Page 80 of Icebound

Thing One and Thing Two looked like executioners. But then, so did Bastien, with his cold eyes and his grim mouth. If they had a tumbril, it all would have been perfect.

Bastien didn’t answer her question. “Come,” he said. “If we don’t hurry, it will be dark.”

“Why don’t we wait until tomorrow then? I want to see the desert,” she said helplessly.

“It’s most beautiful at sunset and sunrise. I wouldn’t want you to see it at anything but its best.”

“I don’t mind waking up early,” she said desperately. Anything to put off this grimly determined man.

He shook his head, and if he felt any regret he didn’t show it. “We go now,” he said, and she knew there was nothing she could say to stop him. Not with Thing One and Thing Two watching them.

The blazing heat of the sun had lessened somewhat as they left the villa, and the path down into the wilderness was civilized enough. She almost began to wonder whether she was simply being paranoid when she saw the gun tucked into the waistband of Bastien’s pants.

She must be a glutton for punishment, she thought. “Why do you need your gun?”

“Wild boars,” he said briefly, moving down the path, and she tried to hold back, only to have the guards come up behind her like a phalanx of death. There was no way she was going to escape. Both of them were armed as well—between the three of them, one was sure to hit her.

It would probably be Bastien. He was the crack shot, the one chosen to kill LaDonna, the one who was going to try to kill Peter Madsen. She hoped, if he ever remembered who he was, that he would forget he murdered his own wife.

It was a long way down the winding path, and the shadows were growing longer. She looked out over the dramatic landscape of the Tabernas Desert, looking for a place to run to, but it was all rocks and sand and scrubby little underbrush, no help at all.

There was a vehicle of sorts at the bottom of the endless path, some sort of dune buggy, she guessed. Without a word, Thing One and Thing Two climbed into the backseat, their expressionless faces chilling in the afternoon breeze.

“Get in,” Bastien said.

So, there’d be no running away. She’d gotten the tumbril she asked for, and it looked like a teenager’s wet dream. She laughed, and if it sounded a little hysterical, no one said anything.

Bastien had already climbed into the driver’s seat when she followed, acutely aware of the men sitting behind her. “Do up your seatbelt,” Bastien said, and once more she laughed, a brittle one. Why the hell would they care about her safety if they were going to kill her?

He started the engine and they took off, bouncing over rocks and vegetation, moving deeper into the shadowed desert. Chloe stared blankly in front of her. Maybe one of the guards would simply put a bullet in her brain while they drove, and she wouldn’t have to think about it any longer.

Darkness was drawing in when they finally reached the ruins of the old movie studio, and she stared at it numbly. It looked like a small, western town, with a dust-covered saloon with all the windows smashed, a narrow walkway and a sheriff’s office opposite it. Bastien drove down the center of the road, stopping the vehicle just outside the abandoned blacksmith’s shop.

She didn’t move. The guards climbed out of the back, staying close, and Bastien had opened his own door when he realized she was still sitting in the vehicle, motionless.

“Come,” he said again, and she considered arguing. It would only delay the inevitable, and she was tired of waiting. The anticipation was worse than the reality, she thought. She only hoped she didn’t have to look at Bastien when he shot her.

Except that she wanted her last view of life to be of him, even of his ultimate betrayal. He reached over and unfastened the seatbelt, and she wondered if his hands shook. They were perfectly still.

This was his job. How many people had he brought out to the desert to kill? What did they do with the bodies?

She soon got her answer. Someone had dug a large hole by the blacksmith’s shop, eerily like a grave. She cleared her throat. “Very interesting. I’d like to go back now.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Bastien said. “These buildings are only fronts for outdoor shots—the backs of them are scaffolding holding them in place. And if you look hard enough, you can find bullet casings in the dust on the main street.”

“Why bullet casings?” Stupid question. They were just as likely to have come from him.

“They used to film gunfights on the streets here. No one bothered to clean up when they moved out.”

“How long have they been gone?” Her voice was hollow, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“A lifetime in the desert,” he said. “You can go on ahead and explore. I need to talk to the men.”

He was sending her away so he could get a clean shot, with the men as back up in case he missed. She could refuse, cling to his side, so that he had no choice but to shoot her point-blank. She didn’t think she could bear it.

So, she walked ahead, down the shadowed street, looking for shell casings, waiting for the explosion of sound.]

It came, sooner than she expected, followed by a second gunshot, and she froze, waiting for the pain, waiting for death.