Ice Storm (22 page)

But by now it should be finished. The incendiary device on the Bentley had been precisely timed, set to blow the moment the ignition was turned a second time. Just when Serafin and Isobel and the child they were dragging along with them got in the car.
Let it never be said that Harry wasn’t a practical man. He had no idea what had happened in Isobel’s past, how she had come to know a man like Serafin. And now he never would, because they would all be gone in a cloud of smoke and shrapnel and blood. He could live with that. The Committee had lost too many good operatives, and Stolya would see that Madsen would provide no difficulties. A tragedy involving Peter and his new wife could go either way—a sad accident or a preemptive strike from an unknown enemy. In either case, they would have to turn to him, with Isobel dead in a car bomb blast.

Things were far too lax. In Harry’s day, someone like Hiromasa whatever his bloody name was wouldn’t have gotten as far as
London
. In his day, a woman would never be put in charge of a job only a cool, practical man could accomplish. And Thomason had every intention of getting back there, where he belonged. Back to the good old days where enemies were straightforward, where you trusted no one, and any inconveniences and anomalies were wiped out. The ends justified the means.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was going to be a busy man the next couple of days, once the word about the car bomb came through. His cigar had gone our. and he relit it, drawing in a deep, mellow stream of smoke. He’d be ready.
It felt like they walked for miles through the busy streets of
Plymouth
. The smell of the car bomb lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of diesel fuel and the distant tang of the ocean. A cold, light rain was falling, and Isobel kept her head down, huddled in Killian’s jacket.

Mahmoud seemed impervious to the cold, scampering along after them like a child on holiday as they moved through the streets. It was hard to believe he was keeping Killian in his sights because he wanted to murder him, but Isobel didn’t doubt it. She wanted to murder him as well, and she wasn’t letting him get too far ahead.
She shouldn’t be letting him take charge—there was no reason to trust him, and now that she’d gotten him into
England
, he could just take
off.
If he had any sense, he’d kill the two of them first—or, at least he’d try.

Right then she wasn’t sure she could stop him. Her back was on fire; she was cold and wet and numb. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to find out who the hell had put the hit out on them. But for the time being, all she could do was trudge after him, wishing she still had her burka.

At one point he pushed them into an alley and left them, and she and Mahmoud had no choice but to stand there, shivering, not looking at each other. She should be hoping Killian hadn’t abandoned them for good, striking out on his own, but in fact she would have welcomed his disappearance. Enough was enough. She wanted him gone, she wanted him dead, she wanted her life back. If he didn’t return she’d get back to
London
on her own, with or without Mahmoud dogging her heels.

For forty-five minutes she stood there shivering, though her back was on fire. Her fingers were numb, her feet soaked, but Mahmoud just kept waiting, expressionless. And then he perked up, hearing something she was too miserable to notice.
“Serafin,” he said. The first word he’d spoken directly to her since the deserted village in
Morocco
.

He was right. The bright blue Jaguar was gorgeous and striking, and Killian was behind the wheel, looking impatient. He pulled up at the end of the alleyway and lowered the window
“Get in the front seat, princess,” he ordered. “Mahmoud will ride in the back.”
The boy seemed to know the drill, for he’d already scrambled into the backseat and slammed the door behind him.

“Isn’t this rather a conspicuous car to steal?” Isobel said, stalling.
“I didn’t steal it, I rented it. The leak’s on your end, and they don’t know the names we’re using.”

 
“And if the leak’s on
“your
end?”

“Then we’re toast. It’ll make the day more interesting. Do you want to put some money on it? I’ll give you excellent odds.”

“I think life or death are high enough stakes,” she said. “I can sit in the back with Mahmoud.”
Killian just looked at her. “It happened,” he said flatly, and she didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Get over it, and climb in the front seat. It’s already growing dark, and at the least they have our descriptions. We need to get the hell out of here.”

She was a practical, unemotional woman. He was right, and she was cold. She got in the front seat, closing the door behind her, and he took off into the twilight, driving fast and well.
She heard a rustling sound, and looked back to see Mahmoud already showing down on a bag of crisps. “You stopped for food?”

“I stopped for supplies. Take off my jacket and lie down.”

“Fuck you.”

“Take off the jacket. Isobel,” Killian said. He didn’t sound patient.

“I’m not...” She leaned back against the seat, then jerked erect as fire spread through her.
“You heard me. Take off the jacket and lie down.”

“There isn’t room.”

“Put your fucking head in my lap,” he snapped. “And stop playing games. I need to get you cleaned up and we can’t afford to stop. Take off my jacket before you get any more blood on it, and lie down. Unless you have a damn good reason not to.”
She had a million reasons not to, and she wouldn’t admit to any of them. She pulled the jacket off gingerly, trying to ignore the tiny shards of pain that sped through her body, and put it in her lap. Even in the dusky interior of the car she could see the blood.
“The shirt, too.” he said.

It was the T-shirt he’d bought her on the ferry, the one with Ibiza Is for Lovers emblazoned on the front. She pulled it over her head, carefully, not making a sound as her flesh screamed in pain. The back of the shirt was shredded, stained with more blood.
“I haven’t lost that much,” she said, not moving closer. ‘I’ll be fine until we reach London.”
“You have a dozen or more tiny pieces of glass sticking out of your skin, Isobel. Put your face in my lap or I’ll make you.”

He was the man who’d fucked her and hadn’t come. He was the man who’d used her, tricked her, treated her as one more weapon in his destruction of the world. He wouldn’t give a damn if her face was in his crotch, and neither would she.

“You could have gone for a bench seat,” she muttered, lying down, putting her head on his thigh beneath the steering wheel. She could feel his heat, bone and muscle. She already knew how strong he was; he carried Mahmoud’s slight weight without seeming to notice, and he could probably haul her around as well. She lay there, balancing tentatively, ignoring the fact that she was wearing jeans and a bra and nothing else. He didn’t care.

Mahmoud chose that moment to lean over the seat and make an observation, and Killian laughed, damn him. “Don’t translate,” she said between clenched teeth. “Just get the damn glass out if you think it’s so important.”

He put his hand on her head, silencing her. It was getting darker, the roads were crowded and he couldn’t afford to watch—be had to keep his eyes on the road. One hand was on the steering wheel, the other left her head to drift gently down her raw back.
“Got one,” he murmured, and one tiny spike of pain lessened as he pulled the shard free, dropping it in the space usually used for coins. “Hold still.”
“Couldn’t Mahmoud do this?” she said. The hand moving across her back, so gentle, was worse than her face in his crotch. She didn’t want gentleness from him.
But then, he’d offered her violence last night and she’d taken it. Without argument.
“Stop thinking,” he said. “If you tense your muscles, it’ll be harder to pull the glass out.” Another piece gone. She was holding her breath, and she forced herself to let it out, concentrating on calming exercises. It wasn’t the pain, it was the position that was making her tense, but in the end the effect was the same. She knew how to slow her breathing, how to make herself relax no matter what the circumstances, and she brought all her resources into play, relaxing, softening her body, sinking into the seat. Sinking against his hard, hard thigh.

“That’s better.” he murmured. She could hear the steady swish of the windshield wipers, the hum of the tires, the sounds of traffic. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the dubious ministry of his hands as he plucked shards of glass from her skin.
“Why did you save Mahmoud?” Killian’s voice was so low she almost didn’t hear him.
“Instinct,” she muttered sleepily. “I certainly wasn’t about to save
you.”
His laugh vibrated through his leg, through her body. Of course not, Mahmoud’s grateful.”
She couldn’t be relaxed and hostile at the same time—that much multitasking was beyond her at the moment. “Sure he is,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t trust him not to thrust a knife in my ribs if I got between him and what he wanted.”
“True, but he’d feel bad about it.” Another piece gone. She’d lost count. She could open her eyes and look at the little pile of glass shards in front of her, but she didn’t want to. One thing she’d learned over the years was to give in when there was nothing she could do about a situation. Killian was heading to
London
— he’d have no reason to do otherwise, and self-preservation was his number one priority. She could let go of that responsibility for the time being. He was probably just picking the stuff out of her back because he needed her in good working order, in case someone else tried to hit him. That, and the fact that it humiliated her, were two strong motives.

And her only defense was not to feel humiliated. “Are you almost finished’?” she asked in a deliberately caustic tone.

His fingertips danced across her abraded skin, as gently as a whisper. “I think we’ve got most of them. I have a suggestion while you’re in that position.”

“I’ll bet you do.” She tried to sit up, but his hand came down on her neck, no longer gentle at all.

“Stay put,” he ordered, his voice flat.

“If you think I’m—”

“Someone’s following us,” he said. “Right now it looks as if I’m alone in the car, and we’d better keep it that way.”

She couldn’t argue with his logic. He loosened the pressure on her scalp, and she lay still, listening as he spoke to Mahmoud. The first thing she was going to do when she got back to
London
was take an intensive training course in Arabic. It was maddening not to know what was going on. And given the state of the world, she had no doubt she’d be needing it sooner rather than later.

Assuming she continued to go out into the field.

She’d had no choice in the last year or so. When Thomason had been in charge he’d simply delegated, probably due to the fact that he never liked to get his hands dirty. He had people to enforce his decrees, but he himself was no operative. He’d come in at an early age, a
London
bureaucrat with connections, and he’d never had to do anything more than give orders and exercise power.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. She wasn’t convinced that Sir Harry Thomason was, in fact, corrupt. It was a possibility, but a remote one. He cherished the life of an English gentleman a little too dearly. He was just a useless old man with nothing to do but harass Peter with petty annoyances. If that was the worst thing she had to deal with, then she could count herself lucky.

And now they’d lost another agent. Morrison had been one of the oldest and best operatives they had, and now he was gone. At least it had been quick for him. As soon as she got to
London
she’d have to make arrangements for his body to be collected and properly buried.

It was easier to think about Morrison than what she was doing at the moment, a fact that should have shamed her. But it didn’t. She could grieve Morrison’s loss, but her practical side forced her to consider how they were going to make do. Hiromasa was just going to have to come on board sooner than expected. She only hoped he had Taka’s ability to blend in. Killian’s hand had moved from the back of her head to her neck, underneath her loose hair. The heat was on full blast, and even wearing nothing but her bra, she felt warm, almost drowsy. If she didn’t know better she’d him, and that was one thing she wouldn’t do. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking.”

“That’s out of your control, Killian,” she said. “Sorry about your problem, but I’m not doing anything about it.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“What’s this?” She couldn’t pull away, but she could move her fingers, and she brushed the length of him beneath the heavy denim. He didn’t react, but then, she hadn’t expected him to.

“Unfinished business. We’ll take care of it later. In the meantime, you can just lie still and be quiet. Look at it this way, you’ll be putting me through exquisite torment. Won’t you enjoy that?”

“I doubt it’s torment. I wasn’t fighting last night. You missed your chance.”

“There are always more chances, princess,” he whispered. “I had a crisis of conscience.”
“You have no conscience.”

“Not much of one, I’ll admit. But it does seem to appear when you’re around. I wasn’t going to kill you, you know. You didn’t have to shoot
me.
”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Oh, I did. Over and over again. You still are completely blind when it comes to me, aren’t you?”