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He swore, in half a dozen languages. “You’ve been in the business long enough not to have made such a stupid mistake. Unless you’re trying to get me killed. In which case you could have tried it long distance.”
“Maybe I want to be in at the kill,” she said in a silky voice. “Don’t be paranoid.”
“Paranoia keeps me alive. I thought you were smarter than that.”
She was impervious to his anger or his insults. “I took you seriously. Peter Madsen is the only one who knows we’re coming in, and whether you realize it or not, there are some people in this life that you can trust absolutely. The Committee has survived numerous attempts at infiltration—we’re invulnerable. And even if someone managed to get in, Peter would know.”
“Whether you realize it or not, there’s no one in this life like that,” he shot back. He pushed away from the table, and Mahmoud uttered a protest. Killian’s response was short and sharp, and Isobel decided not to argue.
“Why don’t you give me back my PDA and I’ll find out what arrangements have been made?”
He shoved his hand in his pocket and handed the tiny thing to her. “We’re screwed, anyway. We might as well find out what we’re up against.”
She started to move away from the table, but he stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’ll get a better signal from outside—”
“You’ll call him while I can listen. No texting.”
She sat back down again, pushing buttons on the compact machine. Peter answered immediately.
“We’re coming into Plymouth,” she said. “My friend thinks we’ve got a problem in the office.”
“Unlikely.” Peter’s voice on the other end was cool and detached. “In any case, I sent Morrison to fetch you in the Bentley. I need to stay here. You should be safe enough.”
“What’s Morrison doing home from Germany?”
“There are problems. We’ll talk when you get our friend back here.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” He broke the connection, and Isobel looked up at Killian.
“You may be right,” she allowed. “Something’s going on, and Peter wouldn’t be more specific. However, Charlie Morrison is just about as good as it gets, and he’s the one coming for us. The Bentley is armored—if someone decides to follow us it’ll take a rocket launcher to stop us.”
Killian said nothing. For a moment she gazed at him, seeing him clearly in the bright light of day. Other women were noticing him, too. He was the kind of man women looked at, wanted. His gray-blue eyes were cool and flinty as they stared at her, his strong, lean body deceptively relaxed, his mouth…
She wasn’t going to think about his mouth. It hadn’t happened. She could arrange reality to what was bearable. It hadn’t happened.
He could have no idea what was going through her mind; she was too good at dissembling. And he seemed less than interested. He was surveying their surroundings with a casual air that belied his high level of alertness. She was just as cautious. If anyone made a move, she’d flatten Killian, taking him out of the line of fire. She’d come this far, and wasn’t going to let anyone get to him.
But the passengers from the ferry seemed more interested in disembarking than watching the odd-looking family. Killian managed to get them to the front of the line, and, despite their lack of luggage, the customs officials barely glanced at their forged papers. It was a security breach that could cause trouble in the future. She’d have Peter pass on the word, Isobel decided. It could keep Thomason busy.
The terminal was new and clean, and it took a sharp reprimand to keep Mahmoud from the cafeteria. Killian had them walk straight through the crowded building. There were short-and long-term car parks surrounding the facility, but he kept going, expecting her to follow him with Mahmoud taking up the rear.
She recognized the Bentley from a distance, and beside it, Morrison’s sturdy body dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform that would have infuriated him. His father had been a chauffeur, and he had class issues that flared up at inconvenient moments. She knew how to handle her people, and once they were heading out on the A38 she could soothe his ruffled feathers.
“There he is,” she said.
Morrison caught her eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, climbing back into the heavy car, preparing to come pick them up.
The blast hit them like a heat wave, several seconds ahead of the noise, and Isobel barely had time to fling her arms around Mahmoud, throwing him to the ground and covering him as debris rained down on her.
Not that the little beast was grateful. He was using all his deceptive strength to try to dislodge her, but despite her unimpressive weight she could flatten a full-grown man if she needed to. A tiny twelve-year-old was no problem.
Noise and smoke were everywhere. She could hear people screaming, crying, the crackle of fire, but she was busy trying to keep the squirming kid out of harm’s way when strong hands caught her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.
Her back stung, but she couldn’t afford to pay attention and keep hold of Mahmoud at the same time.
