She shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like him, but Marc’s a trained actor. I’m sure he could disguise his voice if he wanted to.”
“But if he had come to get us,” Nicole said with eerie common sense, “he wouldn’t be making a sound. This man is much too noisy.”
Her words were prophetic, if not reassuring. The rattling turned to a loud thudding, and the two of them watched in mute horror as the flimsy back door began to give way beneath the barrage. Seconds later the door splintered open, and a dark figure hurtled through.
“Run, sweetheart,” Claire hissed, shoving her into the bedroom and shielding her with her body as she faced the huge, angry intruder. Where the hell had she put the gun Tom had insisted she keep?
The stranger moved into the room, relaxed now, taking his time as he shook the water from his leather jacket. At least it wasn’t Marc, Claire told herself, holding her ground. The stranger couldn’t have seen Nicole, he would think she was there alone. If he was intent on harming her at least Nicole would be safe.
The man looked up and grinned at her, a terrifying, savage grin that revealed a cruel mouth with several gold teeth. He said something in French, and Claire shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I only speak English,” she said with deceptive calm. She’d left the gun on the table somewhere behind her. If she could just back up, casually …
“I said, where’s the brat?” The man advanced on her, swaggering slightly, and for the first time Claire realized she’d seen that face before. She couldn’t remember where or when, but the effect was unnerving.
“Please leave,” she said, stumbling backward, away from him, part pretense, part real fear. The table had to be somewhere behind her, the gun in reach.
The man smirked, there was no other word for it. “Not until I get what I came for.” He had something in his hand, something slender and cylindrical, something that looked harmless. Until he snapped it, and a thin, wicked-looking blade snicked out. “I’m afraid you’ve become a problem, chérie,” he crooned. “You and the little girl. Not to mention Marc himself. I’m going to clean up a few loose ends. Tell me where the brat is, and when I finish with her we’ll have a few minutes to enjoy ourselves. If you’re nice to me I promise it won’t hurt.”
Claire just stared at him in horror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her shaking voice belying her protestations.
“Don’t anger me.” The man was enjoying this, she could tell. She edged a few inches further, but the table was still maddeningly out of reach. “It’s not often I get an audience, someone to talk to. Your man’s gone into town, there’s just you and the brat, and no one can help you.”
She didn’t bother to ask how he knew. He’d probably been the one in the white Fiat who’d followed them. “He’ll be back any moment …”
“And he’ll be useless against me.” The man began paring his filthy fingernails with the wicked-looking knife. “I kill for a living, chérie. I kill for business and for pleasure. Your American won’t have a chance against someone like me.”
“Who do you kill?”
The man shrugged. “Anyone for a price. Drug dealers, pimps, whores, businessmen, bureaucrats.”
“And for pleasure?” Her seeking fingers caught the edge of the small table.
The man smiled his hideous smile. “Why, old ladies, of course.”
A last, lingering trace of hope spiked through her. “Then Marc didn’t …”
“Oh, yes, Marc did. Just as we killed Grand-mère Estelle in the orphanage twenty-five years ago. Of course,” he added sweetly, “we no longer eat them.”
Claire’s empty stomach twisted, convulsed, and she doubled over, knocking against the table, the gun skittering into her desperate hands. She collapsed on the rough plank floor, rolled, and came up with the gun in her hands, pointing straight at her murderous intruder.
Except that he was gone. She saw his leather jacket disappearing into Nicole’s room, and she didn’t even hesitate. She fired, and the damned thing recoiled on her like an angry serpent. She heard Nicole scream, and she raced toward the room, prepared to fire again and again and again.
The man was lying on the floor, clutching his side and cursing furiously, weakly. Claire could see the blood on his hand as he pressed it against his leather jacket, and another wave of nausea and dizziness hit her.
This time she wouldn’t give in to it. Nicole was kneeling in the middle of the bed, staring at the bloody tableau in horror. Holding the gun as steady as she could in wildly shaking hands, Claire stepped over the man’s writhing form and caught Nicole in her arms. The child clung to her, burying her face in Claire’s shoulder, and slowly, carefully, Claire stepped back toward the door.
A steely, bloody hand shot out and wrapped itself around her ankle, the fingers digging in like claws. She fought back the scream that caught in her throat, and still holding Nicole with one protective arm, she leaned over and pointed the gun directly into the man’s face.
“I’ll count to five,” she said, “and then I’ll shoot you. Don’t think I won’t.”
His glittering, enraged eyes met hers for a long, thoughtful moment. She knew he was weighing his chances of toppling her over, Nicole and all, weighing that against the possibility of another bullet smashing through his skull.
“One,” said Claire, ready to pull the trigger if she felt the slightest tug.
Her ankle was numb, streaks of pain were shooting up her calf and thigh, and Nicole was snuffling into her shoulder, clinging to her for dear life.
“The hell with it,” Claire said, and pulled the trigger.