. He needed them there because the only way he could wipe them all out was to blow the place.

  He regretted having to kill Madsen. Peter could have still been useful, and he was pragmatic. Even if he knew Thomason had been behind the deaths of his compatriots, Madsen would take it in stride. He had no weaknesses, except for that wife of his, and Thomason could get to her easily enough.

  He left the house silently, walking across the ice encrusted field in his old pair of Wellingtons, his Barbour coat, his walking stick—the epitome of a landed English gentleman. The kind who didn’t exist anymore. He would outlast them all.

  He wouldn’t do that by walking into a trap, or by letting anyone warn Isobel. There were tunnels crisscrossing the lands, including one that ran from the old stables down to the back of the bunker. Last time he’d checked, it hadn’t caved in—he could get there quite easily, with no one suspecting him. They didn’t realize what an old fox they were dealing with. They were fools to think they could best him.

  He could see the headlights in the distance, pulling into the long, winding driveway that led up to the main house. It must be Isobel. She wouldn’t stop until she confronted him, wouldn’t stop until she found Killian. She’d walk into the trap her pride had set for her.

  He made his way into the stables, down the deserted brick alley to the far stall. To the hidden entrance to the tunnels, where he and his brother had once played pirates. And now he was a real pirate, about to claim his prize.

  “Killian hasn’t been here,” Bastien said, pausing at the end of the driveway. “There are no tracks in the ice. With this kind of crust there’d be no missing him.”

  “Then find him,” Isobel snapped.

  He backed into the empty road, the car slipping. “I’ll follow the tracks. He can’t be far—the coordinates were close enough, and this is the only place that makes sense.”

  “There’s a lot of land connected with the estate. He could be anywhere,” Peter said. “Maybe he hasn’t gotten this far yet. The roads are hell.”

  “He’s here,” Isobel said. “Find him.”

  It was taking too long, she thought, leaning back in the seat and deliberately letting the pain from her cuts move through her body. Strengthening her will. They’d taken main highways for as long as they could, but eventually had to travel icy back roads. The sun had risen, and sooner or later the ice would begin to melt, but right now it was a wonderland of crystal death.

  An endless ten minutes later, Bastien pulled to a stop. “Found him,” he said in a grim voice.

  She could see the abandoned car—and the two bodies lying on the frozen mud, blood pooling and freezing around them. Isobel let out an anguished cry, fumbling with the car door. “No,” she said, scrambling out and almost falling on the ice.

  Reno was already beside her, surprisingly steady as he caught her. “He’s not one of them,” he said.

  She pushed her hair away from her face, pulling the mask back on. “Of course he isn’t,” she said. “Though I imagine he’s responsible for them. The head shot is his specialty.”

  “Fast and clean,” Bastien said in an approving voice. “Do you think he left anyone alive in there?” He nodded toward the door to what looked like an old storage cellar.

  “Not if he could help it,” Isobel said, moving forward. Her leather shoes were crap on the ice, but she didn’t care. Nothing would stop her, not Mother Nature herself. “He’d better hope he’s taken Mahmoud and gotten the hell out of there before I kill him.”

  Peter was moving ahead of her, Reno behind her, and she was getting the unpleasant feeling they were trying to guard her. “I don’t need protecting,” she said in her iciest tone.

  “You’re the target, Isobel,” Peter said. “We’re not being gentlemanly, we’re being practical. Reno, I need you to keep out of the way and wait here. Make sure no one follows us in. We’ll send Mahmoud out.”

  She half expected him to argue, but he simply nodded, vanishing into the morning mist, moving as quickly and as silently as the fog itself. She followed behind Bastien and Peter, hating the necessity, as they made their way into a whitewashed tunnel. The murky light of dawn made it only partway into the cavernous mouth, and she could see that a bare lightbulb overhead had been smashed. They moved silently, the three of them, passing another body lying in the shadows. None of them Thomason.

  “What the hell is this place?” Bastien whispered.

  “An old bunker of some sort,” Peter said. “They used them during World War II as hospitals or covert training areas. Thomason’s old man was a general. Rolling over in his grave, I expect.”

  “I expect not.” The voice came from behind them, and Bastien moved swiftly, slipping in front of Isobel.

  “Sir Harry,” he said in his deep, cool voice. “What a surprise.”

  The old man stepped into the light, switching on the torch he was carrying. It illuminated his squat figure, dressed in tweeds and carrying a semiautomatic handgun. “The surprise is all mine, dear boy,” he said. “I thought you left the business.”

  “I had, until you sent someone to mess with my family,” he said.

  “I am sorry about that. It’s from a lifetime of tying up loose ends. I’m sure you understood the necessity. If one of our enemies found you they could torture you, make you tell them all the things you’ve learned over the years. And even if you could withstand the torture, you wouldn’t if your wife and children were threatened. You were a liability—surely you see that?”

  “Surely I see that,” Bastien echoed ironically.

  “Why don’t the three of you put down your weapons?” Thomason said in the amiable voice of a kindly uncle offering tea and biscuits. “My people are waiting in the room beyond, along with your recent failed mission, my dear. We should join them.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen Peter move and the blinding beam of torchlight fastened on him. “Another bullet in that leg would be both debilitating and painful, Peter,” Harry said. “I don’t think you want that. Put the gun down.”

  Peter set his gun down on the littered stone flooring, and Bastien did the same. Isobel wasn’t ready to panic—she expected they carried other weapons, and both of them were capable of killing with their bare hands. They still stood more than a fighting chance.

  “And you, my dear,” he said. “Put it down now, or I’ll put a bullet in your head this very minute.”

  She set it down, because she had no choice. “You’re planning on doing it anyway, Harry,” she said. Her voice sounded nothing more tha
n bored. She’d learned her craft well.

  “Yes, we both know that, but as long as there’s life, there’s hope, and you’re not going to willingly take a bullet until you have no other choice.”

  “You’re very wise,” she said sweetly. She still had her Swiss Army knife, although it wouldn’t do much good against a semiautomatic.

  “After you, my friends.” Thomason gestured toward the circle of light farther down the tunnel. “And do be careful. I believe your friend Serafin—or should I call him Killian?—has cut a bloody swath on his way down here. I wouldn’t want you to trip over any more bodies. Hands on your heads, please.”

  Isobel’s back screamed as she put her hands on the back of her head. “Why are you doing this, Harry? Have you been behind everything? The car bomb in Plymouth, the pilot in Algeria, MacGowan’s disappearance?”

  “Of course. But don’t expect me to make some long confession full of braggadocio. I do what needs to be done. And what needed to be done was to take you down, Madame Lambert. You’re weak. You put the safety of the world in jeopardy because you won’t do what needs to be done.”

  “That’s why you’re doing this, Harry? To save the world?” Peter murmured.

  “Sir Harry, my boy,” he snapped. “Remember, I was your mentor.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “This place is wired, isn’t it?” Bastien spoke suddenly. “You’re going to blow it.”

  “You always were quick, Toussaint. Practically psychic, except that I know you’ve been around explosives long enough that you can probably smell them. That’s exactly what I plan to do. But I’m not leaving a thing to chance—you’ll all be dead before I hit the switch. I’m a thorough man.”

  “So you’ve said.” Isobel kept walking. She could feel his eyes, his gun, trained on the middle of her back, and suddenly the tiny cuts from the glass seemed like the least of her worries. “Then I presume Killian’s already dead?”

  Harry sighed. “I fear my employees have not been as efficient as I might have liked. But you’ll find out soon enough. There’ll be time for a touching lovers’ farewell, and maybe I’ll even let you die in each other’s arms.”