Black Ice (Ice 1)

“This room has steel reinforcements, and we’re directly above the bathroom. They’re likely to survive a fire more than the rest of this old bundle of dry wood, and I don’t take chances. One screwup is enough.”

“You’re going to burn the place? Then why did you bother making me change my clothes?”

“God is in the details. Except, of course, I don’t believe in God. But I never count on anything. They may find enough of your body, and I don’t want them ID-ing you. If you were German or English I wouldn’t have to be so careful, but the Americans tend to make a huge fuss when one of their citizens is murdered overseas. Out the door, chérie. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“And what if I refuse to move? Make you kill me here?”

“You won’t. You’ll put off dying as long as you possibly can. It’s human nature. You’ll do everything I tell you to do, in the hope that you’ll find a weak spot, a chance to escape. You won’t, but you can’t believe that. So you’re going to do exactly as I say, walk out that door and down the stairs to the far corner of the second floor. Where I’ll cut your throat and then torch the place. I’ve already set the accelerants.”

But Chloe’s mind wasn’t interested in accelerants. “You’ll cut my throat?”

“It works quite well. It’s quiet—no noisy gun, and you won’t be able to make anything more than a gurgling noise for as long as you live. The drawback in your case is that you don’t die right away, but for me that’s one of the perks. I have a personal grudge this time. Not just for Jean-Marc’s sake. I don’t usually make mistakes, but because of you I made a major one. And I intend to make it right with a vengeance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you totally dim-witted? Your friend. I had the apartment number, a general description, and there she was. How was I to know you had a roommate? It was very embarrassing to be told I’d killed the wrong woman.”

“Embarrassing?” Chloe echoed. The empty wine bottle was still on the table. It wouldn’t be much protection against a knife or a gun, but it would be something. If she just had the nerve to dive for it.

“Though in the end there’s no real harm done. I would have had to kill her anyway—it just would have been done in a different order. And this time I’ll complete my mission with no more mistakes.”

“You killed Sylvia?”

Maureen made an exasperated noise. “Haven’t you been listening? Of course I killed her. And she put up far more of a fight than I’m expecting from you. In the dark she must have thought I was a thief, because she fought like the very devil. I still have bruises. But I know you’re not going to give me any trouble—”

Chloe slammed her across the face with the empty wine bottle. The heavy glass shattered, but Chloe was already sprinting past her, running for her life, as Maureen screamed in rage behind her.

She couldn’t remember much about the layout of the old house, but even in her panic she managed to find the stairs. She could hear Maureen following her, but she had a good head start, and she ran down the stairs as fast as she could.

She slid on the last flight, going down hard and losing precious moments. By the time she’d managed to scramble to her feet again Maureen was in sight on the next landing.

The stairs ended, and Chloe kept moving, running blindly, listening to the sounds of Maureen’s heavy breathing as she closed in on her.

At the last minute luck was with her—she stumbled through a door that led into the murky, snow-lit outdoors. She was at the top of an outside flight of stairs leading down into the yard. She could even see the snow-covered mound of the taxi that had brought them here, but all trace of footprints had been covered up by the heavy snow, and it lay on each step at least a foot deep.

Chloe started down the stairs, fighting her way through the heavy wet snow, but it was too late. She was halfway down when Maureen caught up with her, grabbing her short hair and yanking her back.

“Bitch,” she spat, and her face was covered in blood. No longer chic and pretty, she was murderously angry. She took her and slammed her against the snowy stairs, holding her down. The knife in her hand was small but capable, and Chloe knew a bleak, surrealistic moment of despair. Why did it always have to be a knife? Why couldn’t someone just try to shoot her, cleanly and quickly, instead of carving into her flesh like a surgeon on amphetamines.

She closed her eyes, no longer brave, ready to face death, and she heard Maureen’s throaty laugh. “That’s the girl,” she said. “No more arguments.”

“Maureen! Stop!”

r /> It couldn’t be Bastien’s hoarse voice—he’d set this up. Had he changed his mind, come back? Changed his mind as he had at the château, and decided to save her?

“Go away, Jean-Marc!” Maureen said in an eerily calm voice, not bothering to look away from Chloe as she lay on the snow-covered stairs. “You know this is for the best. We have no choice.”

“Leave her alone!” The voice was closer, calmer now, but Maureen wasn’t listening.

“Make your choice, Jean-Marc,” she said. “Her or…” Her voice broke at the sound of the muffled gun, and she looked down in surprise. “Shit,” she muttered. And fell backward, sliding down the snowy slant of the stairs until she landed at the bottom, at Bastien’s feet.

There was a wide trail of bright crimson blood on the snow where Maureen’s body had slid, harsh red against the brilliant white. Chloe tried to move, but Bastien’s voice stopped her.

“Stay where you are,” he said, sounding oddly hollow. He bent down, effortlessly lifting Maureen’s limp body in his arms. For the moment he seemed to forget Chloe, as he carried Maureen toward the abandoned taxi, kicking the deep snow away, opening the door against the heavy drifts.

Chloe rose on unsteady legs, making her way down the stairs, following the trail of blood, her movements muffled by the thick snow. She should run, into the streets, and maybe he’d give up trying to find her.

She wasn’t going anywhere.