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“Where are we going then?” she asked.
“I’m going to meet with my supervisor and tell him I finally accomplished my mission. And you, my dear, aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to die.”
Bastien’s instincts had always been infallible. He would know when a mission was going to go south, when a mole would turn, when to strike and when to abort. He would know who he could trust, and just how far he could trust them, and he would know who, in the end, would betray him.
He’d lost that skill in the past year. Either lost it, or just didn’t care. His job had been simple—get rid of Hakim, keep track of the new division of territories and make certain Christos wasn’t put in charge of the cartel.
But he’d stopped listening to the voices that warned him of danger. They hadn’t gone away—they were whispering in his ear, insidious voices, warning him. Warning him of what?
He drove through the snow-blanketed streets of Paris with his usual suicidal speed. There was marginally less traffic than usual, but those who were out had less room to move, and the snow hadn’t improved their attitude. The car Maureen had brought him was a late-model BMW, with too much power for the snowy streets, but he slid and spun his way toward the hotel with dexterity, only clipping a taxi once.
A taxi. They’d found the man he’d trussed and gagged in the basement parking garage. Found him dead, his throat cut open like Chloe’s friend. He should have been prepared for that—even with all hi
s precautions they’d managed to keep track of him. He’d grabbed the paper when he’d gone to find Maureen, and he’d spared a thought for the driver’s wife the water buffalo and their four children. If he made it through the next few days he might even see about getting some money to them. It wouldn’t replace their husband and father, but it would lessen some of the difficulties the work of the Committee had delivered.
It would have been Thomason who’d ordered the hit, Thomason who was having him followed and cleaning up any witnesses, any survivors. He must have seen through Bastien’s usually adept lies. It was standard operating procedure—an organization such as theirs wouldn’t exist for very long if people were left alive to talk and to wonder. Secrecy was the most important tenet, even more important than whatever mission they’d been assigned. They were all the same—to save the world. And yet no matter how many people he’d killed, the world never seemed to be saved.
He was nearing the hotel. A small suite was reserved for him, and most of the cartel was already assembled, awaiting the arrival of Christos. He was dressed and ready to resume his life, knowing Chloe Underwood was being taken care of by the best agent he knew. Maureen had worked on a number of missions with him, including the latest as his wife. She would get her safely on the plane, and then Chloe would no longer be their problem. His problem. In fact, by putting her in Maureen’s hands, he’d already finished his part of it. He was ready to move on, concentrate on what mattered and not a momentary distraction.
Except that something wasn’t right. It was gnawing at him, tickling his nerve endings, and he couldn’t quite place what it was. He’d trust Maureen with his life. Their affair had matured into a deep friendship that went beyond the boundaries of the all-powerful Committee, and he knew he could count on her.
So why did he keep wanting to turn back, to make sure?
Maybe it was simply that he was having a hard time letting go of Chloe. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about another human being for a long time. He wasn’t sure he actually cared about Chloe, but he’d chosen to protect her, and that had put some sort of connection between them that sex hadn’t.
If it was that simple—that he didn’t want to give her up—then he could easily ignore that nagging little voice. Sentimentality had no place in his life. He’d lost any trace of it long ago, if, in fact, he’d ever had any. When he’d gotten news of his mother and Aunt Cecile’s death in a hotel fire in Athens he’d simply shrugged. That part of his life was long over, and he’d dismissed it.
Just as he needed to dismiss all thoughts of Chloe and concentrate on finishing this last mission. She was no longer his problem, his responsibility. In fact, she never had been. He’d just chosen to make her so. And now he could forget about her.
He took the turn so quickly the car slid halfway across the snow-narrowed street, and he just barely missed hitting another taxi. He was being an idiot, and he accepted that fact, but he was going back to the old house on the outskirts of Paris. Maybe he just had to say goodbye. Maybe he simply had to make sure she was all right. Maybe he wanted to kiss her one more time. Make love to her the way she deserved.
That wasn’t going to happen. If he had any sense at all he’d ignore this sense of foreboding as the extraneous bullshit it was, put it behind him and finish the job. Take out Christos, and see whether Thomason was really going to have him killed as well.
But right now he didn’t seem to have much sense. And he wasn’t going to be able to move on until he made sure his reluctant charge was safe.
Chloe didn’t bother to say anything stupid, like “what do you mean?” She knew exactly what Maureen meant. Had known since the woman walked into their tiny, safe haven and Bastien had abandoned her, despite her talk of new haircuts and fancy underwear. The woman had no intention of letting her get on any plane. That was what the new clothing was for—so they couldn’t trace her by any mark on her own clothes. Couldn’t trace her body.
She was past the point of panic. “Is that why Bastien brought you here? Because he couldn’t do it himself?”
“Ah, Bastien. This particular identity hasn’t been particularly fortunate. If he were his old self you never would have left the château. As it is, I’m here to clean up the mess he made. Attention to detail is the only way to success.”
She was between Chloe and the open door. She was taller than Chloe, and despite the chic clothing she looked as if she were quite a bit stronger. And Chloe was hardly at her best.
She sat on the edge of the bed in her new, perfectly fitting clothes, and looked into the eyes of her killer. She felt numb, and though she despised herself for it, unable to move. She was going to sit there like a lamb waiting for slaughter, putting up no sort of fight….
The hell she was. She sat up straighter, but Maureen was already ahead of her.
“You’re not going gentle into that good night?” she said with a faint smile. “That’s all right. I owe you a fair amount of pain—you screwed me over and I don’t like being made to look a fool in front of my superiors.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jean-Marc. Or Bastien, or whatever you call him. You’re just another example of his ambivalence. You’ve distracted him, when he was a man who could never be distracted. Killing you will be my gift to him.”
“Did he bring you here to kill me?”
“You already asked me that, chérie. And you may have noticed, I didn’t answer. You’re just going to have to wonder about that with your dying breath. Now start moving.”
“Where?”
