Authors: Anne Stuart
Tags: #Assassins, #Soldiers of Fortune, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction
Ice Storm (32 page)
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. “
“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
“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 Isabel. 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,
Cherie.
You’re The Ice Queen.” He glanced toward Killian. “What about him?”
She had no choice but to look a him. He still had that vaguely ironic expression on his face. “Get out,” she said in a low voice. “Go back to
“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 luck.
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
“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
“Christ, no,” Peter had replied in total horror, earning a smirk from
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
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
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.
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 Thomason’s who aren’t going to want to let me just walk away. But twill. 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.
