Ice Storm (Ice 4)

“Is that what they were? I didn’t recognize the language they were speaking.”

“Serbs. I made a few enemies there.”

She remembered the failed execution of thousands of ethnic Bosnians. The notorious Serafin had been responsible for the screwup and the prisoners’ subsequent escape. Yes, he’d undoubtedly made enemies.

The Jeep went over a bump, and Mahmoud’s unconscious form slid to the floor. “Don’t worry about him,” Killian said. “He’s safer down there, anyway.”

They were driving very fast over the rough terrain, and all Isobel could do was hold on. “So you knew it was Mahmoud when you stayed behind? Why?”

The night was mercifully dark, the headlights spearing straight out into the desert, so she couldn’t see him clearly. Sooner or later the moon would come out and she’d have no choice but to look at him, search his face for the ghost of the man she’d loved. But for now things were thankfully anonymous.

He didn’t answer, and Isobel’s senses went into high alert. “I thought you said he wasn’t your sex slave.”

“He’s too young for me,” Killian said, unruffled. “And stop being so obsessed about my sex life. I’m keeping Mahmoud alive because—” He stopped.

“Because?”

“I killed his sister,” he said finally, his voice casual, belying his uncharacteristic hesitation.

“You probably killed a lot of people’s sisters in your time. What makes this boy special?”

He didn’t deny it. How could he, when she knew the facts? “Mahmoud was a street kid, recruited as a child soldier. He’s probably killed more people than you have, princess. I’m guessing his mother’s Arab, but no one knows for sure. The father’s something else. Mahmoud’s a mongrel, with no side to take him in.”

“Except the people who put a gun in his hand. If he had no parents, how did he have a sister?”

“She wasn’t really his sister. But she looked after him, and was the closest thing to family he had.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen.”

Isobel felt the cold settle in the pit of her stomach. “And you killed her?”

“Shot her in the head, point-blank,” Killian said, with calm detachment. “She was seven months pregnant.” There was no sound in the car, just the noise of the engine and the wind rushing past them. “So you see, he has a pretty good reason for wanting to torture me to death.”

For a moment Isobel was speechless. “You could tell him you’re sorry. Not that that would help much.”

She could feel Killian’s eyes on her as they sped through the night, but she wouldn’t turn to face him. “I’m not sorry I killed her,” he said. “And Mahmoud knows that. So in his mind I must pay, slowly and painfully.”

“And you’re encouraging him?”

“Let’s just say I’m willing to accept him as the instrument of divine retribution if that’s what’s going to get me. He has as good a reason as anyone.”

She glanced back at the small figure lying on the floor of the Jeep. He wasn’t the first casualty of a crazy, violent world, and he wouldn’t be the last. She’d learned long ago that she couldn’t save anyone’s soul, and she’d given up trying.

“Where are we heading?”

“Samuel said he’d arranged a plane over by the western cliffs. I figure he’d hedge his bets, have the plane there anyway and play innocent when he hears about the Serbs.”

“Don’t you think the plane could be a trap?”

“Anything’s possible. But Samuel has no particular reason to want me dead, apart from material gain, and he’ll have already been well paid. He wouldn’t sell me out for less than twice what his house is worth, so he should be feeling benevolent. He gets the money, a new house and a good friend survives.”

“You don’t mind that he betrayed you?”

At that moment the moon came out over the desert landscape, and Killian looked as he had eighteen years before. Young and beautiful and honorable. “I’d have done the same thing, and he knows it. I’m not holding a grudge.”

She stared at him. “I would.”