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It would be so easy to snap her scrawny little neck, he thought dreamily. Maybe, when the deal went through, as he had no doubt it would, he’d return five kids instead of six.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked.
“Tiffany Leticia Ambrose.”
Tiffany. That was the funniest damn name he’d ever heard for a ridiculous little piece of trash. “Well, Tiffany, if you don’t shut your mouth, your little friends are going to pay the price for it. Understand?”
Any other child would have dissolved into tears. She simply nodded, and stepped back, and Harry flashed his benevolent grin over all of them. “So, we’re all agreed? Off to the mountains?”
And without waiting for an answer he took off, leaving them to trail behind him, like sheep to the slaughter.
When Genevieve woke, it was mid-morning—she could tell that much because the infomercials had switched to mindless cartoons. Not even decent Americanized anime, she thought foggily. And then she heard the sharp, staccato footsteps, the firm knock on the door, and she knew it was time to wake up. A good day to die?
She certainly wasn’t expecting what waited patiently at her motel-room door. The security hole had been blocked by some previous inhabitant, but she figured Peter wouldn’t let anyone dangerous up to her door. Or if he did, then she was screwed anyway.
She opened the door, staring at the creature in front of her. Elegant, ageless, with a cool, serene beauty that was almost eerie, the woman met her shocked stare with a smile. “I’m Madame Isobel Lambert,” she said, pronouncing her last name the French way, even though her accent sounded British. “I’m Peter’s boss, the current de facto head of the Committee. May I come in?”
Without a word Genevieve opened the door wider, resisting the impulse to peer over the walkway and see if Peter’s car was still there, with Peter in it. Madame Lambert was about five foot four, though her stiletto heels brought her up higher, but even in bare feet Genevieve felt as if she was looming over her.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a chair or some coffee,” she said, her voice brittle. “But I’m not equipped for entertaining.”
Isobel Lambert looked at the bed, the one she’d shared with Peter, and Genevieve wanted to scream. Did all these people have some kind of sixth sense? Why didn’t she look at the other bed where people had slept alone?
Genevieve sat, claiming the other bed, and let the woman think what she wanted. Hell, it was probably simpler than that—Peter had doubtless given her a full report. Or even worse, he’d been following her instructions in the first place.
She couldn’t go there. Not if she wanted to make it through the day, though that was already not a sure thing. She’d slept in he
r clothes—stupid, when she only had one change—and she was feeling rumpled and grungy. Then again, she might only need one change of clothes.
Madame Lambert had taken a seat on the other bed, crossing her elegant legs at the ankles and taking out a cigarette. “Do you mind? I’ve just started again.”
The room already smelled of stale smoke, and Genevieve didn’t care. “I don’t know that I’m going to have to worry about dying from secondhand smoke,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“You aren’t going to die, Ms. Spenser.”
“Call me Genevieve. No need to stand on formalities when you’re turning me over to a murderer.”
Madame Lambert smiled. “Peter told me you were a fighter. That’s very good. If you were a useless crybaby I wouldn’t have even considered this option.”
“I could cry,” Genevieve offered instantly. “Give me a minute and I’ll be a useless, sobbing wreck.” In fact, it was true. For the past twenty-four hours, for the past God knows how many days, she’d been on the edge of it, ready to start crying and never stop, but she was far too pragmatic to give in.
“I thought Peter said you agreed to this.” Her perfect, unlined face managed to express concern. How many face-lifts, how many Botox injections had gone into making that perfect, ageless mask?
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. I’m not sure the same could be said for the six children Harry’s planning to kill if we don’t deliver you.”
She felt sick inside. Could things get any worse? “No choice at all,” she said.
Madame Lambert nodded. “The trade-off is going to be at his place up in Lake Arrowhead. I don’t know why he’s chosen it—there are only two main roads down out of the mountains.”
“Maybe he thinks you’ll just let him just walk away.”
“It’s happened in the past. We have to make some uncomfortable moral decisions in this business, Genevieve. Sometimes evil gets to walk away untouched. But he’s not walking away with you or the children, I promise you.”
“Have you found Takashi yet?”
Again that faint, imperceptible shadow. “No,” she said. “But he’s a hard man to kill. If anyone could make it then O’Brien could. I haven’t given up hope.”
