by Anne Stuart
Monique shrugged. The daylight was growing brighter—it must be a little after six. Chloe’s sleep had been so erratic that she’d become far too familiar with how the sky looked at different times during the endless night. “Our mutual friend has a death wish—I’ve known it for quite a while. I’m merely the instrument to deliver his salvation.”
She didn’t say she’d already delivered that salvation. Surely she would have changed tenses if, in fact, he was already dead.
But then, English wasn’t her first language, and Chloe couldn’t place her hopes on the grammatical nuances of a crazy woman.
“So if you’ve done what you came for, why are you still here? Bastien is dead—what else do you want?”
“Chérie!” Monique said, mocking. “Haven’t you been listening to me? Killing Bastien, while enjoyable, wasn’t what I came for. Besides, my men found him first, trying to escape. He would have abandoned you to my tender mercies, but Dmitri was too fast for him. If we hadn’t killed him now I would have found him in Europe sooner or later. No, I came here for you.”
“Why?”
Monique shrugged. “Because you annoy me. Because Bastien seemed willing to risk everything, including me, for some ridiculous notion of honor.”
“Honor? You think that’s why he saved me?”
“Of course. What other reason could he possibly have?”
“He loves me.”
Monique hit her so hard she fell back on the rough floor of the basement. She’d been holding a gun, a fact that had managed to escape Chloe’s attention, and the solid metal had connected with her face, her mouth. She could taste her own blood, but she was well past the point of caring. If Bastien was dead then she would be as well, but she’d make her last few minutes as painful for Monique as she could. She was willing to pay the price.
“Jealous?” she asked sweetly. “I’m sorry he preferred you to me, but I think he was tired of older women.”
Monique kicked her in the ribs, so hard that the breath was knocked out of her. The pain in her side was excruciating, and Chloe thought her rib might have snapped. In a while it wouldn’t matter. “Or maybe he just tired of you,” she managed to choke out.
Monique squatted down beside her, catching Chloe’s shirt in her fist and jerking her upright. The pain in her side was agonizing, but she managed to meet Monique’s furious gaze with stony unconcern, even when she felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against her forehead. “Would you like to see what it’s like to have part of your face blown away, little girl? I know exactly what to do—where to shoot you so that you won’t die right away. You’ll lie there writhing in misery, praying for it all to end….”
“I don’t really care,” Chloe said, wishing she could manage a convincing yawn. “If you’ve already killed Bastien then why would anything matter?”
“Oh, Christ, you’re in love with him!” Monique cried in disgust. “Of course you are. How absolutely pathetic! I will admit he’s very good in bed—one of the best I’ve ever had, even if he had a faint aversion to some of the games I like. But he’s hardly a romantic hero. He died begging for his life. As you will.”
“Don’t count on it.” She didn’t see the second blow coming. A flash of blinding pain, pure white, and Chloe wondered if Monique had shot her. And then the darkness followed, and there was nothing left.
The spring storm had finally stopped, leaving the landscape blanketed with white. Bastien had hoped the explosion of the burning guest house had taken more than one of them, but only one charred body lay in the melting snow. There might be another inside, but he couldn’t count on it. He’d already circled around to check on the security system, and the second man was down there, electrocuted.
He broke the third one’s neck behind the garage, but not before he’d been stabbed. The knife had missed anything vital—he’d moved fast enough before his attacker could turn and pull the knife up, cutting through major organs. He recognized the shape and the style of the attack even before he turned the body over. It appeared that Fernand had gotten tired of running that little bar in the Marais and decided to pick up a little outside work. He was good, but no match for Bastien.
Still, he’d managed to prick him. He’d also been well briefed—the knife went in close to the recent bullet wound. Obviously he was hoping his target would be more vulnerable, but he’d grown enough scar tissue that it had deflected some of the blow.
Bastien stepped back. He was still bleeding freely, and it was soaking into his pants, but he put Fernand’s knife into his belt. He was well armed, but at that point he still wasn’t sure how many he had left to face. Jensen had told him Monique had entered the country with five men. Had she picked up anyone else along the way, or did he only have the two left to deal with?
He was better off assuming there were more. He skirted around the garage, as the sky slowly grew lighter, streaks of iridescent peach spearing across the sky, and he stopped for a moment. The snow was already melting as the temperature began to climb. In the midst of death and danger it was very beautiful, and he could hear the faint noise of birdsong. What kind of morning birds did they have in America? It was a random thought, quickly dismissed. He would never know. But it gave him some kind of peace, to know that Chloe would wake to skies of that brilliant color, to the songs of unknown birds.
He headed for the house—Monique would have sent her cohorts through the grounds but she’d head straight for the house. Her instincts had always been strong—he could only hope they weren’t strong enough to lead her straight to Chloe. The crawl space would be hard to find in the darkness, and if she just stayed there, quiet and unmoving, she might have a chance.
Leaving her the flashlight had been a stupid idea, but he couldn’t stand the idea of sealing her into the dark that terrified her so much. He could only hope that tiny gesture didn’t kill her.
He heard them coming from a distance. They were making no effort to keep silent, and moving through the fresh snow was cumbersome going. Presumably they were hoping to lure him out. He vanished into the shadows, waiting, as Monique came out of the cellar, accompanied by a couple of men. One of them had Chloe’s limp body slung over his shoulder.
She was unconscious, but not dead. If she were dead they would have left her there. He could see the blood on her pale face, matted into her hair, and it took everything he’d ever learned not to move, not to make a sound. He couldn’t risk taking them in the darkness. If he failed, Chloe would die. He had to wait.
Monique opened the door, and he got his first good look at her. In the dawn light he couldn’t see much, only enough to know that the skeleton-thin figure was his former lover. The bullet could have done major damage—no wonder she wanted to kill. Her logic in choosing Chloe was twisted but undeniable. If Chloe hadn’t been there, everything would have been resolved at the château, not in a blood-splattered night in Paris. She’d let her anger at Chloe lower her defenses, and she’d almost died because of it.
She would die because of it, as soon as he got a clear shot. In the meantime he couldn’t do anything but follow and watch until the moment was right. He’d put Chloe in danger too many times. This would be the last.
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.
She twisted around, just enough to see Bastien on the ground, blood flowing from beneath him, and Monique’s thin body straddling him, her shaved head tipped back as she laughed. “I’m glad you’re not dead, chére,” she said. “I did so want to do the honors myself.” The gun in her hand was huge, enough to blow his head off, and Chloe shrieked, unable to stop herself.
Monique turned at the noise, a minuscule mistake, but enough. The volley of bullets tore through her, so that her body jerked in a spastic dance, and she squeezed the trigger in her hand.
The gun exploded in the snow, and Monique splayed out on the ground, twitching slightly. And then she went still, lying on top of Bastien’s still body.
And then, to Chloe’s horror, she began to move, to sit up, and she wanted to scream, until she realized that Bastien was simply shoving her blood-soaked body off him, onto the ground.
Dmitri released her, and she panicked, grabbing at his arm, certain he was about to shoot Bastien, but he simply swatted her away. “Are we done here, Madame?” he called out.
The woman who strolled out of the woods was as elegant as ever, her silver-blond hair beautifully coiffed, her makeup perfect. Wearing designer black, and the armed men with her were wearing black as well. So
perfect for hiding the blood.
Chloe tried to move, to get to Bastien, but Madame Lambert was ahead of her, holding out her elegant hand to him. He stood, wincing slightly, not even looking in Chloe’s direction.
“I take it Dmitri is one of yours?” he said in a calm voice.
“One of ours,” Madame said. “You should have come to us. The Committee could protect you. There was no need to go haring off like this. Haven’t we always worked well together? Even when you weren’t quite certain we were on the same side. The moment Jensen told me I put together a team to come after you. It was almost too late,” she said sternly.
Bastien’s smile was ghostly. “The Committee is never too late, Madame Lambert. And if Harry Thomason knew he would have let Chloe die. He never had much use for her.” He said her name, but he wouldn’t look at her. And there was nothing Chloe could do but stand there in the early-morning sunlight, with the smell of blood all around, poisoning the beautiful clearing.
“Harry Thomason has taken early retirement. His decisions have been a bit rash recently, and it was decided that he should work in merely an advisory capacity.”
“Should I ask who’s taken his place?” He might have been discussing the price of oranges. But oranges were hand grenades, weren’t they? Chloe wanted to laugh, but she was afraid she would sound hysterical, and she didn’t want to do anything to draw attention to herself. Not when he was making such a concerted effort to ignore her.
Madame Lambert’s smile was cool and elegant. “Who do you think? We need you back, Bastien. The world needs you. You’re not fit for anything else, and you’re very, very good at this. I have no doubt you’d have managed Monique even without our help.”
“Do you?” His voice was expressionless, and Chloe was going to faint. She absolutely didn’t want to—the pain in her side was so overwhelming she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand there. But if she fell over he’d have to look at her, and she couldn’t bear it. She had to let him go, since that was what he so clearly wanted, and if she had to make herself stand perfectly still so he could safely ignore her then she’d do so for the next twelve hours.