Peter was at his side. “How did you know?”
Reno smirked. “Taka sent me here for a reason. We’re picking up two people, one who might put up a fight, and a small car would be too dangerous. People are less likely to pay attention to a commercial van, and a milk van is more likely to be out very early in the morning making deliveries than any other company. I don’t suppose you’re going to let me drive?”
“Your first time in England? I don’t think so.”
“We drive on the left-hand side of the road in Japan, too, and London’s nothing compared to Tokyo. Besides, that’s probably a standard shift and you’ve got a bad leg. You’ll put us in danger.” He held out his hand for the keys.
Madsen looked at him for a moment. “You don’t waste time on tact,” he said. “I like that.” And he dropped the keys in Reno’s hand, climbing in the passenger side.
They were already leaving the city when his mobile beeped. Peter flipped it open, then sat there reading the screen, an odd expression on his face.
“Something wrong?”
“Concentrate on your driving,” Peter said finally, snapping the phone shut. “I had the nurse take a look at Genevieve. She hasn’t been poisoned, and she doesn’t have stomach flu.”
“So?”
“She’s pregnant,” Peter Madsen said in a voice of utmost doom.
And Reno, heartless creature that he was, laughed.
18
Killian opened his eyes very slowly, not convinced that he actually wanted to see where he was. The room was dark—no natural light whatsoever, and the artificial light was muted. He was lying in a bed, his hands tied to what presumably was a bedpost, his feet bound together with some kind of cording, and someone had stuffed a gag in his mouth. And he was in a very bad mood.
It had been a long time since someone had gotten the drop on him. More than a decade, maybe two, since he’d lost focus long enough that he was no longer calling the shots. The last thing he remembered was pulling over to the side of the road, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d thought Isobel was thoroughly demoralized by the incident on the boat and she’d been pissed as hell to have to lie with her head in his lap. He’d assumed she wouldn’t want to get near enough to him to try to take him out. He’d underestimated her.
In the end, it hadn’t taken much. He could still feel the faint sting at the side of his neck, and he must have gone down hard. Someone had pulled his clothes apart, obviously looking for weapons, and he lay on the bed with his shirt open, his jeans unzipped, barefoot and pissed off.
How the hell had she managed to get something to knock him out? He’d been all over her body the night before, and there was no way she could have hidden something. It must have been when she insisted on a rest stop. He couldn’t very well follow her into the loo at the petrol station, tempted though he might be. And she’d come right out again. He was disgusted with himself, letting her sucker him. First she’d shot him, then eighteen years later she’d tricked him. He was beyond annoyed.
Isobel wasn’t strong enough to have dragged him to wherever they were if he was unconscious, therefore she must have had help. He was slowly assessing his surroundings—one smallish, dark room with the bed in the middle, and he could just see the faint outlines of a shuttered window. Not much light coming through, but it probably wasn’t daytime yet. He hadn’t been out that long, which meant they must be somewhere in or near London.
He wondered how Mahmoud was doing. He wouldn’t have taken Killian’s abduction well, for despite his elaborate and oft-voiced plans for Killian’s eventual torture and murder, the boy was fiercely protective. He would have put up a hell of a lot better fight than Killian’s own piss-poor performance.
He jerked at his hands, but the ropes were thin and tight, and Isobel’s friends had found just about every weapon he carried. Not that that would stop him; it just might slow him down a bit. He lay still, listening for anything that might give him a clue as to his whereabouts.
He had no doubt Isobel had called for reinforcements; anyone else would have killed him by now. Probably why he’d been so lax—most people simply wanted to kill him, and he was good at avoiding just that. A simple kidnapping was unexpected.
There was at least one other room beyond the small bedroom, and the light emanating from it was dul
l and yellow. He could see blankets on the wall—for soundproofing, he assumed. He tried to spit out the gag, but someone had put tape over his mouth. He had no choice but to wait until his captor made her appearance. In the meantime, he could work on the ropes that bound his wrists.
He knew she was there before he saw her, before he heard her. It was a sixth sense he’d developed over the years, and when it came to her it was fine-tuned. He turned his head to meet her calm gaze in the shadowed room.
She’d changed her bloody shirt, presumably taken a shower. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant knot at the base of her neck—part of her armor. She looked elegant and unapproachable, the Ice Queen, the Iron Maiden. Madame Lambert—a lifetime removed from Mary Isobel Curwen. She’d probably thought that girl was gone forever. Until he’d reminded her last night on the rumpled bed in the ship’s cabin.
His eyes met hers, and her faint smile was flinty. A bit too sure of herself. “I suppose you want me to untie you?”
Since he wasn’t able to reply he simply looked at her, daring her to move closer. She was a smart woman—she knew how dangerous he could be, and she skirted the bed, keeping out of the way of his long legs. Even tied together at the ankles they could sweep her, knock her onto the bed. He could break her neck in a matter of seconds if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to. She came at him sideways, away from his legs, reaching down to pull the duct tape away.
He didn’t even notice the pain, spitting out the rag someone had put in his mouth earlier. She turned, and handed him a bottle of water. “You’re probably thirsty. The drug I gave you tends to make your mouth dry.”
“No, I think that was caused by the sock someone stuffed in there,” he said. “Your work?”
“Peter’s.”