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??d wonder about the kind of life she lived, that someone could tell her something so horrific and she couldn’t even respond. But not now.
She concentrated on the present. “You should be in a hospital,” she said.
Reno’s dark eyes met hers. “No,” he said simply.
She didn’t bother to argue. She leaned back, trying to will her body to relax, to get ready for the upcoming battle. She could still feel Killian inside her, still feel his hands on her. Like a tape, playing over and over again in her head.
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“We’re not even sure where we’re going,” Peter said. “The coordinates we lifted off the GPS get us within a mile or so of where we want to be, but it’s not exact.”
“So we head straight for Thomason’s country house and kill him,” Bastien suggested in the calmest of voices.
“I doubt Sir Harry is doing this on his own,” she murmured. “His skills were always organizational, not field-ready. If we kill him, we leave Mahmoud at risk.”
Reno made a protesting noise, but Peter overrode him. “I thought you didn’t care about the boy? Isn’t he just collateral damage?”
“I really hate you all,” she said irritably. “You know as well as I do that I draw the line at children. Sometimes innocent people have to die. Mahmoud isn’t innocent, but he’s still a child, and we’re not having his death on our hands. That’s the difference between us and Thomason.”
“I know,” Peter said gently. “I just wanted to make sure you did.”
Isobel counted to ten. It was a very good thing that she was, temporarily, without a gun. “Does anyone in this goddamn car have a cigarette?”
“You gave them up.”
“I need one.” She turned to Reno. “You must have cigarettes on you.”
Reno shook his head. “And no weed, either. I gave that up, too.”
Isobel leaned back against the seat, muttering. She could still feel the dozens of tiny cuts from the shards of glass that Killian had carefully, even lovingly picked from her skin. She hadn’t even noticed them during the endless night.
“What was that?” Peter asked.
“What was what?” she snapped.
“Did you moan?”
“Just fucking drive. And if we pass an open store we’re getting me some cigarettes.”
“Here,” Bastien said, passing a gun over the seat back. “Play with this instead.”
It was a nasty piece of weaponry, heavy, solid. It would blow a good-size hole into anyone she aimed it at. Right now she was thinking Killian would make a good target. They could explain it to their so-called allies later.
“Just keep driving,” she muttered. Stroking the gun.
Mahmoud sat cross-legged on the cot, leaning back against the rough stone walls, the violent waltz of the video game reflected in his blank eyes. Reno was dead. He’d seen him go down, seen the blood before they’d hauled him out of there. His friend, his brother. He’d lost too many.
The man who’d brought him here, the one with the blond hair. Russian, Mahmoud thought. He’d seen Russians before. They drank too much, but they bled as much as any man. The one who took him, who’d ordered Reno’s death, would die.
He knew what they were waiting for. He was unimportant—Mahmoud had learned that long ago. They were using him to get to the man who’d killed his sister, and a month ago he would have helped them.
Not now.
Reza would have killed him, and a hundred others. He hadn’t known until the last minute, but he wouldn’t have stopped her. She had loved him, looked after him. He wouldn’t have minded dying with her—it would have all been over in a flash.
But the man had stopped her. Killed her. Saved him. And in the end, maybe it was all even.
They would come for him. He had fought in the wars long enough—he knew how these things worked. They would promise the man that they would let Mahmoud go, and the man would come, because he hated what he had done. Weakness, Mahmoud thought. Killian had had no choice but to kill Reza. It was a waste of time to feel guilt.
