Fire and Ice (Ice 5)

He slid to the floor, a silent, boneless puddle, and she leapt over him, still frantic. She didn’t know whether he was unconscious or dead—blood was already pooling beneath him, and she wanted to throw up.

She needed to get the hell out of there, before he came to, before someone else showed up. She was still barefoot and she didn’t care, racing to the huge garage and grabbing the biggest car she could find, her father’s bright yellow Hummer.

The keys were on the rack by the door, along with the automatic opener, and it started up with a powerful roar. She didn’t wait for the door to open completely—she drove so fast she clipped the roof of the car, and she could just imagine Ralph Lovitz’s reaction.

She tore down the driveway at full speed, pushing buttons on the automatic gate opener. It didn’t move. She forced herself to stop for a moment, reentering the numbers that had to be right.

It was jammed. Keeping her trapped inside, with either a yakuza killer or a dead body, and God knew who else. The gardener must have been part of the plan, as well—no wonder he seemed to be lurking near the house every time she looked.

She put the car in Reverse, backing up about twenty feet as she fastened the seat belt with shaking fingers. And then, putting it in Drive, she floored it, slamming toward the gates like a bright yellow battering ram.

It was like hitting a brick wall. The front of the Hummer made little more than a dent, and then the air bag went off, scaring the hell out of her. Second air bag in three days, she thought, coughing. She flailed around, yanking the keys out of the ignition and stabbing at the inflated bag, and it collapsed. She turned the car on again, put it in Reverse and floored it again. It didn’t move, the tires spinning beneath her. The grille had gotten caught in the mangled gate, and she was trapped, well and good.

She scrambled out of the Hummer, looking back toward the house. There was no sign of life in the shadowed afternoon, and the smell of smoke was stronger still. The fires couldn’t be coming that quickly, could they? She headed toward the high stone walls surrounding the property—she’d tried to climb over them when she was younger and had failed totally—the top was strung with electric wire. But right now she was between a rock and hard place, and she wasn’t going to stay there and let someone—

The hands reached out from behind, hard, hauling her back, and she kicked out, instinctively, panicked. A moment later she was slammed up against the stone wall, staring into the face of an angry stranger, dressed in loose khakis and a work shirt. A tall, angry stranger, with black shoulder-length hair and red tears tattooed on his cheekbones.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Reno demanded.

22

She didn’t even question his presence. “I’m trying to get the hell out of here. I don’t know whether I killed the man in the kitchen or not, but I’m not staying here a moment longer.” And then it hit her. “What did you do to your hair?” she demanded, horrified.

“You should be asking me what I’m doing here.”

“Okay, what the hell are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing? Trying to save your life. Again.”

“So how did a yakuza hit man get past you?” she said, cross. “You’re doing a lousy job of saving me. And I certainly don’t need any favors from you.”

“I’m not. This is for your sister.”

There wasn’t room enough to hit him, and she wasn’t going to cry. “So who’s trying to kill me this time? And why? I thought I was safe once I got out of your country.”

“Damned if I know. Taka got word that you were being watched, and he sent me to check it out. I was looking for a back way out when your friend got in. Who have you managed to annoy now?”

“Were you at the hospital two nights ago?”

“What hospital?”

She should have known that part was still a dream. “Why are the yakuza still after me?”

“What makes you think it’s the yakuza?”

“The man in the house is missing part of his fingers. It’s either an industrial accident or he’s part of your organized-crime family.”

“All members of my grandfather’s organization are dead. He has to be from some other family.”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

She’d forgotten how cold and dangerous Reno could look. The shorter black hair was all wrong, everything about him was wrong, and what the hell was he doing there, making her hurt all over again?

“I want you to find someplace to hide while I check this out. The garage is secure—I checked it out yesterday. Go in there, lock it, and don’t open it until either I or the police tell you to.”

“Go to hell.”

“You’re not going to give me attitude, are you?” he demanded, wearily.