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“Keep moving, Madame Lambert,” he said, waving the gun toward her. “And tell your friends to keep their distance. I see Peter looking for his chance, and I have time to blow his head off and still kill you.”
“But that would leave me,” Bastien said in a silky tone.
“I’m not alone down here. Move ahead.”
She followed them through the doorway, into a large room. There were two low-wattage lightbulbs overhead, and standing in the middle was Killian, wrapped in someone else’s coat. Slightly pale, but alive.
He had no gun, and yet he seemed to be in charge. There were two more bodies on the ground, and three armed men watching him warily, like tourists watch a polar bear in a zoo devouring its meal. There was no sign of Mahmoud.
Killian didn’t look at her when they stopped, focusing instead on Thomason.
“What’s all this about?” Harry demanded, sounding querulous. He turned to one of his men. “Why are you just standing there? He’s not armed. Shoot him!”
“Not exactly true, I’m afraid,” Killian said in his laziest drawl. She looked at his hands, and saw the blood running down his left hand, dripping onto the ground. He opened the coat, gingerly, and she could see the belt he was wearing. Packed with the latest fashion in lightweight explosives.
“How did you get that?” The words came out before she realized she’d spoken.
“Shut up!” Thomason snapped, his temper fraying. “Or I’ll shut you up!”
“I don’t think you’d like the consequences,” Killian said. “You touch her, and we’re all going up.”
“I think you’d best believe him,” one man said in a heavy Russian accent. “He’d do it.”
Thomason fired, and the man collapsed on the ground, half his skull missing. “Does anyone else have something to say?” he inquired in a dulcet tone.
“Your aim has gotten better, Harry,” Isobel said, her voice cold. “You didn’t used to be able to hit the broad side of a barn.”
He swung in her direction, his face purple with rage, but Bastien had already tackled her, throwing her to the ground, covering her body, her head, as the gun rang out, over and over again. She could feel chips flying from the stone wall, stinging, and she wanted to shove Bastien away, but he was much too strong and determined, and too damn big, and then, shockingly, the gun was silenced, and he rolled off her.
She kicked him, scrambling to her feet, to see Peter standing over Thomason’s huddled figure. Killian hadn’t moved—he was leaning against a table, seeming perfectly at ease, if it weren’t for the bomb strapped around his middle and the blood dripping from his hand. “She never was grateful,” he said to Bastien.
Isobel wouldn’t look at Killian. She stalked over to Thomason’s figure. “Is he dead?”
The old man looked up at her, hatred in his milky eyes. “Only slightly damaged, thank you,” he said in a voice thick with loathing.
She kicked him, too, just for good measure. “Where’s Mahmoud?”
“He’s locked in one of the rooms, but he’s fine,” Killian said. “Reno can take care of him.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she said in her iciest voice. Peter was holding the handgun that she’d handed over to Thomason, the one that would stop an elephant in its tracks. “Too bad you’re wearing that belt or I’d shoot you where you stand.”
“Be my guest,” Killian said gently, unfastening the belt and setting it down on the table behind him, very carefully. More blood on his hand; he’d obviously been shot. She didn’t care, she absolutely didn’t care. He could die for all it mattered to her, and she’d dance on his grave.
“I’ll get him,” Peter said, limping past Thomason’s unmoving figure. A moment later Mahmoud came flying out of the room, his video game clutched in one hand. To Isobel’s amazement, he flung himself at Killian.
Killian grunted, falling back for a moment at the child’s onslaught. A child who weighed very little, and Killian was very strong. How badly was he hurt?
He put his hand on the boy’s hair, ruffling it with affection, speaking to him in Arabic. “Is Reno here?” he asked Isobel. “He wants Reno.”
“He’s here. Come along, kid,” Peter said. “I’ll take you to him.”
Mahmoud was already racing ahead of him, but he paused for a moment to look at Isobel. He said something to her, something long and incomprehensible, and then took off, Peter trailing behind him.
Bastien made a choking sound, and she remembered he knew Arabic. She wasn’t about to ask Killian, who was looking strangely amused beneath his pallor. “What did he say?”
“Just good wishes for your future health and happiness,” Toussaint said.
“Vermin,” Harry said, struggling to his feet.
