Black Ice - Anne Stuart [112]
Bastien stepped back. He was still bleeding freely, and it was soaking into his pants, but he put Fernand’s knife into his belt. He was well armed, but at that point he still wasn’t sure how many he had left to face. Jensen had told him Monique had entered the country with five men. Had she picked up anyone else along the way, or did he only have the two left to deal with?
He was better off assuming there were more. He skirted around the garage, as the sky slowly grew lighter, streaks of iridescent peach spearing across the sky, and he stopped for a moment. The snow was already melting as the temperature began to climb. In the midst of death and danger it was very beautiful, and he could hear the faint noise of birdsong. What kind of morning birds did they have in America? It was a random thought, quickly dismissed. He would never know. But it gave him some kind of peace, to know that Chloe would wake to skies of that brilliant color, to the songs of unknown birds.
He headed for the house—Monique would have sent her cohorts through the grounds but she’d head straight for the house. Her instincts had always been strong—he could only hope they weren’t strong enough to lead her straight to Chloe. The crawl space would be hard to find in the darkness, and if she just stayed there, quiet and unmoving, she might have a chance.
Leaving her the flashlight had been a stupid idea, but he couldn’t stand the idea of sealing her into the dark that terrified her so much. He could only hope that tiny gesture didn’t kill her.
He heard them coming from a distance. They were making no effort to keep silent, and moving through the fresh snow was cumbersome going. Presumably they were hoping to lure him out. He vanished into the shadows, waiting, as Monique came out of the cellar, accompanied by a couple of men. One of them had Chloe’s limp body slung over his shoulder.
She was unconscious, but not dead. If she were dead they would have left her there. He could see the blood on her pale face, matted into her hair, and it took everything he’d ever learned not to move, not to make a sound. He couldn’t risk taking them in the darkness. If he failed, Chloe would die. He had to wait.
Monique opened the door, and he got his first good look at her. In the dawn light he couldn’t see much, only enough to know that the skeleton-thin figure was his former lover. The bullet could have done major damage—no wonder she wanted to kill. Her logic in choosing Chloe was twisted but undeniable. If Chloe hadn’t been there, everything would have been resolved at the château, not in a blood-splattered night in Paris. She’d let her anger at Chloe lower her defenses, and she’d almost died because of it.
She would die because of it, as soon as he got a clear shot. In the meantime he couldn’t do anything but follow and watch until the moment was right. He’d put Chloe in danger too many times. This would be the last.
The spring morning was clear and calm, the snow melting beneath their feet and the new leaves on the trees rustled with the barest trace of wind. It only took him a moment to realize where they were taking her—he should have known that Monique’s intel would be infallible.
The old, boarded-up mine.
The possibilities were simple. Either she was dead, and their previous scouting had found the perfect place to dump a body where it wouldn’t be found, particularly if they torched the main house. Or they could know her fears, and be taking her there to torture her.
Knowing Monique, it was more likely to be the latter. She wouldn’t care who found Chloe’s body—she’d be long gone. And she wouldn’t be dumping Chloe in an abandoned mine with nothing more than a gunshot wound. He doubted she’d leave her in one piece. Monique’s insane rage would require more of a punishment, either before or after death.
The gun was smooth in his hand, cold, as his hands were cold, as his blood ran cold in his veins. The rising sun was hitting the snow, but the chill in his heart was untouched. Don’t think about her, he told himself.