Ice Storm (Ice 4)

“And of course I want to make you happy,” he said, his voice a low purr. Familiar. Unfamiliar. He’d talked to her in that low voice when they were in bed together, when she’d been drifting in and out of a daze that was half due to drugs, half to lust. She forced herself to look at him, to remind herself that he was a different person.

But in the morning light he looked far too much like the man she’d fallen in love with. His hair was darker, a little shorter, and there were lines bracketing his mouth and fanning out from his eyes. Somehow she thought they weren’t laugh lines. His skin was burnished dark from time spent in a hundred deserts, and the stubble of his beard had gray mixed in, but all in all he looked the same. Dark, mesmerizing eyes. Sensuous mouth, full of lies. And elegant, deadly hands.

She looked away again, closing her eyes. He was Serafin the Butcher, she reminded herself. He was Killian, the assassin who’d lied to her, betrayed her and tried to kill her.

He was the only man she’d ever believed she was in love with. He was her worst nightmare, her first kill, her nemesis from beyond the grave. She only hoped he was right, and that there was a mole in the Committee. Because then Killian would be dead, truly dead this time, and all she’d have to worry about was the security of her organization. A minor detail, compared to the bleeding wound that was Killian’s presence in her life.

Bastien had been sent to kill him five years ago, and it had been one of his few failures. They’d tracked Serafin down to a small country in South America, wealthy from drug trafficking and oil deposits. The prevailing government had been controlled by a dictator named Ideo Llosa, and Serafin, soldier for hire, had been his second in command and enforcer. Bastien’s cover had been excellent—he posed as a dealer in specialized weapons, and Llosa had a problem with insurgents, rebels, and anyone who disagreed with him. Bastien was supposed to come in, make the deal for biological weapons, dispose of Serafin and Llosa and then disappear.

But instead he’d come back, admitting failure for what might have been the only time in his career, and Serafin had moved on, to continue his bloody deeds. Llosa had died anyway, brought down by an unknown assassin.

Looking back, Isobel had wondered whether that was Bastien’s first sign of burnout. The first hint that he couldn’t keep on in his machinelike capacity. It had been a growing problem. In the past, operatives were killed in the line of duty or disposed of by Thomason’s brutal orders. No one was good enough to survive the amount of time it took to get burned out.

First Bastien, then Peter. Taka was getting close—it was only a matter of time before he wanted out of active work. At least he’d sent one of his tamer cousins to train.

As for Isobel herself, she’d been on the edge of disaster for longer than she could remember, and yet she still kept on. As she intended to do, until something stopped her.

But why had Bastien failed, that one time? He’d been tight-lipped, never giving a reason, but Isobel knew him too well to accept that the task had been too difficult. Bastien had been made for impossible missions.

No, there was something more to the story, something to do with the ruthless, lying, amoral monster who drove through the Spanish countryside.

If she didn’t find out soon, it might be the death of her. And she wasn’t quite ready to die.

13

Mahmoud woke up about an hour into their drive, and Isobel was half tempted to jab him with Killian’s syringe. The boy pulled himself into a sitting position, arguing loud and long in incomprehensible Arabic, devouring every piece of food that was left in the car, including the Diet Coke that had somehow been among the provisions. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought Mahmoud was simply a variant of a cranky child, stuck in the back of a small car, demanding to know how much longer before they got to their destination.

But Mahmoud was as far removed from a whining child as a rattlesnake was, and Isobel kept her eyes forward as Killian talked to him. Didn’t he know it was better not to engage with someone who was bad-tempered and irrational? But then, child-rearing would have been missing in his life, as it had been in hers. Or had it been for him?

Mahmoud had lapsed into a blessed, sulky silence. “Did you ever marry?” she asked Killian.

He slanted a glance at her. “Why do you want to know? Were you hoping I’d carry a torch for you during all these years?”

“Hardly. If you thought of me at all you probably wanted me dead. I’m just curious. Not much is known about the illustrious Serafin. Consider it part of your debriefing.”

“Three times.”

She refused to react. “Interesting,” she said. “At the same time, or were they serial wives? What happened to them—did you get tired of them and have them killed?”

“I try not to kill the women I have sex with. I learned long ago that it tended to leave a disturbing aftereffect. Fortunately, you weren’t so squeamish.”

“So what happened to them?”

“Maria Number One was killed by a car bomb in Sarajevo. Maria Number Two decided she’d do better with the man I was working for. Maria Number Three was murdered. Not by me.”

“They were all named Maria? Couldn’t you have been more selective?”

“Maria’s a very common name in third world countries. I think Maria Number Two is still around somewhere in South America, but since I was still married to Maria Number One at the time, that marriage wasn’t legal. So in case you’re wondering, I think I’m available.”

She’d asked for it by bringing up such a stupid subject. Then again, the Committee needed to know everything they could about Killian-Serafin. If he had any ties, any connections.

“No thanks,” she said, rolling down the window to let some cool air into the car. It was a damp, chilly winter day, but the tiny car was suffocating. “It sounds as if being married to you was relatively unhealthy. At least you didn’t bring any children into the world.”

“Why do you assume that?”

She wasn’t expecting it. She’d managed an effortless calm through most of the time she’d been trapped with him, showing nothing but mild curiosity and annoyance. Her defenses, her weapons were powerful, and she’d learned the hard way not to let anything get to her. Vulnerability was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

And she could only hope he didn’t hear her sharp, painful intake of breath. “Where are they?”