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“Bastien,” she said, “do something about these two, would you?” She gestured toward the remaining men Harry had hired.
“What about Thomason?”
“I’ll take care of him.”
“You sure?”
She arched an eyebrow. “You think I can’t handle a pathetic old man, Bastien?”
“Of course you can, chérie. You’re the Ice Queen.” He glanced toward Killian. “What about him?”
She had no choice but to look at him. He still had that vaguely ironic expression on his face. “Get out,” she said in a low voice. “Go back to Langley and tell them that if I ever see you again you won’t be left standing.”
“Not the forgiving sort, are you?”
“Get…out,” she said.
He started after Bastien, moving slowly but with no particular limp. Maybe it was someone else’s blood on him. Maybe it was a flesh wound. Maybe he was dying.
She didn’t give a flying fuck.
She ignored him, turning back to Harry. “So what am I supposed to do with you?”
“There’s nothing you can do. You can’t prove anything, not without bringing our entire business to light, and you wouldn’t want to risk the few operatives that are still alive. Though I’m not sure quite how many there are…. I’ve got someone in Japan about to take out Takashi O’Brien and his new wife, and the operation in Somalia is in ruins. My men must have got to MacGowan, as well. They’re going to take your toy away from you, Isobel, and there’s nothing you can do. You were
too weak to run an organization like the Committee. You couldn’t do what needed to be done, so in the end I win. I may not have control back, but you can’t touch me without getting yourself dirty. The Committee will replace you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they put me at the helm, after all. We’re run by some very pragmatic people, and the end justifies the means. I’ll be ready to accept your resignation, of course.”
“They’re not that stupid.”
“Not stupid. Just not bothered by sentimental nonsense about human rights and fair play. We’re fighting the forces of evil, Isobel, and you haven’t got what it takes to wage that war. You haven’t got the stones to do what needs to be done.”
“Yes, Harry, I do,” she said. And she pulled the trigger.
The expression on his face was shocked, almost comical, as he slid to the floor. A head shot, quick and silent, as Bastien had taught her. His body splayed out, and something slipped out of his pocket, a gold watch falling onto the stone floor, the engraved cover flying off as it dropped into the pool of blood, the glass face shattering on impact.
She didn’t move. The gun was heavy in her hand, shaking, and someone came up behind her. She knew who it was. He took the gun away from her with his bloody hand. “I would have killed him for you, princess,” he said softly.
She wouldn’t look at him. And after a moment he walked away, slowly, down the empty corridor stained with blood, never looking back.
24
They got back to Golders Green by five. Cleanup had been no easy matter, but Isobel had simplified things by ordering Peter to blow the charges when everyone was at a safe distance. The ensuing explosion had been a bit of overkill, but Harry Thomason and the bodies of five Russian mercenaries disappeared in a collapsed field and tons of rock. By the time anyone got around to excavating, there would barely be enough left to trace their DNA. No one would look too hard—the Committee would see to it.
Peter was exhausted. He needed a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep. But most of all he needed his wife. Bastien had been silent since they dropped Isobel off at her flat; she’d refused to come with them, and he’d been wise enough not to push. Bastien would be taking his family back to the States as soon as they could get a flight, and Peter had every intention of dragging Genevieve back to Wiltshire as soon as she was willing to go. And if she argued, he’d throw her over his shoulder and haul her there.
He’d had a few rough moments during the last twenty-four hours, one of the absolute worst being when he’d dragged Reno to the hospital and the admit ting nurse had asked, “Your son?”
“Christ, no,” Peter had replied in total horror, earning a smirk from Reno. But he’d done a good job, cool-headed in a crisis, deadly when he needed to be. He’d make an excellent operative. If they could get him to cut his ridiculous hair.
In the meantime, someone needed to warn Takashi O’Brien that all of Harry’s stratagems hadn’t died with him. Taka was more than capable of taking care of himself and his wife, but a heads-up wouldn’t hurt.
Mahmoud had refused to leave Reno’s side, and in the end Peter had dropped them off in Kensington. They were both kids, outlaws, brats, brothers. For the time being he didn’t have to worry about them. They could play video games and drink Red Bull to their heart’s content. With Reno’s arm in a cast, Mahmoud might actually be able to beat him. No, Peter didn’t have to worry about them.
Isobel was a different matter. She was cool, calm, the Ice Queen personified. She hadn’t even asked where Killian had disappeared to. Which was a good thing, because Peter had no idea. He was simply gone by the time they’d left the bunker.
Genevieve was sitting in a chair by the fire, Bastien’s daughter Sylvia in her lap. She only looked half-ready to kill Peter—maybe there was hope, after all. She looked up when he walked in, and then for a moment all was chaos as Bastien followed him, to be inundated by his wife, his baby son and his daughter.
Peter moved past them, to Genevieve’s side, and knelt down beside her. Which hurt his bad leg like hell, but he figured she was going to demand some serious penance for disappearing on her.
