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“Isn’t the explosion going to draw too much attention?”
“A nice distraction. We’ll be long gone by the time anyone realizes what happened.”
She didn’t argue, which surprised him. “Okay. But…” Her voice trailed off as they heard a muffled thump.
It was nearby, coming from behind a closed door. The three Serbs were still at the far end of the court yard, and the noise of the fountain masked the bumping sound. For now.
“Shit,” he said.
“What?”
“Go on ahead. Push the bed in our room out of the way and you’ll find a broken screen that leads out into the desert at the back of the house. Climb through there and start running. There’s a ridge about half a mile away—you’ll see it if it’s not too dark. I’ll catch up with you.”
“Don’t you think Samuel knows about the screen?”
“Nope. I never go anywhere without a way out. Get going.”
“And what are you doing?”
“Just checking out the noise. Don’t tell me you’re worried about me?”
It was the right thing to say. It annoyed her so much she pushed. “You’re a job,” she said.
“That’s right. Keep remembering that, and I’ll meet you behind the ridge.”
He expected her to hesitate. He expected some sign—anger, regret. She just looked at him, her perfect face blank. “Be there,” she said. “I don’t like failure.” And she was off.
Isobel figured she had no more than five minutes to cry. It was a simple release of stress, where no one could see her, and she did it silently. She did it silently as she moved, shoving the bed out of the way, scrambling through the broken screen and taking off across the rough ground. She was a good runner—she’d always made sure that when the cigarettes started to affect her wind she stopped smoking. But right now she wanted a cigarette even more than she wanted to make it over the ridge. By the time she slid over the top, onto the other side, the tears were gone and she was cool, collected and very very angry.
She shouldn’t have left him behind. It had been a re grettable weakness on her part, but she was afraid if she’d stayed there she would have killed him.
He knew her.
It had been her one powerful weapon against the unwanted emotions that were roiling through her, that he had no idea who she was. She’d briefly entertained the fantasy of telling him just before she shoved a knife in his heart, and in her dreams it had always been a knife. She didn’t want to shoot him. She wanted some thing up close and personal. She wanted to see the pain, wanted his blood on her hands, wanted…
To get over it. If he didn’t make it out of the building she’d move on with her life. If he did, she’d protect him for as long as necessary. And in the best of all possible worlds she wouldn’t even hate him anymore. She could let him go, to live out his murderous, evil existence in the luxury he’d earned in blood.
There was a Jeep waiting at the ridge, not hers but another one, and she could just imagine Thomason’s reaction to her latest expense report. Sir Harry was a little man, and his loss of power had hit him hard. He made up for it by nickel-and-diming them as much as possible. The loss of her vehicle was not going to sit well. At least the thought of Thomason’s displeasure gave her spirits a momentary lift. She shouldn’t care, but she despised that man, and any way to make his life unpleasant cheered her.
She slid the rest of the way down the ridge and headed for the Jeep, giving it a quick once-over. No incendiary devices—it wasn’t going to blow when she turned the key. Which she had every intention of doing if Killian didn’t show up in the next few minutes. There was always the possibility that in this case a failed mission might be prefe
rable to a successful one.
A moment later he appeared, moving fast, a bundle of rags in his arms. “Get in,” he said. “I’m driving.”
She didn’t bother to argue. He dumped the bundle in the back, climbing into the front seat, and she had no doubt he would have taken off without her if she’d hesitated. Settling in the seat beside him, she glanced at the still form of the child in the back.
“Is he dead?”
“Just drugged to keep them out of trouble. I realized if Samuel was going to sell me out, then he probably wasn’t going to leave any traces. Too bad, too. The Christian school would have done wonders.” Killian started the car, and at that very moment the sky erupted in noise and smoke and flames. Samuel’s expensive house, gone in a moment, the flames shooting to the sky.
“Did you do that?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Let’s hope your trusted friend was really well paid for selling you out.”
Killian headed into the night, driving fast, not even looking at her. “Let’s hope my trusted friend was still inside and went up with the Serbs.”
