Ice Storm (Ice 4)

Thomason emerged just as Peter heard the clatter of Reno’s high-heeled, pointy-toed boots on the staircase outside. His old boss looked distressed.

“Is that our new operative? Because he needs to learn to be a little quieter. You can’t just announce your presence—you need to blend in, become a ghost, as you did, Peter.”

“Not everyone needs to work that way. Bastien was never invisible.”

“No, but he knew how to immerse himself in his character. Damned pretty boy should have been an actor,” Harry grumbled. “He didn’t have the stones for the job.”

Peter just looked at Thomason. They both knew perfectly well just how efficiently cold-blooded Bastien Toussaint could be when called upon.

Reno punched in the security number in the keypad outside, pushing open the door without hesitating, and Peter leaned back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself.

For once in his life Harry Thomason was struck dumb, and if for nothing else, Peter felt suddenly in charity with his new recruit. Reno was dressed in black leather, a lime-green T-shirt the only color besides his flame-red hair. He was wearing his omnipresent sunglasses, but when he saw Thomason he pushed them up, exposing his aquamarine-tinted eyes and the tattooed drops of blood on his high cheekbones.

“Who’s the old dude?” he asked in a bored tone.

There was a reason Thomason had never been an operative. He had a singular inability to hide his reactions, and the sight of Reno was almost enough to send him into shock. As it was, he simply sank into a chair, staring at him in horror.

“Harry Thomason, this is our new recruit, known to all and sundry as Reno. And this is a member of the overseer board of the Committee, the man who used to be in charge of all this.”

Reno looked him up and down with withering contempt. “I know who he is. Taka told me.” He dismissed him, turning back to Peter. “What do you want?”

“How’s the English coming? Better, I see.”

“Fuck that,” Reno said. “Where’s Isobel?”

“Madame Lambert,” Peter corrected.

“Fuck that,” Reno said again. “This old fart know where she is?”

Thomason was looking apoplectic. “I haven’t the faintest idea where she is, young man, and I’ll have you know—”

“Later,” Reno said. And he was gone, his boots clattering up the iron stairs once more.

Thomason had turned a satisfying red color, but it was already fading. No heart attack today, unfortunately, Peter thought. “That’s Hiromasa Shinoda, Taka’s cousin. He’s quite smart, once you get past his appearance.”

“Get rid of him,” Sir Harry gasped. “Send him back to Japan or wherever the hell he came from. We can’t use a freak like that.”

“Oh, I think he might be very useful indeed, sir,” Peter said, enjoying himself. “And that decision will be up to Isobel when she returns.”

“And if she doesn’t come back?”

What did the man know that he didn’t? Peter’s instincts were on full alert. Thomason’s sudden haunting of the Kensington offices was more than suspicious, but how could he possibly have more intel than Peter had?

He was being paranoid, in general a sane and healthy thing to be in his line of work. And Thomason went out of his way to needle him; the last thing Peter was going to do was jump through his hoops.

“She’ll be back,” he said. “She’s only a couple of days overdue. We sometimes have to go dark for weeks at a time. But then, you were never an operative, were you? More of a bean counter.”

The cigar in Harry’s hand snapped in half, the crunch audible in the soundproofed room.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from her,” Peter continued. “But don’t expect anything soon—these missions tend to be unpredictable. If something’s happened to Serafin the entire world will know it, and we’ll know that Isobel has been compromised. In the meantime, I wouldn’t worry. She’s the Ice Queen, the coolest, most capable human being I know. She can handle anything.”

I can’t handle this, Isobel thought numbly, clinging to the bouncing Jeep. Only the sliver of moon and the sand-covered headlights illuminated the desert landscape, and for the first time in more than a decade she felt out of control. Her world had turned upside down a few short days ago, with the sudden reappearance of Killian, and nothing had gone right since then. Now they were heading God knew where, a comatose child on the floor in the back, a ruthless killer at the wheel, and her only weapons were a small handgun, a Swiss Army knife and her wits. That would be more than enough in most circumstances, with most individuals. But this was Serafin the Butcher, the most dangerous man in the world, and he probably wanted her dead just as much as she wanted him gone.

When had he recognized her? She would have thought that was an impossibility. Her own father had known her for her first nineteen years, although admittedly he’d paid little attention. She’d run into him on purpose about eight years ago, just to see how well her new identity worked. He’d carried on a casual conversation with the elegant woman beside him on the plane, and not for one moment had he realized he was talking to his long-lost daughter.

Killian had known her little more than two weeks, and he’d been lying the entire time. He was probably barely aware of her, using her as a shield while he completed his bloody job. During those long nights in the car, when they’d talked about anything and everything, his words had all been lies. And he probably hadn’t heard a thing she’d said.

She wasn’t naive enough to think the sex had mattered. Men could have sex anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances. Screwing her had been his way of keeping her compliant—it meant nothing. She remembered the earlier part of that final night with crystal clarity, even if what came after was a blur. He’d made no more than a token protest when he’d heard a killer had been sent to finish her.