by Anne Stuart
She looked away again, closing her eyes. He was Serafin the Butcher, she reminded herself. He was Killian, the assassin who’d lied to her, betrayed her and tried to kill her.
He was the only man she’d ever believed she was in love with. He was her worst nightmare, her first kill, her nemesis from beyond the grave. She only hoped he was right, and that there was a mole in the Committee. Because then Killian would be dead, truly dead this time, and all she’d have to worry about was the security of her organization. A minor detail, compared to the bleeding wound that was Killian’s presence in her life.
Bastien had been sent to kill him five years ago, and it had been one of his few failures. They’d tracked Serafin down to a small country in South America, wealthy from drug trafficking and oil deposits. The prevailing government had been controlled by a dictator named Ideo Llosa, and Serafin, soldier for hire, had been his second in command and enforcer. Bastien’s cover had been excellent—he posed as a dealer in specialized weapons, and Llosa had a problem with insurgents, rebels, and anyone who disagreed with him. Bastien was supposed to come in, make the deal for biological weapons, dispose of Serafin and Llosa and then disappear.
But instead he’d come back, admitting failure for what might have been the only time in his career, and Serafin had moved on, to continue his bloody deeds. Llosa had died anyway, brought down by an unknown assassin.
Looking back, Isobel had wondered whether that was Bastien’s first sign of burnout. The first hint that he couldn’t keep on in his machinelike capacity. It had been a growing problem. In the past, operatives were killed in the line of duty or disposed of by Thomason’s brutal orders. No one was good enough to survive the amount of time it took to get burned out.
First Bastien, then Peter. Taka was getting close—it was only a matter of time before he wanted out of active work. At least he’d sent one of his tamer cousins to train.
As for Isobel herself, she’d been on the edge of disaster for longer than she could remember, and yet she still kept on. As she intended to do, until something stopped her.
But why had Bastien failed, that one time? He’d been tight-lipped, never giving a reason, but Isobel knew him too well to accept that the task had been too difficult. Bastien had been made for impossible missions.
No, there was something more to the story, something to do with the ruthless, lying, amoral monster who drove through the Spanish countryside.
If she didn’t find out soon, it might be the death of her. And she wasn’t quite ready to die.
13
Mahmoud woke up about an hour into their drive, and Isobel was half tempted to jab him with Killian’s syringe. The boy pulled himself into a sitting position, arguing loud and long in incomprehensible Arabic, devouring every piece of food that was left in the car, including the Diet Coke that had somehow been among the provisions. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought Mahmoud was simply a variant of a cranky child, stuck in the back of a small car, demanding to know how much longer before they got to their destination.
But Mahmoud was as far removed from a whining child as a rattlesnake was, and Isobel kept her eyes forward as Killian talked to him. Didn’t he know it was better not to engage with someone who was bad-tempered and irrational? But then, child-rearing would have been missing in his life, as it had been in hers. Or had it been for him?
Mahmoud had lapsed into a blessed, sulky silence. “Did you ever marry?” she asked Killian.
He slanted a glance at her. “Why do you want to know? Were you hoping I’d carry a torch for you during all these years?”
“Hardly. If you thought of me at all you probably wanted me dead. I’m just curious. Not much is known about the illustrious Serafin. Consider it part of your debriefing.”
“Three times.”
She refused to react. “Interesting,” she said. “At the same time, or were they serial wives? What happened to them—did you get tired of them and have them killed?”
“I try not to kill the women I have sex with. I learned long ago that it tended to leave a disturbing aftereffect. Fortunately, you weren’t so squeamish.”
“So what happened to them?”
“Maria Number One was killed by a car bomb in Sarajevo. Maria Number Two decided she’d do better with the man I was working for. Maria Number Three was murdered. Not by me.”
“They were all named Maria? Couldn’t you have been more selective?”
“Maria’s a very common name in third world countries. I think Maria Number Two is still around somewhere in South America, but since I was still married to Maria Number One at the time, that marriage wasn’t legal. So in case you’re wondering, I think I’m available.”
She’d asked for it by bringing up such a stupid subject. Then again, the Committee needed to know everything they could about Killian-Serafin. If he had any ties, any connections.
“No thanks,” she said, rolling down the window to let some cool air into the car. It was a damp, chilly winter day, but the tiny car was suffocating. “It sounds as if being married to you was relatively unhealthy. At least you didn’t bring any children into the world.”
“Why do you assume that?”
She wasn’t expecting it. She’d managed an effortless calm through most of the time she’d been trapped with him, showing nothing but mild curiosity and annoyance. Her defenses, her weapons were powerful, and she’d learned the hard way not to let anything get to her. Vulnerability was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
And she could only hope he didn’t hear her sharp, painful intake of breath. “Where are they?”
“Not they,” he said, his voice devoid of feeling. “Just one. Maria Number Three was five months pregnant when she was killed. Someone trying to get to me, of course, but she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Isobel had to look at him, to see whether he was really as unfeeling as he seemed to be. His face gave away nothing. “I’m—”
“If you say you’re sorry for my loss I might hit you,” he said in an even voice. “It was long ago, and it’s of no importance. I was annoyed for a week or so, but then I moved on.”
“Annoyed?” She could almost believe him. The legendary Serafin would be annoyed. But this wasn’t the notorious monster sitting beside her. It was Killian. He’d overplayed his hand, trying to convince her just how ruthless he was.
“That may have been your first mistake,” she said finally.
If he was worried he didn’t show it. “I don’t make mistakes.”
“Are you serious? You’ve barely gotten out of your various career moves in one piece. If it hadn’t been for you, three hundred ethnic Albanians would have been butchered. If you hadn’t screwed up, Ideo Llosa would have wiped out entire cities. Your mistakes ruined the plans of some of the most vicious dictators of the last twenty-five years. And no one, not even Hitler himself, would consider the death of his child an annoyance. If nothing else, there’s the factor of pride.”
“Oh, I’m singularly devoid of pride. It gets in the way of doing business. And you can romanticize me all you want, princess. You can tell yourself I’m a cock-up who’s mourning his lost love and their unborn child, if that’s what makes you happy. Though I’d think you’d prefer me to be totally devoid of feeling.”
“I’d prefer honesty.”
He turned to look at her, and his smile was dazzling. “You may as well ask for the moon.”
They arrived at the resort city of Santander sometime in the afternoon, dumping the car in a busy alleyway and taking off on foot. Mahmoud could walk, and he seemed singularly unhappy to be deprived of any sort of weapon, but he kept up with them, silent, glowering. Isobel kept silent as well—she’d already ducked into a public loo to text Peter with their new arrival plans, but she didn’t dare wait long enough to receive a reply. She’d just have to hope things were still working efficiently at the London office. Thomason had been doing his best to interfere, but he was an ineffectual nuisance. He wouldn’t be
able to distract Peter from getting done what needed to be done.
The ferry terminal, in the center of town, was blessed with a cafeteria and a newsstand. She had to force herself to eat the food Killian bought for them, but Mahmoud had no qualms, devouring everything in sight. She had no idea where he’d pack it all in his slender body, but that wasn’t her problem. She drank her tea and nibbled at the fruit and rolls, waiting for Killian to return.
Something wasn’t right. There were too many heavily armed police with trained dogs wandering around, not to mention a number of camera crews. Isobel ducked her head as an earnest Spanish reporter stood in front of them and rattled off information into the camera. Too fast for her to translate; she really needed to work on her languages. The news crew moved on, and she ducked her head further when she felt the curious eyes of the police checking them out.
A moment later a newspaper was dropped in front of her and Killian took the chair beside her. “Trouble,” he said.
She looked at the paper. There was a grainy photograph of their abandoned airplane, presumably with the dead pilot still inside, and another of what appeared to be wreckage. Terroristas! The headline was in screaming red.
She handed the paper back to him. “What’s happening?”
“We’re fine, if we play it cool. Someone bombed the ferry terminal in Bilbao. I expect they were looking for us, trying to slow us down. In the meantime, security is heightened all over the country, and they’re on the lookout for Basque separatists. Our nice nuclear family should have no problem—I’ve got our paperwork and tickets. Mahmoud there is a war orphan we’re taking to England for rehabilitation and an adoptive family. You and I are aide workers helping out.”
She took a breath. “The bombing at Bilbao couldn’t have anything to do with us. No one knew we were headed there.”
“No one but your office.”
“I told you, Peter’s trustworthy.”
“No one’s trustworthy.” Killian took her cup of tepid Earl Grey and drained it. “Madsen might not be the mole. Things just might not be as secure as you thought they were. Do you have anyone new in the office?”
“Just Taka’s cousin,” she said reluctantly. “I haven’t met him as yet, but Taka’s among the best we have. I have complete faith in anyone he’d recommend.”
“But you haven’t met the guy.”
“No.”
“So you can’t be certain.”
“I’ll ask Peter—”
“You won’t ask anybody anything. We’re not going to have any problem getting on the ferry, and once we’re at sea no one’s going to bother us. In the meantime, why don’t you give me your PDA.”
“What PDA?”
“The one you’re keeping in your bra. Maybe someone else wouldn’t notice, but I happen to have a particular interest in your breasts. Give it to me.”
“No.”
He sighed. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Do what?”
He moved so fast even she didn’t see it coming. He rose, hauling her out of her seat, into his arms, and his mouth came down on hers, the shock of it both elemental and shattering. He shoved his hand down her shirt, cupping her breast, his long fingers fishing the tiny PDA into his palm, as the crowded cafeteria erupted into spontaneous applause.
Isobel tried to fight him, but he was bigger and stronger than she was. And he knew all the moves she normally would have made, forestalling her, so that it looked as if she was pawing at him back, in the throes of a passion that couldn’t be denied.
Then he released her, and she sank back down in her chair, pale, shaken, her shirt half-open, as the enthusiastic cheers continued. Killian made a mocking bow in the direction of the crowd, and sat beside her. There was no sign of the PDA.
“You son of a bitch,” she whispered.
“You enjoyed it, princess,” he drawled. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
She wasn’t going to grace that with a response. Her entire body felt suddenly electrified, fragile, ready to explode. “What did you do with it?”
“I tucked it down my pants. Feel free to search for it at your leisure.”
She turned away from him, trying to control her rapid breathing. She wasn’t going to do this. Wasn’t going to go there. She was strong, cold, an automaton, decades removed from the stupid girl who’d fallen in love with a murderer.
But the longer she was with him, the more that fool returned, and she could taste him on her mouth now. And it was good.
Apparently he didn’t expect an answer. “We can board now. We’re not sailing for an hour, but I figure the sooner we get past customs the better. Are you ready?”
Mahmoud had been ignoring them, still shoveling food in his face, and he finished by reaching out and taking the last sweet roll on Isobel’s plate. Even if his command of English was practically nonexistent he understood Killian’s tone of voice, and he rose, tucking it inside his ragged clothing.
There was nothing she could do but follow. And when Killian’s back was turned, when no one from their appreciative audience was watching, she rubbed her hand against her mouth, to wipe the feel of him away.
It didn’t work.
So he shouldn’t have kissed her. He knew that, had known going in that he needed to keep his hands off her until he’d finished his mission. And then he could have her. Assuming she hadn’t managed to kill him, as she was no doubt fondly fantasizing about.
He might lie to everyone else, but he never lied to himself. He had every intention of getting her into bed; after eighteen years he was still thinking about her. But he couldn’t afford to rush it.
He’d needed her PDA, though, and it had given him just the right excuse. She wouldn’t know that he’d been looking for that excuse since she first walked into the ruined house in Nazir.
It hadn’t taken him long to get used to her new face. He’d seen photos of it often enough over the intervening years. Stephan Lambert had done an excellent job on her, and the ageless perfection of her classic features worked well in her line of work. Most people would never guess she was thirty-seven. But then, there was no one left from her past life. She’d been reported dead, her family in the U.S. had mourned and then gone on with life. No one had asked any questions.
Which was one reason why he’d chosen her in the first place, to act as his cover. Her connections were tenuous at best—there were no close friends, no doting family for her to get in touch with. No one knew she’d spent the last two weeks of her former life traveling around France with a seemingly harmless graduate student. There’d been no way to trace her, and no way to trace him.
She wasn’t happy about the room he’d booked on the ferry; it came with a double bed and a banquette that opened into a twin, but he wasn’t about to make her life easier by telling her about it. Particularly since he knew she was going to make him share the bed with Mahmoud, who probably had lice, while she took the single.
Too bad. They’d made it onto the boat with little problem, and he noticed there were shops on one of the upper decks. Killian could find them some clean clothes, at the very least. It was too much to hope they’d be able to get Mahmoud clean—nothing short of major sedation would get him near water. Killian would make Isobel deal with it once they got to England. In the meantime, they’d simply have to survive.
The ferry was beginning to pull away from the dock. The sunny day had turned dark and windy, from a storm coming in. It was late afternoon; they’d arrive in Plymouth in the middle of the next day. They were safe for now, and he could relax his guard. Marginally. There was no way anyone could have picked up on their change in direction.
He was a man used to all possibilities. There were any number of people wanting him dead, but he had no idea who had bribed Samuel and the pilot. Someone who had far too good an access to his plans.
Isobel might be setting him up, but he doubted it. If it was a simple termination she would have taken care of it long ago. Unfinished business, she’d call it
.
Some of his enemies had resources that were limitless. They’d know he’d made it to Spain, thanks to the pilot, but there were any number of ways to get out of there, any number of airports, ferries or roads over the Pyrenees to France. It was unlikely they could check everything.
The Bilbao ferry office had been bombed; they would be expecting the three of them to show up in time for the departure and then be stranded. They, whoever they were, had no idea he’d forestalled them and made his own plans. They would only now be realizing he hadn’t come to Bilbao, and the Santander ferry had already set sail.
“I’m going to take a look around,” he said. “I think we’re safe, but I always like to be careful. Stay here with Mahmoud and I’ll be back soon.”
“How about you stay with Mahmoud and I’ll do recon?” Isobel asked.
“Because I don’t trust you?” he suggested. “Besides, Mahmoud isn’t looking well. He needs a maternal touch.”
“I’m not the motherly type,” she snapped, glancing at the boy. Mahmoud was curled up on the banquette, and beneath the layers of dirt he was turning a definite green.
“Just keep telling yourself that, princess. I think I’d better find some Dramamine before we’re both very sorry. Do you need some as well?”
“I have no problem with seasickness.”
“That’s right, this isn’t the first ferry we’ve been on together, is it?”
“Go to hell,” she growled, looking away from him.
He closed the door quietly behind him. She’d take good care of Mahmoud. She was trying very hard to be a major badass, but it was a lost cause. Even after all these years, and the changes she’d gone through, he knew her too well.