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But the man would come, and they would kill Mahmoud, anyway. Unless he did something to stop them.
Right now he wasn’t sure what that was. Mahmoud didn’t care whether he died or not—the way he saw it, death was an old friend, one who took everyone he cared about, from Reza, the sister he’d known for years, to Reno, the brother he’d known for a day. It could take him as well.
But it would take the Russians, too. In the meantime he stared at the video screen, the only light in the dark, cold room, and set the blood-splatter level on high in the game he was playing.
And he killed.
Killian knew they would be waiting for him. For the last ten miles the road had been a skating rink. As the sun began to rise the freezing fog had coated everything, and the first glints of sun sent prisms of color through the heavy mist. They’d routed him along back roads, and there’d been no other traffic out in such dismal weather. He nearly missed the turn to Wilders—one touch of the brakes and he went skidding past it. Cursing, he let the car drift to a stop, put it in Reverse and carefully backed up, taking the right-hand turn toward Harry Thomason’s estate.
Not that he was supposed to know that. He’d had just enough time to pick up a few things, including some basic intel. There were a few deserted cottages on the far end of the estate, scheduled to be torn down and turned into high-priced country housing. And there was an old bunker that had been used during World War II for some sort of covert activity. He was guessing that was where he was heading.
He had little doubt Isobel would be close behind him, but with only the coordinates, she wouldn’t be able to pin down his location exactly. Chances were they’d head for the main house first, giving him even more time to put his hasty plan into action.
Killian pulled the stolen car up in front of one of the old cottages. The roof had caved in long ago, and birds flew up into the dawn-lit air when he slammed the door of the vehicle. The ground was slick and icy underfoot. It would be damn funny if he were to fall and—
He knew where they were moments before they appeared out of the mist, reaching for him. He already had one of Isobel’s small guns in his hand, and he shot the thug on the right, sweeping his long leg so that his companion fell on the ice. The man rolled as he slid, coming up on his knees with a gun pointed straight at Killian, but he just had time to pull the trigger before Killian finished him.
The bullet hit Killian, knocking him back against the stolen car, and after a breathless moment he laughed. It had hit the fleshy part of his shoulder, in almost the exact same spot Mary Isobel had shot him eighteen years ago. That hadn’t killed him; this wouldn’t, either. He needed to stop the bleeding, and then find Mahmoud before they sent reinforcements.
He could see a heavy door in the side of a hillock. So it was going to be the bunkers. Even better. An enclosed area had a great deal to recommend it.
He was freezing cold, the icy mist clinging to his body, and blood was oozing from his shoulder at an enthusiastic rate. He’d learned to deal with pain a long time ago, and he knew just how long he could go without getting a wound treated. The cold would slow down the bleeding. All he needed to do was pack it with something for the time being.
It was a good thing the dead man’s aim hadn’t been a little lower, or everyone in the surrounding area would be very unhappy, he thought as he stripped the leather jacket and T-shirt off the first man he’d killed, leaving him lying on the frozen mud. The T-shirt was bloody already, but he pressed it against his wound, beneath his own shirt, then pulled the jacket around him. It was big enough—the man had been a little shorter than he was, but burly—and it still held the dead man’s warmth.
Killian started for the bunker as the morning mist began to rise, the birds began to sing and the stink of death filled the air.
23
Harry Thomason pulled out his father’s gold pocket watch for the hundredth time and wound it very carefully. It was half past five in the morning. You had to have a delicate touch with fine clockwork—too rough a turn and it broke, too light and the watch stopped prematurely. His father had worn it every day of his life since the day Winston Churchill had presented it to him, and Harry had hidden it when his father died and his older brother inherited everything. Maurice was long dead by now, childless, thank heavens, and Harry had stepped up to the task at hand.
He wouldn’t have children, either, unless he adopted someone. Perhaps a pretty young boy, innocent enough to be molded. It would be a shame not to leave all this to someone, and life did get lonely.
He snapped the watch shut. Stolya should have called him by now. The sun had risen on an ice-coated world—maybe the roads had slowed his quarry down. Stolya was supposed to notify him when it was done, and Harry had been patient for three years, ever since that bitch had taken his job and his power. He could be patient a few more minutes.
The day staff would be coming in soon. He had a housekeeper and an executive assistant, but both of them knew to keep their distance unless their presence was specifically requested.
There was just so long a man could sit and stare at the frozen landscape. He was truly going to enjoy setting that charge once Stolya called him. If there was one thing Harry couldn’t abide, it was incompetence in underlings.
The mobile phone made a quiet little chirping sound. He hated the things, but it was the only way to ensure absolute privacy, and he punched the button, growling into the receiver.
“There’s been a hitch.” Stolya’s thickly accented voice came over the line. “Your presence is requested.”
“Out of the question. You know your job. Do it!”
“Not possible. Not this moment. Your presence—” The voice ended abruptly, and a new one came on the line. An American voice, drawling, annoying.
“This is Killian, Sir Harry. If you want any chance to get to Isobel Lambert, then I suggest you come down here. Immediately, or I’ll kill the three men who are still alive, take Mahmoud and leave you holding the bag.”
“I’m afraid you’re
mistaken, Mr. Killian. I don’t care what happens to those men—they knew the risks when they entered my employment.”
“But you do want Isobel Lambert, don’t you? And all I have to do is walk out of here and warn her.”
“Dear me, now why do I have trouble believing you?” Harry said softly. “You and Isobel were once involved, a long, long time ago. Surely the gentlemanly thing would be to protect her.”
“The bitch tried to kill me. More than once. You’ve got ten minutes, Thomason. And then I’m gone, and Isobel is never letting you get near her again.”
