Black Ice (10 page)

She watched the second piece of hair fall on the floor. A good thing they were going to destroy her body, she thought from a great distance. It would be hard to have an open casket with her hair all different lengths.

She must be going into shock, if she could think of such frivolous things. Her parents would be upset—they’d never wanted her to go to Paris. They’d wanted her to stay home and become a doctor like everyone else in the family, and she wouldn’t listen. She’d been too squeamish to bear the sight of blood, and now it would be her own blood she had to watch, to smell. At least her parents would have the dubious benefit of knowing they were right.

In the end the person who’d suffer most was Sylvia.
Her clothes were gone, she’d be responsible for the astronomical rent on the tiny apartment and the French police would ask her all sorts of questions about her missing roommate. Sylvia’s lifestyle didn’t bear too close a scrutiny, and Chloe could only think that it served her right. A little discomfort wasn’t quite a fair trade for sending her best friend to her death.

Of course she hadn’t—
the pain is so fucking bad I’m going to pass out, but I can’t, because then he’ll kill me
—hadn’t meant to endanger Chloe. But if she’d simply come herself then nothing would have happened. Sylvia was never interested in much beyond her own pretty nose. She’d never end up trapped here, with a monster pressing hot steel against her skin, while another, worse creature looked on.

She wasn’t going to scream. She bit down on her lip so hard she could taste the blood, but she wasn’t going to scream when he drew the tip of the blade across her skin, watching the beads of blood form and begin to trickle across her skin.

“I’ll finish her now,” Hakim said, grabbing her hair in one fist and bringing the knife up to her throat. “You can meet me back in the library—I’ll be along in a minute.”

Chloe closed her eyes, bracing herself. At least it would be over, and the darkness would be a blessed release. She tilted her head back to give him better access, desperate to have done with it, and Hakim laughed.

“You see how good I am, Bastien? I make them crave it.” And he plunged the knife downward.

The sound was strange, an odd sort of popping noise, and then she was smothered, weighted down, awash in blood and darkness and smelling of sour sweat. It wasn’t what she thought death would be like, but at least it didn’t hurt, and she held still, letting the night overtake her.

When suddenly the weight lifted and she could breathe again. She opened her eyes to see Hakim’s body sprawled out on the floor, in a pool of blood that wasn’t hers.

Bastien Toussaint was standing over her, his face cool and emotionless. He held out a hand to her—in the other he held a gun. “Life or death, Chloe. Make your choice.”

She put her hand in his, and let him pull her to her feet.

She was able to stand by sheer force of will. Pain shot through her arms, her legs, where Hakim had marked her. But Hakim was dead, she was alive, and even if she had to turn to the person she hated most in this world, she would do it. She didn’t want to die.

“There’s a back stairway that will bring us out near the garage. We’ll have to get past a handful of guards and the guard dogs, and you’ll have to be quiet and do everything I say. Otherwise I’ll shoot you and leave you behind.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. He sounded cool, unmoved, as if he hadn’t just killed a man, as if he weren’t anticipating killing others. Somewhere she could find the same coolness.

He kept hold of her arm, his fingers gripping tightly as he dragged her after him. She could barely manage to keep up with him—she was shaken, weak and dizzy, but asking him to slow down wasn’t an option. He’d probably put the gun to her head then and there if she held him back.

She stumbled after him, down the narrow, unlit stairway, out into the frosty December night. The fresh, cold air was so powerful that she almost choked, trying to inhale huge lungsful, trying to get the taste and smell of blood and fire out of her. She wanted more, but suddenly Bastien shoved her against the wall, covering her body with his until they both disappeared in the shadows.

His body was pressed up against hers, plastered against hers, she noted absently. He was very strong—she’d realized that, hadn’t she? She might hate him with a shocking ferocity, but when it came to being rescued it was good to have her rescuer be strong.

Chloe heard the muffled growl from a guard dog, followed by a quick admonishment. The guards were making their rounds, but they hadn’t yet realized something was wrong.

“I may have to shoot them. Don’t make me shoot
you as well.” The words were only breathed in her ear, just a whisper of sound, but she nodded.

The guards had moved past them, but they would be back. “Just promise me one thing,” she whispered, a little louder than Bastien’s silent communication.

He slapped his hand over her mouth, and she fought back her cry of pain. “Be quiet,” he snapped, no longer lazy or charming.

She nodded, and he pulled his hand away. The guards were halfway across the wide expanse of formal garden by that point, and while bullets might reach them, the men themselves couldn’t.

Bastien pulled back from her, seemingly unmoved from having been pressed up against her. “Promise you what?” he asked finally.

“Don’t shoot the dogs.”

For a moment he just stared at her blankly. And then an odd expression flashed in his eyes, what she might have called, in another man, in other circumstances, amusement. But there was no room for amusement in a life-or-death situation. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Come on.” And gripping her hand, he started to run.

T
he night had ceased to be real. Hakim had ensured the place was well-lit, and they had to dodge from shadow to shadow as they crossed the wide strip of lawn. Bastien seemed to have a preternatural instinct as to where to move, and she followed by sheer, iron will, refusing to think about the things she had seen, the things that had been done to her. Reality was long gone, and if this were a Hollywood movie she’d wake up in her own bed, sweating and horrified over the incredibly real-seeming nightmare.

She’d survived so far, but it was no dream, it was reality in all its ugliness and terror. She’d left home, left the family tradition because she couldn’t stand death and pain and the sight of blood. And now she was covered with the blood of a dead man.

Bastien left her twice, and she stayed in the shadows, numb, obedient, waiting until he returned to drag her after him. His Porsche was parked near the curv
ing drive, and their final sprint used up the last ounce of her energy. He had to stuff her into the passenger seat like she was a dead body herself, and she sank into the leather, closing her eyes, feeling the darkness beginning to take over like a curtain being drawn across a stage.

He was beside her in the driver’s seat, and she heard the click of the seat belt, and she wanted to laugh. Such a careful man, who kills silently and always wears a seat belt. He leaned over and fastened hers, and the touch of his hands made her flinch as the knife hadn’t, but she stilled herself, keeping her eyes closed, hunting for that oblivion she so desperately needed.

He was driving very, very fast on the dark, moonless roads, running for their lives, and yet he reached over and turned on the radio. It was a hit song from a few years back—she has revolver eyes, she kills with her glance, she shoots. Shooting, killing, guns.

The oblivion held off. She turned to look at him. “You killed a man tonight,” she said.

He didn’t even spare her a glance. “I killed two men tonight. You didn’t see me cut the throat of one of the guards. I promise I didn’t hurt any of the dogs, though.”

She stared at him in horror. “How can you joke about it?”

“It was a joke that you didn’t want me to kill the dogs? It would have made things simpler if I had, but I decided to defer to your tender sensibilities.” He took
the corner with the speed and skill of a race-car driver, only giving her a quarter of his attention.

She didn’t know which was worse: a man like Hakim who killed with pleasure, or a man like Bastien who felt nothing at all.

“Go to sleep,
ma petite,
” he said. “We’ve a long drive ahead of us, and you’ve already had a busy night. I’ll wake you when I stop for food.”

“I don’t ever want to eat again,” she said in a faint voice, shuddering. She could smell the blood, and something else basic and foul.

“Suit yourself. American girls are too fat anyway.”

She couldn’t even summon a trace of outrage. If she didn’t know better she’d think he’d said it for the simple purpose of bringing her out of her dazed, deadened state, but it seemed unlikely he’d care. She ought to ask him where he was taking her, but she couldn’t summon the energy or the curiosity. He’d take her wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted. She could only hope that if he decided to put his hands on her again it would be to kill her. She would rather be dead than have sex with this cold-blooded monster.

“Go to sleep,” he said again, in a gentler voice, even though the very notion of gentleness was absurd. But the song on the radio was soft and soothing as he sang of love and killing.
C’est foutu.
Everything’s fucked, he sang, and she could only agree, as she closed her eyes and let the darkness come.

Bastien glanced over at her once he was certain she’d drifted off. She was a mess—her arms were crisscrossed with shallow cuts and burns, her face was pale, tear-stained, her makeup giving her raccoon eyes. She looked very fragile, but he knew she was tougher than she seemed. She was still alive, a miracle in itself. She’d somehow been able to withstand Hakim long enough.

Hakim had a rhythm to his work—he’d been a man of method. He told them not to scream, and then worked on them until they did, like a lover trying to bring a reluctant woman to orgasm. Once they started to scream he moved faster, but Chloe had managed to keep silent. She had blood on her mouth and her lips were swollen from biting down to keep the screams at bay. Or maybe it was from his own mouth on hers. He’d certainly been no tender lover.

He’d found out what he needed to know, and that had been what mattered. And then he’d gone and screwed everything up by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, interfering with Hakim’s fun and games instead of accepting that every war had its casualties.

Maybe he was just tired of all the collateral damage. Maybe he wanted to save one life instead of taking it. Maybe he was so burned out that he was courting death, screwing up important assignments on a whim.

She looked pretty messed-up for a whim. He needed to get them somewhere safe, where he could clean the
wounds on her soft, pale skin, where he could figure out what the hell he was going to do now, both with her and with himself.

She was easy enough. He’d patch her up, calm her down and put her on the next plane back to the United States. She must weigh about one hundred and twenty-five pounds—it would be easy enough to give her just enough drugs to make her calm and pliant but still able to get herself on and off a plane.

It wouldn’t be before tonight. First he had to get to one of his safe houses, clean her up and reassess the situation. Maybe the Committee would decide to terminate him after such a royal cock-up. He’d outlived his usefulness, and he was starting to act on impulse, which made him a liability. His employers weren’t the kind who gave second chances.

Hakim was expendable, but it had happened much too soon. And here he was, on the run, abandoning his mission before the main target had even showed up. Thomason would be livid. It didn’t matter. He was ready for this to be over. He no longer cared about anything or anyone, even his own worthless hide. As soon as he made sure Chloe was safe they could come and get him.

She was stronger, more resilient than he could have hoped. By the time the sun had risen across the French countryside her color had improved, and she slept more peacefully. He’d driven north, heading toward
Normandy, and then circled back, coming toward Paris from the northwest rather than the south. It wasn’t much to throw his pursuers off, but he was hoping it would take a number of hours before someone found Hakim’s body and figured out who was missing.

He considered dumping the car, stealing a new one to cover his tracks a little better, but for some reason he was loath to disturb Chloe when she was sleeping so soundly. He had plenty of places to hide the car in the city—he just had to count on his luck holding for the next few hours. Long enough to get her safely on a plane.

He stopped in a small town just outside the city, leaving the car running while he went into a small store to get a few necessities. He lucked out—they had shoes in what he guessed was her size, they had Diet Coke and premade sandwiches that would taste like a cardboard baguette, but by then he wasn’t picky. Neither of them could afford to go without food, though he expected he’d have to hold her down and force her to eat. And while that vision was undeniably erotic in a pleasantly kinky way, he didn’t have time for it.

The coffee was the way he liked it—strong and sweet—and he drove one-handed through the morning streets of Paris, dodging the kamikaze traffic with expert ease, weaving in and out of the trucks and taxis like someone on a motorcycle, even taking a bit of the sidewalk at one point. Driving so fast no one would have
time to notice anything but a blur. The usual Paris gridlock was nothing to him, and by the time he made it safely into the underground garage at the western-style hotel he was reasonably sure no one had followed him. They were safe for the next few hours.

It was an American hotel, bland and expensive and unremarkable, and he kept one of their better rooms, using it for the occasional cover, the occasional downtime. As far as he knew, no one was aware of its existence, but he knew that wouldn’t last long. As soon as they started looking for him they’d be able to track the extended room rental, and then he’d be shit out of luck.

But that much would take hours, and he was willing to take the chance. Chloe needed bandaging, neatening up, something to eat and as close to brainwashing as he could manage without the right sort of drugs. He hadn’t decided exactly what he was going to tell her. He wasn’t going to be able to convince her it was all a dream, not with those marks on her arms and her hair hanging around her face in odd lengths. Her face was pale, and there was a bruise beneath her eye that would benefit from ice.

He pulled into his allotted parking spot and turned off the car. That level of the garage was deserted at that hour—too early for the idle rich to move about, too late for the working stiffs. He could get her up to his room with the minimum of witnesses.

She had opened her eyes, staring at him dazedly.
She’d pulled her shirt around her, but she hadn’t fastened it. Maybe it hurt too much to move her arms. He reached toward her, to fasten the buttons, but she flinched away, as if he were about to hit her.

“I was going to button your shirt,” he said. “You can’t walk through a hotel looking like that, not when we’re trying not to be noticed.”

“Where are we?”

“The MacLean Hotel. I keep a room here for times like these.”

“Times like these? You’ve been through something like this before?”

“Yes.” It was only half a lie. He’d been in messes, with his cover compromised, with innocent people caught in the middle. In the past, he’d escaped and covered his own ass, leaving the casualties where they lay, but he hadn’t left this one behind.

The front of her shirt was in shreds—Hakim must have cut it open with his knife. He reached behind the seat and grabbed his shirt, watching with mild annoyance as she jerked away from him. She should realize by now that he was the least of her worries.

“Put this on,” he said, “and button the cuffs. It’ll make it harder to clean up, but we don’t want the world seeing Hakim’s marks.”

At the mention of his name Chloe shuddered. “I can pull it around me. Besides, people are more likely to notice I’m barefoot.”

“I stopped and bought you some shoes. You can’t run for your life in bare feet or someone else’s shoes. They’re in a package in the back as well.” He pulled the key from the ignition, reached under the front seat for his gun, two of his passports and a well-hidden wad of cash. She hadn’t moved.

He climbed out of the car. “The longer we wait around here the more dangerous it is,” he said. “Change your shirt or I’ll do it for you.”

He should have turned away while she carefully pulled her ruined shirt off, but he was beyond such polite considerations. Her white bra wasn’t nearly as erotic as the sexy underwear she’d been wearing only a few hours ago, and she moved awkwardly, painfully, pulling on his shirt, then the shoes with the distaste of someone dressing in discarded rags. He watched her, refusing to react.

She followed him to the elevator, moving slowly, and he let her take her time, keep her distance as long as no one was around to watch, to interfere. The elevator was small and smelled of exhaust and garlic, and the doors closed around them, leaving her staring down at her feet as it moved upward.

He looked at her feet as well. The simple black flats seemed to fit well enough, and the shredded cloth of her trousers flapped around her calves. Her hair smell liked burnt wool, and she was bleeding through the long, loose sleeves of his white shirt.

“Merde.”
The elevator stopped short of his floor, the doors opening to let someone else on. He moved quickly, backing her into the corner, shielding her with his larger body, tucking her face against his shoulder. She tried to jerk away, but he tightened his hand around her wrist, causing just enough pain to make her behave without crying out. “Pretend we’re lovers,” he whispered in her ear, in German.

As he expected, she understood him perfectly, an anomaly that still needed explaining, but now was not the time. The middle-aged businessman who’d gotten onto the elevator averted his eyes with polite discretion, and Bastien moved closer to Chloe, pressing his hips up against hers like a passionate lover not yet satisfied.

She jerked her eyes upward, looking at him in shock. She must have felt his erection, and known what a sick son of a bitch he was. The thought was mildly amusing.

He was tempted to kiss her, just because she would have been so disgusted, but he was smart enough not to push it. Not when there were witnesses.

The man got off, and even before the doors had closed again she’d pushed him away, shuddering visibly. “Don’t touch me again,” she said in a low voice.

“Don’t be childish,” he replied. “I’m trying to save your life, though I haven’t quite figured out why. Just be quiet, do as I say and follow my lead. If I need to fuck you standing up in the middle of Notre Dame with
half of Paris watching you’ll do it without objection. Understand?”

“Over my dead body.”

“Exactly.” They’d reached the top floor, and the hallway was empty. He’d considered cutting the throat of the man who’d seen them, but with any luck he’d be long gone from the hotel by the time his enemies showed up. And disposing of the body would have caused more problems than simply letting him go. Besides, Chloe would have probably started screaming. Very impractical, these Americans.