Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  “Don’t make me ill, Sir Harry,” she said coldly. “Have you ever known me to be sentimental?”

  “Not particularly. But you have a weak spot as far as this man is concerned, I know that much. Who would have thought the head of the Committee would be fucking a terrorist?” The word sounded strange in his elegant voice, clearly an obscenity.

  “But he’s not a terrorist, Harry,” Peter said. “You missed that one completely. He’s CIA.”

  “Preposterous!” the old man exclaimed.

  “And are you sure we’re all present and accounted for?” Bastien asked slyly.

  As a judgment call it was questionable. Harry didn’t need to know Reno was skulking around, but then, anything that dented Thomason’s self-assurance was an asset. “There’s no one else,” he said.

  “What about our new recruit?” Isobel murmured.

  The old man laughed. “He’s dead. My men saw to it. The nasty little punk killed one of them, and another one’s not going to make it, but he’s dead.”

  “If you say so,” she said. The light was getting brighter, but there was no noise coming from the open doors ahead. Were Killian and Mahmoud already dead? Harry wouldn’t be nearly so sure of himself if he didn’t have the upper hand.

  Peter was holding back, and she knew he was going to try to get between her and Harry. To take a bullet for her, if he had to, and that was one thing she couldn’t let happen. Not and live with herself.

  She halted, turning to look at Sir Harry. He had always seemed a somewhat comical little man, until you gazed into his pale, blank eyes. She’d been a fool to underestimate him. A man who’d ordered as many deaths as he had over the years wouldn’t take to being marginalized with any grace.

  “Keep moving, Madame Lambert,” he said, waving the gun toward her. “And tell your friends to keep their distance. I see Peter looking for his chance, and I have time to blow his head off and still kill you.”

  “But that would leave me,” Bastien said in a silky tone.

  “I’m not alone down here. Move ahead.”

  She followed them through the doorway, into a large room. There were two low-wattage lightbulbs overhead, and standing in the middle was Killian, wrapped in someone else’s coat. Slightly pale, but alive.

  He had no gun, and yet he seemed to be in charge. There were two more bodies on the ground, and three armed men watching him warily, like tourists watch a polar bear in a zoo devouring its meal. There was no sign of Mahmoud.

  Killian didn’t look at her when they stopped, focusing instead on Thomason.

  “What’s all this about?” Harry demanded, sounding querulous. He turned to one of his men. “Why are you just standing there? He’s not armed. Shoot him!”

  “Not exactly true, I’m afraid,” Killian said in his laziest drawl. She looked at his hands, and saw the blood running down his left hand, dripping onto the ground. He opened the coat, gingerly, and she could see the belt he was wearing. Packed with the latest fashion in lightweight explosives.

  “How did you get that?” The words came out before she realized she’d spoken.

  “Shut up!” Thomason snapped, his temper fraying. “Or I’ll shut you up!”

  “I don’t think you’d like the consequences,” Killian said. “You touch her, and we’re all going up.”

  “I think you’d best believe him,” one man said in a heavy Russian accent. “He’d do it.”

  Thomason fired, and the man collapsed on the ground, half his skull missing. “Does anyone else have something to say?” he inquired in a dulcet tone.

  “Your aim has gotten better, Harry,” Isobel said, her voice cold. “You didn’t used to be able to hit the broad side of a barn.”

  He swung in her direction, his face purple with rage, but Bastien had already tackled her, throwing her to the ground, covering her body, her head, as the gun rang out, over and over again. She could feel chips flying from the stone wall, stinging, and she wanted to shove Bastien away, but he was much too strong and determined, and too damn big, and then, shockingly, the gun was silenced, and he rolled off her.

  She kicked him, scrambling to her feet, to see Peter standing over Thomason’s huddled figure. Killian hadn’t moved—he was leaning against a table, seeming perfectly at ease, if it weren’t for the bomb strapped around his middle and the blood dripping from his hand. “She never was grateful,” he said to Bastien.

  Isobel wouldn’t look at Killian. She stalked over to Thomason’s figure. “Is he dead?”

  The old man looked up at her, hatred in his milky eyes. “Only slightly damaged, thank you,” he said in a voice thick with loathing.

  She kicked him, too, just for good measure. “Where’s Mahmoud?”

  “He’s locked in one of the rooms, but he’s fine,” Killian said. “Reno can take care of him.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said in her iciest voice. Peter was holding the handgun that she’d handed over to Thomason, the one that would stop an elephant in its tracks. “Too bad you’re wearing that belt or I’d shoot you where you stand.”

  “Be my guest,” Killian said gently, unfastening the belt and setting it down on the table behind him, very carefully. More blood on his hand; he’d obviously been shot. She didn’t care, she absolutely didn’t care. He could die for all it mattered to her, and she’d dance on his grave.

  “I’ll get him,” Peter said, limping past Thomason’s unmoving figure. A moment later Mahmoud came flying out of the room, his video game clutched in one hand. To Isobel’s amazement, he flung himself at Killian.

  Killian grunted, falling back for a moment at the child’s onslaught. A child who weighed very little, and Killian was very strong. How badly was he hurt?

  He put his hand on the boy’s hair, ruffling it with affection, speaking to him in Arabic. “Is Reno here?” he asked Isobel. “He wants Reno.”

  “He’s here. Come along, kid,” Peter said. “I’ll take you to him.”

  Mahmoud was already racing ahead of him, but he paused for a moment to look at Isobel. He said something to her, something long and incomprehensible, and then took off, Peter trailing behind him.

  Bastien made a choking sound, and she remembered he knew Arabic. She wasn’t about to ask Killian, who was looking strangely amused beneath his pallor. “What did he say?”

  “Just good wishes for your future health and happiness,” Toussaint said.

  “Vermin,” Harry said, struggling to his feet.

  “Bastien,” she said, “do something about these two, would you?” She gestured toward the remaining men Harry had hired.

  “What about Thomason?”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  “You sure?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You think I can’t handle a pathetic old man, Bastien?”

  “Of course you can, chérie. You’re the Ice Queen.” He glanced toward Killian. “What about him?”

  She had no choice but to look at him. He still had that vaguely ironic expression on his face. “Get out,” she said in a low voice. “Go back to Langley and tell them that if I ever see you again you won’t be left standing.”

  “Not the forgiving sort, are you?”

  “Get…out,” she said.

  He started after Bastien, moving slowly but with no particular limp. Maybe it was someone else’s blood on him. Maybe it was a flesh wound. Maybe he was dying.

  She didn’t give a flying fuck.

  She ignored him, turning back to Harry. “So what am I supposed to do with you?”

  “There’s nothing you can do. You can’t prove anything, not without bringing our entire business to light, and you wouldn’t want to risk the few operatives that are still alive. Though I’m not sure quite how many there are…. I’ve got someone in Japan about to take out Takashi O’Brien and his new wife, and the operation in Somalia is in ruins. My men must have got to MacGowan, as well. They’re going to take your toy away from you, Isobel, and there’s nothing you can do. You were
too weak to run an organization like the Committee. You couldn’t do what needed to be done, so in the end I win. I may not have control back, but you can’t touch me without getting yourself dirty. The Committee will replace you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they put me at the helm, after all. We’re run by some very pragmatic people, and the end justifies the means. I’ll be ready to accept your resignation, of course.”

  “They’re not that stupid.”

  “Not stupid. Just not bothered by sentimental nonsense about human rights and fair play. We’re fighting the forces of evil, Isobel, and you haven’t got what it takes to wage that war. You haven’t got the stones to do what needs to be done.”

  “Yes, Harry, I do,” she said. And she pulled the trigger.

  The expression on his face was shocked, almost comical, as he slid to the floor. A head shot, quick and silent, as Bastien had taught her. His body splayed out, and something slipped out of his pocket, a gold watch falling onto the stone floor, the engraved cover flying off as it dropped into the pool of blood, the glass face shattering on impact.

  She didn’t move. The gun was heavy in her hand, shaking, and someone came up behind her. She knew who it was. He took the gun away from her with his bloody hand. “I would have killed him for you, princess,” he said softly.

  She wouldn’t look at him. And after a moment he walked away, slowly, down the empty corridor stained with blood, never looking back.

  24

  They got back to Golders Green by five. Cleanup had been no easy matter, but Isobel had simplified things by ordering Peter to blow the charges when everyone was at a safe distance. The ensuing explosion had been a bit of overkill, but Harry Thomason and the bodies of five Russian mercenaries disappeared in a collapsed field and tons of rock. By the time anyone got around to excavating, there would barely be enough left to trace their DNA. No one would look too hard—the Committee would see to it.

  Peter was exhausted. He needed a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep. But most of all he needed his wife. Bastien had been silent since they dropped Isobel off at her flat; she’d refused to come with them, and he’d been wise enough not to push. Bastien would be taking his family back to the States as soon as they could get a flight, and Peter had every intention of dragging Genevieve back to Wiltshire as soon as she was willing to go. And if she argued, he’d throw her over his shoulder and haul her there.

  He’d had a few rough moments during the last twenty-four hours, one of the absolute worst being when he’d dragged Reno to the hospital and the admit ting nurse had asked, “Your son?”

  “Christ, no,” Peter had replied in total horror, earning a smirk from Reno. But he’d done a good job, cool-headed in a crisis, deadly when he needed to be. He’d make an excellent operative. If they could get him to cut his ridiculous hair.

  In the meantime, someone needed to warn Takashi O’Brien that all of Harry’s stratagems hadn’t died with him. Taka was more than capable of taking care of himself and his wife, but a heads-up wouldn’t hurt.

  Mahmoud had refused to leave Reno’s side, and in the end Peter had dropped them off in Kensington. They were both kids, outlaws, brats, brothers. For the time being he didn’t have to worry about them. They could play video games and drink Red Bull to their heart’s content. With Reno’s arm in a cast, Mahmoud might actually be able to beat him. No, Peter didn’t have to worry about them.

  Isobel was a different matter. She was cool, calm, the Ice Queen personified. She hadn’t even asked where Killian had disappeared to. Which was a good thing, because Peter had no idea. He was simply gone by the time they’d left the bunker.

  Genevieve was sitting in a chair by the fire, Bastien’s daughter Sylvia in her lap. She only looked half-ready to kill Peter—maybe there was hope, after all. She looked up when he walked in, and then for a moment all was chaos as Bastien followed him, to be inundated by his wife, his baby son and his daughter.

  Peter moved past them, to Genevieve’s side, and knelt down beside her. Which hurt his bad leg like hell, but he figured she was going to demand some serious penance for disappearing on her.

  “I love you,” he said, hopeful.

  She gave him a look. “Is it over?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Is Isobel all right?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it, either.”

  “No,” she said thoughtfully. “I expect not. By the way, I don’t have the stomach flu.”

  He had to tread carefully. “You don’t?” he asked, trying to look innocent.

  She laughed at him. “Why is it you can lie to everyone on earth except me? You already know. You probably knew before I did.” She took his hand and put it on her still-flat belly. “Are you going to stop trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Humph,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  And it was that easy.

  Isobel walked into her apartment, dropping her purse, kicking off her shoes. It was dark outside, but she didn’t turn on the lights. She walked through her flat, straight into the bathroom, and climbed into the bathtub, still wearing her tailored slacks and her cashmere sweater. They were stained with blood. Her soul was stained with blood. She sat in the tub and turned on the shower.

  The water was icy, but she didn’t flinch. It quickly grew warmer, but she didn’t move, letting the water soak into her hair, her clothing, her skin. She sat until the water grew cold again, then she rose, stripping off her clothes and moving through her darkened apartment to her bedroom. She pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed, her hair soaking wet, the room cold. Sooner or later the heat would come on by itself. If it didn’t, she could always freeze to death.

  They’d replace her, thank God. She’d have to face the Committee, and there was no way she’d flinch from what had happened. She’d done the right thing, the necessary thing, and she’d do it over and over again if she had the chance, with the memory of Charles Morrison, of Finn MacGowan, of all the other operatives keeping her company. Their hands had held the gun along with her.

  She’d killed her last man. The first time she’d ever done it point-blank, with no hesitation, an unarmed man of pure evil. It was too steep a price, and she couldn’t do it anymore. This was a world she could no longer live in.

  She wasn’t sure where she’d go. Somewhere far away, someplace warm and lush and green, where there were no ice storms and freezing fogs, where no one could ever find her. Not that anyone would look.

  Maybe the South Pacific, maybe the Caribbean. Did it snow in New Zealand? She could get lost among the sheep.

  He’d been bleeding, and he’d disappeared. The car he’d stolen was gone—she could only assume he’d taken it and left. She could at least be grateful for that much. She wouldn’t have to face him again.

  She rolled over on her stomach, hiding her face in the feather pillow. Saint Lucia? The Canary Islands? Hawaii? She wanted the ocean and soft breezes, she wanted hot sand, palm trees and flowers. She could almost smell them now, except they were roses, and roses weren’t tropical, were they?

  He was standing in the doorway, a silent silhouette. She kept a gun under the other pillow, complete with silencer. She could roll over and shoot Killian in the head, and it would be called an accident.

  But she’d killed her last man, no matter how badly this one deserved it.

  She sat up, turning on the light beside her bed, keeping the duvet pulled up in front of her. He looked like hell. He’d changed clothes, and she could see the bulk of a bandage on his left shoulder. The same place she’d shot him so many years ago.

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  She just looked at him. He didn’t come any closer—he probably knew just how dangerous she was. “I quit. I had to tell them before I told you the truth. They aren’t going to like it, and we have our own Harry Thomasons who aren’t going to want to let me just walk away. But I will. If you will.”

>   “Why should I?” It wasn’t her voice in the darkness, the cool voice with the clipped British accent. It was Mary Curwen’s voice, young, vulnerable.

  “If you don’t know, I’m not sure I can convince you.” He was edging closer. If she pulled the gun out she could get a clean shot. Fast and clean.

  “Why?” she said again.

  “Because you love me. For eighteen years you’ve haunted me, and I don’t want to let you go again. So either shoot me with that gun you have or ask me to come to bed.”

  It was raining again, another cold, icy rain. But it was warm inside. The gas fire behind the grate finally had clicked on, and a soft glow filled the room. The cold had vanished, and she could feel the heat building inside her.

  “Come to bed,” she said in her coolest voice. “I can always shoot you in the morning.”

  “Of course you can, princess,” he said. And he got into bed.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-0783-1

  ICE STORM

  Copyright © 2007 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.