Ice Blue (24 page)

He took her arm as they walked into the lower level of the terminal, and after an initial start she didn't try to pull away, instead letting him lead her through the almost empty corridors, up into the busier sections. She remained quiet when he took her through the security gate reserved for workers, and after one glance at his ID none of the TSA workers said a word, ignoring her and waving them through. She kept up with him, mute and seemingly miserable, and he thought he could probably let go of her arm.

But he didn't. He wanted to touch her, sick bastard that he was. Until the last possible moment, he wanted to hold on to her.

They reached gate 11. The man Isobel Lambert had arranged for, Crosby, was waiting for them, dressed in the uniform of a maintenance worker, cap pulled low on his head, pushing a bucket and mop. Taka could just imagine what kind of firepower was in that bucket if anyone came near Summer. No one would—they'd covered their tracks too well this time, but it was reassuring that he was there.

There were just the right number of people in the terminal—enough to keep things safe, not too many that they'd interfere or cause problems. Gate 11 was deserted—the next flight out was five hours later—and Taka pushed her into one of the hard plastic seats facing the walkway. He could have stashed her in one of the VIP lounges, but that's where the Shirosama's buddies would be looking for her. Better to be out in the open. Madame Lambert had picked this place, and she knew as well as anyone the best possible spot for a pickup.

Taka finally let go of Summer, because he had no more reason to touch her. He glanced at his watch, needing to walk away, fast.

"Madame Lambert will be here in forty-five minutes. In the meantime Crosby's over there with the mop, and he'll be looking out for you. No one will bother you. If anyone tries, just scream as loud as you can."

Summer gazed up at him, and for a moment he froze. "Why are you looking at me like that? You're about to get everything you want. Your sister, safety—and you'll never have to see me again. Why are you looking stricken?"

"You wouldn't understand," she said, lowering her eyes.

He couldn't stop himself; he caught her chin and tilted her face back up to his. "All right, so your house is destroyed, your best friend killed and you've lost a sentimental cookie jar and an antique kimono. But you're alive, your sister's alive and you're both going to stay that way. Plus, I'm out of here. You're going to England, I'm going to Japan, and if you ask, Madame Lambert will make sure you forget you ever met me. Even if you don't ask she'll probably see to it. So you only have a little while longer to hate me."

"I don't hate you."

Oh, Christ. He looked down into her blue eyes, those eyes that never cried, and he could see tears there. Impossible, but there was no mistaking the lost, broken expression. "Stop it," he said roughly.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like that, or I'll…"

"Or you'll what?"

He really didn't know what he'd do. Kiss her. Shoot her. She was making him crazy, and he couldn't afford to let that happen. "What do you want from me?" he demanded in a harsh undertone. Crosby would be listening to every word, probably taping it.

She didn't answer, and Taka didn't expect her to. She didn't know what she wanted, and right then she was just too worn-out and confused to even begin to guess. He was the only constant in her life right now, and she was afraid to let him go. He could understand that. It had nothing to do with him, more a case of better the devil you know than the devil you don't. So he said nothing more than "Goodbye," and walked away without a backward glance, nodding at Crosby as he went.

Takashi moved through the crowds swiftly, heading back toward the car. His contact, Ella Fancher, was waiting, dressed as a flight attendant, and he handed her the keys. "Pack everything and get it on my plane," he muttered. "I don't know what's important and what's not."

She nodded, handing him the packet of materials he'd requested. New passport, e-ticket to Narita Airport, new credit cards. "Where'd you leave the girl?"

"What makes you think I didn't finish her?"

He'd known Ella for a good five years—they'd even been lovers for a short time, and they'd remained friends. "Because I know you, Taka. It would take more than Isobel Lambert's orders to make you kill an innocent. She knows that, as well. That's why she chose you for this particular assignment."

"She chose me because of my background," he replied. "And 'the girl' is sitting up at the gate, waiting for Lambert to pick her up. Crosby's keeping an eye on her to make sure no one bothers her."

"Crosby?" Ella's face turned pale. "Crosby's dead."

He could feel the blood freeze in his veins. "What do you mean?"

"Crosby was killed in that shootout up at Lake Arrowhead. Who told you Crosby was going to be there?"

"Text message from Madame Lambert," he said tersely, shoving the papers in his pocket.

"Not from Lambert," Ella said grimly. "You'd better go…"

He was already gone. Racing back through the empty halls, his heart slamming against his chest. He'd left her, so determined to escape that he hadn't taken the time to make sure the situation was secure. Summer was going to die because of his own stupid weakness. He'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to leave her at all, so he'd abandoned her.

And because of that, she was going to die. And he wasn't sure he could live with that.

Summer sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, watching the nearly empty terminal. The man who was guarding her seemed busy washing the floors, ignoring her as he moved closer. It should have been a relief—someone else to keep her safe, someone ordinary. Not an exotic, beautiful, cruel creature like Taka.

How the hell had she gotten to this point? She'd looked up at him when he left her, and it was all she could do not to beg him to take her with him. Why? He was going to Japan, and yes, she'd always wanted to go there—ever since Hana-san had told her the stories of her childhood—but not at the side of a Yakuza hit man in the midst of some world-saving quest.

And since when was organized crime interested in saving the world? Shouldn't he be more concerned with selling the urn to the highest bidder, not returning it to the Japanese government?

For that matter, who said he was a Yakuza hit man? She'd jumped to the very logical conclusion that Taka was a gangster by the number of people he'd killed since he'd pulled her out of the trunk of the limousine, and by the tattoos that covered his back. But in fact, he'd only killed to protect her.

Who and what was the committee he'd mentioned in passing? And who was this Madame Lambert she was supposed to meet, the one who was taking both her and Jilly to England?

Summer needed to be with her sister, someplace safe, far away from the Shirosama and his goons. Right now her longing to run back to Taka was just a case of temporary insanity. Of wanting to see how it ended between them.
Idiot
, she thought. It—they—had already ended.

But there was no reason to feel like crying. Because once she started crying she'd never stop, and she couldn't afford to risk that. Not until she was safely out of here.

She glanced over at her guardian angel, but he was nowhere in sight. His cart, however, was still parked against one of the walls. A sudden icy panic began to spike through her, until she heard his voice directly behind her.

"Miss Hawthorne?"

She spun around, filled with relief, and looked up at the face of her bodyguard. At the bald head beneath the cap, the blank eyes. The gun in his hand.

"We need to do this discreetly," he murmured in some kind of accent, one she couldn't place. "If I have to shoot you, then other people will get hurt, and you wouldn't want to be responsible for that, would you? Not after you've already caused so many deaths?"

"I didn't cause any deaths."

"You refused the protection of his holiness, and the man you've been with is nothing more than an assassin, one who kills without mercy. You need to come with me, away from this place, so that he doesn't kill anyone else."

"He's already gone. He doesn't care where I am—you can just leave me here—"

"The woman who's coming for you is just as dangerous. She's already killed your sister, and she'll kill you, as well."

"So you're threatening to shoot me in order to keep her from killing me?" Summer said, calm and frozen. She wasn't going to believe his hideous words. "That doesn't make sense."

"There's a silencer on this gun, and no one will notice. I'll just curl you up in the seat as if you're sleeping, and no one will notice until blood pools underneath your seat."

She rose slowly, knowing he meant what he'd said. "Where are you taking me?"

"Where you belong. Under the protection of his holiness."

"I don't have the urn," she said. "It's out of my hands. I don't have anything the Shirosama wants."

"That is up to his holiness to determine. Walk very slowly and don't make the mistake of trying to attract anyone's attention. My master's orders are explicit. Bring you to his care if possible, but do not let the forces of darkness take you again."

"The forces of darkness?" she echoed, wishing she could be amused at his melodrama. "I'm not going anywhere. And I don't for one moment believe that my sister is dead. I'd know it. I'd feel it."

Instead she felt the gun poking into her ribs. "You will come with me, Miss Hawthorne, and stop arguing."

She glanced around her. The terminal was still marginally empty—no sign of security guards in this security-laden age. Just a few aimless travelers, clearly way too early for their flights.

"This way," he said, prodding her with the gun, and she had no choice but to precede him farther into the terminal, heading down a cement ramp marked Authorized Personnel Only. Maybe he was going to take her to the Shirosama, but more likely he was going to put a bullet in her head and leave her in the dark passageway. It was too late to scream, which Taka had told her to do. Too late to run.

"Stop right there," the man said when they reached the bottom of the ramp. They were in a narrow, dimly lit corridor of closed doors.

Summer leaned against the wall, knowing what was coming. At least Jilly was safe—she was absolutely certain of that despite the man's sinister words. And Taka was safe as well, on his way to Japan with the urn and the kimono, and he might never hear what happened to her. Part of her wanted him to remember, to feel a least a trace of guilt or regret. But he wasn't the kind of man to feel guilt, and besides, he'd done his best for her. Her luck had just finally run out.

She looked at the bald man fearlessly. In the darkened ramp beyond him she thought she could see another silhouette. The goons probably worked in pairs.

"Is the Shirosama trundling his fat butt down here to meet me?" she drawled.

A spasm of pure rage crossed the man's pale face. "How dare you defame the master?"

"The master's not going to show his creepy self, is he? You were never planning to take me to him, you're just going to kill me. So why don't you get it over with?" She managed to sound bored.

"I'm supposed to kill you if you don't cooperate." He was clutching the gun tightly in his fleshy hands. The gun was bigger than she'd first thought—large enough to blow a good-size hole in her.

"But you and I both know it doesn't really matter, right? You've got the excuse to kill me, and you're going to do it. You'll just tell his sliminess that I tried to escape."

"You'll be going to a purer place." The gun was trembling slightly as he spoke. "You should bless the Shirosama for his mercy."

"Killing me is merciful?" she scoffed. The shadow behind him moved, but she kept her eyes focused on Taka's handpicked maintenance man.

"You'll be removed from sin and worldly cares, moving to a higher plane of consciousness."

"I like this plane of consciousness, thank you," she said. Who was looming behind him? Was it rescue, or a more certain defeat? Was she going to die? Death seemed likely, all without ever seeing Taka again. Which was just as well. If she saw him she'd probably make a fool of herself, because he was all she could think of, even when her life was about to end. She could only hope that Lianne would feel damn guilty about her death.

"You deserve to die," the man said. "For your lack of respect, if nothing else."

"Don't you think you ought to check with the Shirosama before you do this? I gather he doesn't like to have his orders crossed." Whatever she'd seen on the ramp behind the man was gone; nothing was moving at all. No rescue, no deus ex machina. No Taka.

It was up to her, and if she tried to rush him, he'd just shoot her.

"I'll take my chances," the man said, raising the gun and pointing it in the middle of her forehead. A third eye, she thought, feeling a little giddy. Maybe she'd find enlightenment, after all.

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S
he heard the popping, the slick, familiar sound of a silenced gun going off, a sound she'd heard so many times on TV and in the movies. Summer felt nothing, but she'd read enough to know that you don't feel anything for a while. You go into shock. Though if he shot her in the head she'd already be dead, wouldn't she? And if she wasn't, wouldn't she feel blood on her face…?