Page 79 of Icebound

“I haven’t the faintest idea. My guess is if Bastien’s taking Agent Gray, he wouldn’t recognize his own wife.”

Madsen made an explosive sound of frustration. “I don’t even know where the hell they are. I’ve had people crawling all over Northern Italy, looking for them, either together or alone, and no one’s seen anything. I’m afraid he’s going to go to ground until we’re distracted by other business and then strike again. How long does this Agent Gray last?”

“No one knows for sure—it’s too new and experimental. It seems as if it’ll work as long as they keep taking the stuff.”

Madsen was silent a moment. “I can’t afford second thoughts. I may not want to kill my friend, but I’m not going to let sentimentality stop me.”

“What about Chloe? She’s not going to stand by while you put a bullet in her husband.”

Peter closed his eyes as he imagined the possible debacle, and he knew the truth. If they were drugging Bastien, they would probably be drugging Chloe too, which would make her a danger on her own. He could protect their children, but there was no way he could protect the parents.

“I’ll do what I have to do,” Peter said heavily.

“What do you need me to do? Elizabeth and I can take the kids if you need us to. Or I can be the one to take out Bastien if you want. He’d never see me coming.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t want to bring you into this. I just needed someone to bounce ideas off, and you came up with what’s probably the answer to everything. The thing is, if Bastien is brainwashed, does that absolve him from murdering a modern-day saint?”

“I don’t know, man,” MacGowan said. “That’s for you to decide. All I know is, I’m glad I’m out of the business.”

Madsen shook his head. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

Chapter

Twenty-Three

They waited two days to kill her. Chloe sat in her room, her nerves a screaming edge, waiting for Luc to knock on her door, but that knock didn’t come. Maybe they’d changed their mind, but she couldn’t count on it. There was no escape—the only windows in the lushly oriental room were up high, and Thing One and Thing Two were always at the door. She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Would she die with dignity? Hell, no. She’d kick and scream and try to run and end up with a bullet in her back. She’d cry and plead and do everything she could to stop them. She didn’t want to leave her children. She didn’t want to leave Bastien.

There was nothing she could use for a weapon. She kept a fork from her dinner tray with the vague notion of stabbing Luc in the eyes with it, but it was a weak defense, though better than nothing. Maybe they were waiting for Bastien to return. He wouldn’t let them hurt her. But would Jean-Marc?

No, something would make him stop them, some inner core that they hadn’t been able to wipe out. He knew her, she could swear it, knew her on a subconscious level. He wouldn’t stand by and see her murdered.

But would he be back in time?

It was late on the second day when the knock finally came. She considered not answering it, but they they’d just unlock it and come on in, and there was no reason they couldn’t kill her where she sat on the bed. It would ruin all the brightly colored coverings, but she suspected buying a new bed was a simple matter for Le Fauçon. He just liked the efficiency of taking her out to the desert to kill her, but that wouldn’t stop him from doing it here.

“Come in,” she said, wondering why she bothered. He would come in whether she welcomed him or not.

But it was Bastien standing there, a forbidding expression on his face, and without thinking she jumped up and flung herself into his arms with relief.

Those arms didn’t rise to hold her. His body was cold and stiff, and she let her own arms drop to her side as she took a step away. “You’re back,” she said awkwardly.

“Yes. I’ve got orders to take you into the desert. Are you ready to go?” His voice was cold, emotionless, and his dark eyes were empty. They were going to make Bastien do it, she thought miserably. And whether he liked it or not, he looked ready to comply.

“You don’t want to do this,” she said in a hushed voice.

“The walk will do you good.” His voice was icy, robotic, and she knew there was no help from him. Her own husband was planning to kill her, never knowing who she was.

“I need shoes,” she said helplessly.

“The sandals will do. We’re not going very far.”

Could she run from him? Not in those flimsy sandals they’d provided. She’d be better off slipping them off her feet and running barefoot. Until she got a bullet in her back.

Bastien opened the door. “Geraldo and Esteban are coming with us,” he said. “Just in case we need help.”

“Why would we need help?” So, Le Fauçon was sending backups. He must not trust Bastien to get the job done. Or maybe he was getting rid of Bastien as well, and they’d die together in the desert. The idea didn’t strike her as particularly romantic.