Ice Blue (Ice 3)

The guards would be there soon enough, and if an army of cat burglars decid

ed to show up there wasn’t much she could do about it. If she waited that long she’d probably fall asleep at the wheel. No, she was being absurd, paranoid. No one was out to get her, not even the greedy Shirosama. He didn’t want her. He wanted the bowl, though she had no idea why.

She started walking down the drive, the tiny white bits of gravel sharp under her bare soles, and she cursed beneath her breath. Nothing would make her cram her feet back into the high heels, but maybe she’d see if she could talk the board of directors into paving the parking lot instead of littering it with decorative little shards of stone.

Her car was too old to be equipped with power locks, and she’d shoved her key in the door to open it when she heard a noise, so small that she might have imagined it. She jerked her head up, peering into the darkness around her—she could feel those eyes again—when suddenly the door of her Volvo slammed open and someone leapt out at her, knocking her to the ground, the tiny stones digging into her back as cloth covered her face and she felt the smothering darkness close in.

2

She wasn’t going down without a fight. She kicked out, hard, but bare feet weren’t much of a defense, and whoever had been hiding in her car was strong, wrapping burly arms around her over the shroud and dragging her across the pebbles. She began to scream, loud cries for help, and something cuffed the side of her head. She could hear voices, low and muffled, and a moment later the unpleasant sound of a car trunk opening. She fought back, but another pair of hands joined in, and she was dumped into the trunk, the lid slamming down on her before she could stop them.

She shoved the thin blanket away from her and began kicking and pounding on the lid of the trunk. She was in some kind of luxury car—the space was huge and carpeted—and she had a pretty good idea who had done this. The True Realization Fellowship had a reputation for getting what it wanted, and no one wanted anything from her but the Shirosama. She kicked again, screaming at her captors, until someone pounded back on the trunk, a loud thwack that would have dented the metal of a cheaper car.

And then a moment later the vehicle was moving, tearing down the long, curving driveway that led from the Sansone, moving at dangerous speeds, tossing her about in the trunk like a sack of potatoes. Summer’s head slammed against the metal side and she braced herself, holding on. Screaming was a waste of time—no one would hear her over the noise of the road or through the soundproofing. She needed to save her energy to escape.

She could feel the car turning onto the main road—the vehicle leveled out, and whoever was driving was keeping a more sedate pace, clearly not wanting to draw any unwanted attention with a woman in the trunk. Summer tried to listen, to learn anything that would help her figure out what they wanted from her, where they were taking her, but there was absolute silence from the front of the car. She didn’t even know for certain whether there was one or more of them. Two people had tossed her into the trunk, but that didn’t mean both had gotten into the vehicle. If she had to deal with only one man, and she was prepared, then maybe she stood a fighting chance whenever he decided to stop and—

The car sped up suddenly, tossing her against the rear of the compartment, slamming her knee against the locking mechanism. She cried out, but the sound was muffled in the carpeted trunk.

“Calm down,” she said out loud, her voice soft and eerie in the darkness. She took a deep, steady breath, and then another. She couldn’t just let herself be tossed around indefinitely—she had to think of a way out.

Wouldn’t they have a jack and tire iron in the trunk? Under the thick carpeting? She slid her fingers beneath the edge, to a latch, but when she tried to pull it up the weight of her body was in the way. She scrunched over to one side as far as she could go, managing to get the lid up far enough to reach under it, into the well of the car. There was a tire there, all right, and she could feel the scissor jack. There had to be a tire iron as well.

She almost missed the small leather bag of tools. Inside was a nice iron rod that could manage to break a few bones if properly applied. The very thought was nauseating, but not as bad as being kidnapped in the middle of the night. She dropped the lid back down, rolling over on it, and tucked the foot-long iron bar into her long, flowing sleeve. She could even jab someone in the eye with it, if necessary.

They were going faster now, faster than when they’d sped down the road from the museum, so fast that she could barely maintain her balance in the huge trunk. She felt the car skid as the driver took a corner too quickly, and when he straightened out he sped up even more. It wasn’t until Summer heard the sound of another engine, much too close behind them, that she realized they were being chased.

Not by the police—there were no sirens blaring, just the roar of a vehicle far too near for her peace of mind.

The loud cracking noise was unmistakable, and she rolled facedown in the trunk, covering her head with her hands. Someone was shooting, and she sincerely doubted it was some white knight coming to her rescue. No one had been around to see her being hustled into the trunk of the car, and if anyone was trying to save her, he’d hardly be firing a gun and putting her in even greater danger.

She felt a jolt as the vehicle behind them smacked the rear of her prison, then everything happened at once. Time seemed suspended. The sound of gunfire, the crunch of metal on metal, the screech of tires as the driver fought to maintain control and the car began to slide to one side.

“Shit shit shit shit,” Summer muttered under her breath, a prayer or an incantation, as she felt her entire world spin out. The car was tumbling down an embankment, finally coming to a stop against something immovable, throwing her against the front of the trunk, knocking the wind out of her. She lay there in stunned disbelief as all went very quiet around her, except for the sound of the engine. The car was probably going to burst into flames and explode, with her in it, but at the moment she didn’t care. She just lay still, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the explosion.

Instead the engine died, and the sudden silence was shocking. There were no voices, but, more unnerving, she could hear footsteps outside the car.

She tried to sit up, to reach for the tire iron, which had been rolling around in the trunk. The car was partially on its side, and she felt as if she’d spent the last half hour in a blender—she was a mass of pain and bruises, and she wasn’t safe yet. Whoever was prowling around the car had a gun, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t use it on her.

She groped about, still searching for the tire iron, and found it under her back just as the trunk popped open.

She couldn’t see a thing. Someone was standing there, but they seemed to be on a deserted road, and the lights from the car that had pulled up behind them threw everything into stark shadows. She wouldn’t have thought there were any roads this empty so close to L.A., but the driver had somehow managed to find one. Unable to get the tire iron out from under her, she simply squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the bullet.

Instead she felt hands hauling her out of the cavernous trunk into the cool night air, setting her on unsteady feet, holding on to her until the trembling stopped.

It was the man from the gallery, the tall man with the sunglasses. He wasn’t wearing them anymore, and her panic increased as she realized he was at least part Asian, like her nemesis the Shirosama. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

Even in the shadows she could see that he was exquisitely beautiful with high, perfect cheekbones; exotic eyes of an indeterminate shade; narrow face and rich, full mouth…His hair was long and silky, black, and he towered over her. Another of the Shirosama’s hit men? Because he did look like a hit man—that is, what she imagined one would look like.

“Are you all right?” He might as well be asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee. She tried to say something, but words failed her, and she simply stared up at him silently. “Get in the car,” he said.

That was enough to stir her out of her momentary shock. She wasn’t getting in anyone’s car. “No.”

“It’s your choice. I can leave you here, but there’s no guarantee who will find you first. If you don’t show up at the Shirosama’s headquarters, someone will come looking.”

“Is that who tried to kidnap me?”

“Unless you have any other dire enemies, which I doubt. Get in the car.”