Ice Storm (Ice 4)

But it could work to their advantage, as well. She looked up at the man pinning her against the wall, and turned to ice.

It was Killian. Killian as she remembered him. The beard was gone, and so were the blackened teeth. He must have used wads of cotton to fill out his face. He still had his hair, and the bulk around his middle had been left in a pile with his discarde

d clothes. He was Killian, eighteen years older, and even more devastating than back then, when she’d been young and stupid.

She couldn’t reach her gun, but the Swiss Army knife was close at hand, and even with a short blade she could do a lot of damage. She jerked against him, and the fool gave her enough room to get the knife open against his skin. He didn’t react.

“I should gut you now and do the world a favor,” she said, pressing the knife a little harder against the base of his throat.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you aren’t going to. You need me. And look at it this way—I came back for you.”

“I didn’t need your help. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “Hello, Mary Isobel. It’s been a long time.”

She had pale skin, her freckles long gone, and she didn’t even blink. Her reactions were so well schooled that even he was impressed. If he’d rattled her she didn’t show it.

She took a breath, and if it was just a trifle shakier than normal, most men wouldn’t have noticed. But he wasn’t most men. “I killed you once,” she said calmly. “I wouldn’t hesitate to kill you again.”

“I imagine not. However, I’m your only chance of getting out of here. And you’re not the sort of woman who’d let a mission fail because you were pissed off.”

“You think you know me?” He could feel the knife nick his skin, the faint trickle of blood running down inside his collar.

“Better than you think. Are we going to stand here and rehash old times, or are we going to get the hell out of here?”

She appeared to consider it for a moment. She was more than capable of slicing his throat—he’d kept very close tabs on her activities for the last eighteen years for no reason he was willing to admit to. She was capable of it, but he was equally adept at stopping her. Because he did, in fact, know her better than she could ever guess. The truth would horrify her.

But he could save that news for later. In the meantime they had to get the hell away before the three Serbs caught up with them.

It must have taken a lot of money to turn Samuel. Each friend was only as good as the price paid for his loyalty, but Samuel knew Serafin was good for staggering amounts. It was hard to believe someone had a bigger pocketbook.

The knife pulled back from his throat, and he heard the almost silent click as she closed it. A fucking pocketknife—he’d been dangerously lax. “Lead on,” she said. “But know that if you do anything funny I’ll put a bullet in your back.” She reached in her pocket and handed him a piece of white cloth.

“What’s this?”

“A handkerchief. You’re bleeding,” she said. “I don’t want you leaving a trail.”

“Thoughtful,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to trail me like a Muslim wife. I prefer you where I can see you.”

She said nothing. He could hear the voices in the courtyard now, the three men arguing. He’d already ascertained that they were heavily armed; if it was a question of firepower, he and Isobel were toast.

But the day he couldn’t outthink and outrun even the best hired muscle would be the day he deserved to die. He looked down at Isobel—with her new face he couldn’t think of her as anything but that. His body was on high alert, and he finally had some unfinished business by his side. This was what he loved.

“Then let’s go, princess,” he said. And he basked in the flash of hatred in her eyes.

He didn’t bother trying to take her hand—she’d get that knife out in seconds flat, and this time she’d cut deeper. Not that he couldn’t stop her, but he didn’t want to waste a moment. He simply moved toward the back of the structure, keeping in the shadows, knowing she would follow his lead.

He paused before an open section of the walkway, half hoping she’d stumble into him, but she didn’t. “I smell explosives,” she whispered.

He shouldn’t be surprised; he knew she was one of the best. “I set them. Samuel tends to keep things well-fortified, and it only took a moment.”

“You’re going to blow this place?”

“With the Serbs in it.”

“But what about Samuel and Shiraz?”

“Who knows? Though I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if they were caught in the blast. I don’t like being sold out.”