Black Ice (Ice 1)

The spring morning was clear and calm, the snow melting beneath their feet and the new leaves on the trees rustled with the barest trace of wind. It only took him a moment to realize where they were taking her—he should have known that Monique’s intel would be infallible.

The old, boarded-up mine.

The possibilities were simple. Either she was dead, and their previous scouting had found the perfect place to dump a body where it wouldn’t be found, particularly if they torched the main house. Or they could know her fears, and be taking her there to torture her.

Knowing Monique, it was more likely to be the latter. She wouldn’t care who found Chloe’s body—she’d be long gone. And she wouldn’t be dumping Chloe in an abandoned mine with nothing more than a gunshot wound. He doubted she’d leave her in one piece. Monique

’s insane rage would require more of a punishment, either before or after death.

The gun was smooth in his hand, cold, as his hands were cold, as his blood ran cold in his veins. The rising sun was hitting the snow, but the chill in his heart was untouched. Don’t think about her, he told himself. Concentrate on the target, and don’t let sentiment get in the way. The only way to save Chloe was not to care one way or the other. He needed to pull that sheet of calculating ice over him so that he was nothing more than a machine.

But Chloe had melted the ice that held him. His armor had vanished, and for the first time in his life he was afraid he might lose.

He moved through the woods silently. Even the fallen leaves soundless beneath his feet. Once he knew where they were going it was easy enough to circle around, find a good position before they even got there. The entrance to the old mine was just beyond the first hill, overgrown now, boarded up, chained up and locked.

But not anymore. When he’d done his initial surveillance, while her parents were still here, the place had been impenetrable. Now it was a dark, yawning hole. Monique had done her research—it was just what would terrify Chloe the most.

They made no effort to muffle the noise they made as they approached. The two men were speaking some middle-European language—possibly Serbian. He only understood every few words, and he wished to God that Chloe were awake, alert, there to translate for him. She seemed to understand every language under the sun.

In the daylight it was still hard to even recognize Monique. She’d shaved her head, though he didn’t know whether it was a fashion choice or because of surgery. One side of her face was ruined—they’d had to remove a cheekbone when they’d removed the bullet, and there hadn’t been time for any reconstructive surgery. She looked like a gruesome ghost of her former self—dangerously thin, dangerously mad.

One of the Serbians dropped Chloe’s body on the hard ground, and the sound of her muffled groan was music. She was alive, coming around, and all he had to do was get between her and Monique. The Serbians were no problem—he could take care of them in a matter of moments. He was a very good shot, and neither of them had weapons out. The second one would be dead before the first even hit the ground.

Chloe rolled over on her back, groaning, struggling to sit up. Bastien didn’t make a sound when Monique went over and kicked her, hard, with her heavy leather boots. Chloe’s muffled cry was enough.

“You have a choice to make, petite,” Monique said. “I can put a gun to your head right now, blow your feeble little brain to pieces. That might be the kindest move, and I expect you know I’m never kind. Vlad and Dmitri certainly deserve some kind of reward for making it this far, and they’ve both expressed a certain interest in…having their way with you before you die. You American girls are so oversensitive about rape—that might be the most fun. I could watch, and you’d never know when I was going to shoot you. The boys wouldn’t either, which would make it even more exciting for them.”

“Sick bitch,” Chloe muttered. Her mouth was bloody—someone, probably Monique, had hit her hard enough to split her lip.

“Or you can join your reformed hero. He might not even be dead yet. You have a chance, a slight chance, of survival, if you’re willing to take it.”

“You think I’d trust you for even a moment?” This time when she tried to sit up Monique didn’t stop her. She merely smiled a horrible parody of a smile.

“Of course you don’t trust me. It’s a simple shell game. Under one shell is a quick, merciful death. Under another, rape and a slower death. And the third is to join Bastien in his watery grave.”

Watery grave? What kind of mind games was Monique playing? Something was wrong here—why was Monique concentrating on Chloe when he was her main target, why was she lying about already killing him…?

“Dmitri was kind enough to take care of our mutual friend, weren’t you, Dmitri? I think he should have first crack at you—after all, he’s earned it.”

Interesting, Bastien thought. Dmitri had lied to Monique—the woman believed he was dead. He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t bluffing. So had Dmitri lied to help Bastien, or to save his own butt?

He didn’t look at all familiar, and Bastien knew most operatives. The question was, could he trust him for help, or should he simply take him and his companion out, hoping he could get to Monique before she could do anything more to Chloe?

“I think I prefer the watery grave,” she said, her voice husky. “I’d just as soon not give you the satisfaction of killing me yourself.”

“I’d still count it as my accomplishment. He’s at the bottom of the mine shaft. There’s water down there, so you might drown before you starved to death. Or you might hit your head as you went down, making it very merciful. But I don’t think you want anything to do with it. You’re not very fond of close, dark places, are you? I think you’d rather die out in the open, on your back, spread-eagled.”

Oh, Christ, he knew what she was going to do. She was going to dive for the mine shaft, anything to get away from Monique. She thought he was down there, and she was going after him, even if it killed her.

It was no choice, Chloe thought. Bastien was dead, dumped like so much garbage at the bottom of the old shaft. She could barely remember where that particular entrance led, she only knew it was steep and dangerous. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t believe Bastien was dead until she saw him, and if she was going to die she wanted it to be with him. Stupid, romantic, ridiculous. He’d laugh at her if he was still alive. I’ll come to you by midnight, though hell should bar the way. Except it was past dawn, the day growing brighter and brighter, the snow melting around her, the mine shaft a suffocating tunnel of death.

She moved so fast Monique barely had time to draw her gun. She scrambled across the clearing, ready to dive headfirst, anything to get away from that scrawny, demented bitch and her two rapacious goons, when the explosive sound of gunfire shattered the stillness, and she heard a scream that wasn’t her own.

It didn’t matter. She made it as far as the broken barricade when a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder, whirling her around to face one of Monique’s goons. Dmitri, the one who killed Bastien.

Something inside her snapped. She went for him, kicking, scratching, biting, screaming, pounding at his huge, heavily muscled body. He brushed her hands away like he’d brush away a fly, putting his burly arms around her and holding her motionless against his sweaty body.

And then she realized that all was chaos in the clearing. A shouting noise, the hideously familiar sound of gunfire. The other man lay on the ground, a bullet hole in his forehead, his eyes staring sightlessly into the bright blue sky. And somewhere out of sight came the sounds of a struggle.