Ice Storm (14 page)

“Stay put” Killian said. “I’m riding in the cockpit. I’m not sure I trust our pilot. If Mahmoud wakes up and starts causing trouble, just hit him with another shot of this.” He tossed a syringe into her lap. That should keep him out of commission long enough. We’re landing in
Spain
—after that it’s up to you to get us to London.”
“I already had plans to get us out of
Morocco
. Why the hell did you drag us over an illegal border and into this mess?”

“Did I ever give you the impression that I wanted to confide in you, princess? We’re doing this my way, and I don’t have to give you reasons. I had an errand in
Algeria
. While you were sleeping I checked in with former employers of mine, one of the few who don’t want me dead. I’ve taken care of it, we’re on our way out, and now you can take over once more, as you’ve been itching to do. But Mahmoud comes with us, drugged or not.”

She resisted the impulse to sweep the syringe off her lap. “How do you know this is even the right dosage? For that matter, why is he still asleep and I’m awake?”
“You were given enough that you should have been out for hours yet. Let’s just say you’re an exceptional woman.”

 
“And if I were still unconscious? Would you have left me behind in the house?” She didn’t know why she was asking. At least her voice sounded no more than casually curious, and he couldn’t see the expression on her face.

“I’d already set the charges, and I only had time to bring one of you out. You or Mahmoud. What do you think?”

She tore the headpiece off, wanting to look at him without the screening between them. “I think you’re a man who’d choose someone who wants to kill you over someone who wants to save you.”

“You’ve learned a lot over the years, princess. Perhaps not as much as you think, but you’re still quite observant. However, you’re forgetting the fact that you want me dead with just as much passion as Mahmoud does. You’re just not going to act on it.”
She didn’t bother denying that. “Not now.”

“No, not now,” he said thoughtfully. “Call me if you need anything.” And a moment later he was gone, behind the door that separated the cockpit from the tiny, luxurious interior of the plane.

The takeoff into the desert night was smooth and effortless: at least the pilot knew what he was doing. Once they were at a decent altitude she unfastened her seat belt and pulled the burka over her head, shoving it under the seat. She would have preferred to throw it out the window, set it on fire, anything to get rid of it, but she wasn’t that stupid.
Spain
had a Large Muslim population, and a woman observing purdah would hardly be remarkable. It would require life-or-death circumstances to make her put that thing on again, but unfortunately, such circumstances were the norm right now.
She looked over at the sleeping Mahmoud. She’d seen child soldiers before, of course. Seen them kill, seen them die, and Mahmoud was just one of a long line of faceless bodies. She didn’t believe in the power of redemption, or second chances—she’d been in the business too long. But she also knew that anything was possible. If Killian were dead, Mahmoud would have nothing driving him. Maybe then he might have a future.
She leaned back, looking out into the dark night, then reached inside her bra for the small device that contained her world. It was a cross between a Blackberry, a PDA and a cell phone, so advanced no one could hack into it, at least not as of the day she’d left
England
. Fortunately, no one had touched her, searched her. She opened the keyboard and began to text, hoping to God Peter was on call. But of course he was. The only thing that could distract him was Genevieve, and at this hour she was probably lying in bed next to him, sound asleep. A few minutes later Isobel snapped the phone shut, tucking it back inside her bra. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were bringing their adopted child back to the
U.K.
via the
Bilbao
to
Portsmouth
ferry, a nice, leisurely ride where no one would think of looking for them. Someone would meet them at the ferry terminal with the proper IDs.

How Peter would get an updated photo of Killian was beyond Isobel’s comprehension, but she didn’t doubt he could do it. He could do anything. In the meantime, she needed to get them to the northern port from wherever they were going to land. She pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the cockpit door.

It was locked. “Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, rattling the latch. “Open the goddamn door,” she snapped.

There was a low murmur of Arabic, and then Killian’s voice, clear and cool. “What do you want?”

“I want you to open the door.”

“Don’t be tiresome.” Did his tone sound odd? She couldn’t be certain. “Go and sit down. We should be landing before long.”

“Landing where? I need to make arrangements.” She rattled the door again.
“We can make arrangements when we land, Sarah. In the meantime take care of little Benjamin.”
She froze. As a code it was far from sophisticated, but the message was clear. Something was wrong, and it didn’t sound as if Killian was going to be able to fix it.
Which left things up to her. She still had the Swiss Army knife, and the engine noise was loud enough to cover her work. In less than a minute the lock clicked open, and she pulled the gun from her waist and pushed at the door. Killian was sitting in the copilot’s seat, handcuffed, and the pilot was holding a pistol to his head. “Go back in the plane,” the man ordered. “Or I’ll shoot your friend.”

“Looks like you’re going to shoot him anyway,” Isobel said, not moving. Killian appeared singularly unalarmed, a
fact
that annoyed her.

“He’s worth more alive than dead, and I like money. You, however, don’t matter.” The plane must have been on autopilot, for he turned away from the controls and aimed the gun at her.

A mistake, Killian slammed his head against the pilot’s, so hard the man jerked in his seal, and a moment later the two of them were down on the floor, sprawling into the plane. Killian’s hands still bound. Isobel stepped back, out of the way. If she came too close she could be pulled into it, and if she tried to shoot the pilot they could end up with a depressurized cabin. Besides, she might miss and get Killian, which would be a great tragedy to someone in this world, if not to her. She watched, unmoving, as the pilot slammed his elbow into Killian’s unprotected stomach.

She’d witnessed violence before, participated in it. The strange silence of this life-and-death struggle gave it an eerie sense of unreality, as the unpiloted plane flew through the desert night. She ought to do something, ought to stop them, but some small part of her was taking a savage delight in watching Killian get the shit beat out of him.
Except that he was winning. He had the man under him, his knee on his neck. The cracking sound was unmistakable, and then the pilot lay still in the narrow walkway.

Killian rose, falling back into the seat, slightly out of breath. “Get the keys to the handcuffs, would you, princess?”

She didn’t move. “I think I like you better when you’re tied up.”

He didn’t even blink. “It didn’t stop me from killing him, and it wouldn’t stop me from killing you. Can you fly a plane?”

“No. Can you?”

“Of course, I was going to wait until we were closer to landing before I killed him, but you did have to blunder in and precipitate things, didn’t you?” He sounded vaguely annoyed. “Next time, remember I don’t need rescuing.”

“Next time, I’ll let you die,” she said, kneeling down and going through the dead man’s pockets with efficient distaste. She found the keys and threw them to Killian. Found a crumpled back of cigarettes and palmed them, sliding them into her pants pocket.
“You can try,” he said, unfastening the cuffs and tossing them on the body. “Cover him with a blanket or something, will you? I don’t want Mahmoud to wake up and see him. Another dead Arab won’t increase his trust in
me.
”

“You expect him to trust you?”

“Not exactly. But I’d prefer not to push him over the edge right now. He’s happy to wait to kill me, but he could always change his mind, and I’m not in the mood to break his scrawny little neck,” Killian slid over into the pilot’s seat, checking the gauges with reassuring confidence. But then, when had he ever seemed less than confident? “Close the door and go back to your seat. I’ll let you know when we’re getting close to landing.”
“Landing where? I’ve made arrangements to get us from
Spain
to
England
, but I need to know our stalling point.”

“Our pilot was heading toward Málaga, where I expect we had a welcoming committee. I’m heading farther up the coast—there’s an airport in
Almeria
and one in
Murcia
. I don’t think this plane holds enough gas to get farther.”

“All right. We’ll rent a car to take us up to
Bilbao
.”

“We’re leaving from
Bilbao
? That’s a pretty busy airport.”

“We’re not flying,” she said, and closed the door before he could ask any more questions.
At least she could be enigmatic, too. It wasn’t much of a weapon against someone like Killian, but it was better than vulnerability. She looked down at the dead man on the floor. Someone had betrayed them again, maybe Samuel, maybe someone else. Whoever it was, he knew far too much about Killian’s whereabouts, and her plan was a perfect way to just disappear for twenty- four hours. At this point the only person she could trust was Peter Madsen, and he was a thousand miles away.
This was up to her. She’d be bringing Killian back to the
U.K.
in one piece, though she didn’t mind if he was a bit battered in the process. But failure wasn’t an option.

Mahmoud was still out, and she put her hand on his forehead. Cool to the touch, and his eyes flickered open for a brief moment, dilated, drugged, before closing again. He wouldn’t be causing any trouble for quite a while, she thought, sinking back into her seat. In the meantime she could only hope Killian was half as capable as he seemed to think he was. Or else they were all going to end up in a fiery crash somewhere north of
Algeria
or deep in the
Mediterranean
.

Peter Madsen quickly wiped the memory off his PDA, deleting all trace of Isobel’s message, and tried to ignore the peculiar sense of relief that washed through him. He still wasn’t comfortable with emotions. He’d made peace with the fact that he loved Genevieve to an almost dangerous degree, but he was determined to stay icy and detached as far as his work went. Except that Bastien, the closest friend he’d ever had, had turned his back on what was most precious to him just to save Peter’s life. And Taka had almost died for him as well. Even if he’d paid that debt back in full, it made ties that Peter couldn’t break.

But his strongest ties, after Genevieve, were to Isobel. He could see her so clearly, she was like a mirror of his former self. The ice-cold control, the gnawing pain that was going to make her crazy or kill her if she didn’t find a way to deal with it. You could only stay in this business a certain amount of time before you snapped. And Isobel was dancing on the razor’s edge.

But she was alive, she had Serafin and she was headed to
Spain
. He’d make arrangements for them to take the car ferry from
Bilbao
—giving them almost twenty-four hours of breathing space out in the
Atlantic
. He still wasn’t sure why there was a child to provide papers for as well, but Peter was nothing if not efficient. The papers would be awaiting her at a cafe just outside the city, and they’d be on their way to
England
by tomorrow evening.

She hadn’t asked for transport
to
Bilbao
, so he was leaving that up to her. Nor had she said anything about the mission—he could only assume it was still on, even if she’d had to go dark for a stretch of time. He didn’t doubt Harry Thomason’s word that Isobel had known Josef Serafin in another life—Harry didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.
And Peter didn’t doubt Isobel had known exactly what she’d been walking into—she didn’t make those kinds of mistakes either. Serafin might be considered the most dangerous man on earth by certain glossy news magazines, but Peter would put his money on Isobel every time.

He flicked off the light switch, setting the alarm system. Overhead he could hear
Reno
—music that could only be Japanese hip-hop, for God’s sake, and thumps and bumps. Either he had half a dozen girls up there on the floor and he was doing them one by one, or he was doing some sort of exercise. Or dancing. The thought of
Reno
dancing was enough to send cold shivers down Peter’s spine. He preferred the notion of an orgy. In the few days
Reno
had been in
London
it was clear he was like catnip to the nubile female population. It was astonishing he was finding enough time to work on his English.
Peter headed downstairs, out into the darkened streets. Genevieve would be waiting up for him, and he intended to lose himself in her wonderful body tonight. She was already past her fertile time, she’d told him gloomily. So now they could fuck just for the sheer pleasure of it, something he was looking forward to. He didn’t mind providing stud service on call for Genevieve—there were far worse things on his plate—but he was looking forward to having the two of them in bed with no agenda. Maybe even doing a few things that didn’t make babies but provided shattering pleasure.