Authors: Anne Stuart
Tags: #Assassins, #Soldiers of Fortune, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction
Ice Storm (7 page)
His hands were still the same. He’d always had the most beautiful hands—long-fingered, graceful. When she’d been young and stupid she’d thought he had the hands of an artist, a lover. They were the hands of a killer, stained with invisible blood.
She glanced down at her own hands, lying in her lap, then looked away.
“Do you have any particular reason for taking us across a closed border when I already made plans for our pickup in
“I have my reasons.”
“Then why did you bother insisting someone come and rescue you? It seems as if you’re more than capable of getting yourself where you want to be.”
“I don’t need help getting out of here. I need help entering
“I doubt that’s possible,” she muttered. His mouth quirked in a smile. In the darkness it was the same mouth. She looked away. “You think people will always want to kill me?”
“I think it’s likely. Even if your new cover is impenetrable, and you’re some retired businessman in the
“Yes, but retired businessmen in the
“Why not home to
She could feel his eyes on her. “What makes you think I come from the
“Your past is very hard to pin down, but as far as we can tell you were born somewhere in the
“Perhaps. But we’re not in the
“It’s bloody enough.”
“So which side of The Troubles are you on? Must be the English side, with that impeccable British accent of yours.”
There was nothing beneath his noncommittal tone— no suggestion that the British accent wasn’t quite real.
“Neither side. I don’t like war.”
“Then you picked the wrong line of work, Madame Lambert. Or is this just where your talents lie?”
It was meant to sting, but she’d made peace with all that a lifetime ago. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Serafin. It wouldn’t be smart to underestimate me.”
“Oh, I never would. I’m quite in awe of you, as a matter of fact. Not many women could immerse themselves so totally in their role. And even a conservative guess at your number of terminations is quite impressive.”
“You’re responsible for the deaths of thousands, probably tens of thousands. It will take me a long time to reach your level”
“If I were you I wouldn’t even try. After all, there can only be one Butcher.”
“True enough. I have no interest in being the most dangerous woman alive.”
“My dear Isobel,” he said in that voice she could almost remember, “you already are.”
There was nothing she could say in response. She only hoped he was right. 1 suggest you give me some warning when we’re about to cross the border. I like to be prepared.”
“It’s actually a lot easier than you’re expecting. Cigarette smugglers and poor families do it all the time. You just have to know the right route.”
“And you do?”
“We crossed into
“Don’t tempt fate. There’s always something to worry about.”
“Then that’s the difference between you and me. Worry’s a waste of time. You take what comes as it gets here.”
“And how are we going to explain our entrance into
“My contact has taken care of the necessary paperwork. I can get us out of the country. I presume you can get us into
“I can. But you’re taking a lot for granted. What if I came to kill you, not to rescue you?”
“Then one of us would already be dead,” he replied. “I’m a valuable commodity and. despite your personal distaste; you’re going to have to follow orders. I’m going to get away with murder and be handsomely rewarded for it.” He was wrong about one thing. Following orders had never been a high priority with her, and she was now in the unfortunate position of having to issue her own orders. To decide between life and death. The Committee might want this man alive, and there was no denying the wealth of information he could bring them. But she had killed him once. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill him again. The sky was beginning to lighten, an eerily beautiful shade of blue across the mountainous landscape. They’d been descending for the last hour, and in the gathering dawn she could see signs of life in the distance. A small town, not much larger than the nuns of Nazir. He didn’t wait for her question. “We’re meeting my contact outside the village. He’s got the paperwork and a place to change clothes before we meet up with our flight.”
“First of all, I don’t have any clean clothes. This will just have to do. And—”
“Sorry, princess,” he said, and her stomach automatically clenched. “You’re wearing a burka. Best possible cover. Good thing you’re not one of those lanky American women—you’d have a harder time passing. All you have to do is keep your eyes lowered and your mouth shut and follow my lead.”
“And are you wearing a burka as well?” she inquired sweetly.
“I’ll be a retired British Army officer and you’re my Algerian wife. Not the best possible scenario—most cultures don’t like ii when you take their women.”
“Something I expect you’re more than familiar with,” she muttered. “I’m a man of strong appetites,” he said lightly. “Anyway, Colonel Blimp and his wife won’t attract that much attention in this little village—they’re used to strangers. It’s a center of the smuggling trade.”
“And what are we supposed to be smuggling?”
“Mahmoud. The child sex trade is a very lucrative one, and beneath all that dirt he’s quite pretty. We could get at least one hundred pounds for him.”
She wasn’t going to show how sick she was. “Only one hundred?” she said. “Hardly worth the effort. Though it is a good way to dispose of him.”
“Don’t bother. You aren’t going to let me sell him, and I have no intention of unleashing him on an unsuspecting pedophile. Mahmoud would carve him into ribbons.”
“You almost convince me. But no, I hope your contact has a plan for his safe disposal, because he’s not coming to
“Samuel will do his best. I think he’s got some Christian school lined up. But trust me, sooner or later Mahmoud will get his scrawny butt to
“And what happens then?”
“Then I’ll kill him.” His voice was light, sure.
It didn’t make sense. He’d yet to give her a straight answer. A man like Serafin—like Killian—could kill a small boy quite easily, no matter how fanatical and well armed. Why didn’t he put an end to this particular threat? Someone couldn’t live the life Serafin had lived and have any qualms about killing a child.
It probably didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him do it, but it was an anomaly. And anomalies made her nervous.
“When and where do we catch our plane?”
“You’re not arguing?”
“About what? Killing Mahmoud or the burka?”
“Killing Mahmoud isn’t on the table. I’m talking about the latter:’
“Burkas are excellent for concealing weapons. I don’t have any problem with it.”
“A reasonable woman,” he murmured in mock awe. “Mahmoud.” His response was instant. The child was awake, and clearly had been for quite a while.
Serafin’s orders were brief and to the point, and Isobel once more cursed the fact that she couldn’t understand more than a word or two of what he was saying. Not that further studies would have helped; it wasn’t standard Arabic, but some sort of obscure dialect.
“Does he understand any English?” The ground had leveled out, and they were drawing closer to the edge of town. As the sun slowly rose the chill began to seep out of her bones. A stray shiver danced across her skin and then was gone.
“No. He has no idea that in twelve hours he’ll be disarmed, scrubbed clean and praying to Jesus.”
“If he didn’t want to kill you already, then that would do it.”
“I wouldn’t blame him,” Serafin said.
Mahmoud muttered something in a sharp voice, and he replied, then turned to her. “Actually, I lied. There is one word he understands—kill. He wants to know if he should kill you or if I should.” She glanced back at the empty eyes and blank face of the lost child. “And what did you tell him?” “That you’re my business. If you needed killing I’ll see to it, but right now, you’re more valuable alive.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are.” They’d reached an abandoned storage building, and he pulled the Jeep behind it, turning off the engine. “Darling, we’re home.”
Her body was cramped and stiff from the long ride, but she made no attempt to climb down. “And when is our plane?”
“Tonight, if we’re lucky. Otherwise, tomorrow night at the latest. Trust me. I’m ready to get back to the world of hot running water and single malt whiskey.”
“And where will we be until then?” The light of day was strong and clear, bringing blessed respite from the elusive cover of night. She could see him clearly—the puffy face, the balding head, the blackened teeth and middle-aged paunch.
“Samuel’s house is quite well-equipped for this part of the world, and he has reasonable guest quarters. We’ll be able to freshen up there, and if it becomes too dangerous we can always find a hotel and spend the night.”
She bit back the impulse to say “lovely.” She shouldn’t care enough to be hostile. She’d made her reputation as the Ice Queen, a cool, emotionless creature that nothing touched. Every time she reacted to him she was betraying all her hard work.
Besides, it didn’t matter. So she’d known him a lifetime ago. He’d been a bastard back then and was a triple bastard now. All that mattered was getting the job done, seeing it through to the end. And she had every intention of doing so.
A tall, thin Arab appeared out of the shadows. “My friend. I barely recognized you,” he said in greeting.
“Samuel.” Serafin climbed out of the Jeep and embraced the man. Isobel looked behind her, to see Mahmoud watching the two carefully, his hand on the weapon. They were going to have a hard time divesting him of the gun. Isobel was looking forward to watching the ensuing battle. She was keeping well out of it.
“This is the lady?” Samuel said, glancing toward her. “She looks like her passport photo. Unlike you, my friend. We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“How did you get a picture of me?” Isobel asked coolly. There were very few of her in existence—she was almost as hard to pin down as the Butcher himself.
“Samuel has the best resources,” Serafin said. “Come along, princess. We have a bit of a walk before we get to his house.”
“Please don’t call me that.” It was a weakness, admitting it bothered her, but if he called her that one more time she was going to scream.
“You don’t like it? What shall I call you?”
“Madame Lambert. Or even ‘hey, you.’ I’ve never been a princess in my entire life.”
He tilted his head, watching her. “Oh. I don’t think that’s true. I imagine you were quite the fragile little flower when you were young.”
That stung, though it made no sense. She cultivated her agelessness, considering it a triumph when people assumed she was well past her youth. But for him to say
it.
She wasn’t as immune to him as she’d thought, damn it. If it kept up like this she was going to have to shoot him out of self-preservation.
“You have a vivid imagination,” she said in a tight voice. Mahmoud had already scrambled out of the Jeep, keeping close to Serafin, the gun cradled in his arms.
“We need to get under cover quickly,” Samuel said, clearly impatient. “You can argue once we’re safely inside.”
“You’re not arguing” Isobel said.
“Just a lovers’ quarrel,” Serafin said easily.
That settled it—she was going to kill him. As soon as humanly possible. Maybe she could push him out of the airplane as they flew over the
