Black Ice - Anne Stuart [113]
But Chloe had melted the ice that held him. His armor had vanished, and for the first time in his life he was afraid he might lose.
He moved through the woods silently. Even the fallen leaves soundless beneath his feet. Once he knew where they were going it was easy enough to circle around, find a good position before they even got there. The entrance to the old mine was just beyond the first hill, overgrown now, boarded up, chained up and locked.
But not anymore. When he’d done his initial surveillance, while her parents were still here, the place had been impenetrable. Now it was a dark, yawning hole. Monique had done her research—it was just what would terrify Chloe the most.
They made no effort to muffle the noise they made as they approached. The two men were speaking some middle-European language—possibly Serbian. He only understood every few words, and he wished to God that Chloe were awake, alert, there to translate for him. She seemed to understand every language under the sun.
In the daylight it was still hard to even recognize Monique. She’d shaved her head, though he didn’t know whether it was a fashion choice or because of surgery. One side of her face was ruined—they’d had to remove a cheekbone when they’d removed the bullet, and there hadn’t been time for any reconstructive surgery. She looked like a gruesome ghost of her former self—dangerously thin, dangerously mad.
One of the Serbians dropped Chloe’s body on the hard ground, and the sound of her muffled groan was music. She was alive, coming around, and all he had to do was get between her and Monique. The Serbians were no problem—he could take care of them in a matter of moments. He was a very good shot, and neither of them had weapons out. The second one would be dead before the first even hit the ground.
Chloe rolled over on her back, groaning, struggling to sit up. Bastien didn’t make a sound when Monique went over and kicked her, hard, with her heavy leather boots. Chloe’s muffled cry was enough.
“You have a choice to make, petite,” Monique said. “I can put a gun to your head right now, blow your feeble little brain to pieces. That might be the kindest move, and I expect you know I’m never kind. Vlad and Dmitri certainly deserve some kind of reward for making it this far, and they’ve both expressed a certain interest in…having their way with you before you die. You American girls are so oversensitive about rape—that might be the most fun. I could watch, and you’d never know when I was going to shoot you. The boys wouldn’t either, which would make it even more exciting for them.”
“Sick bitch,” Chloe muttered. Her mouth was bloody—someone, probably Monique, had hit her hard enough to split her lip.
“Or you can join your reformed hero. He might not even be dead yet. You have a chance, a slight chance, of survival, if you’re willing to take it.”
“You think I’d trust you for even a moment?” This time when she tried to sit up Monique didn’t stop her. She merely smiled a horrible parody of a smile.
“Of course you don’t trust me. It’s a simple shell game. Under one shell is a quick, merciful death. Under another, rape and a slower death. And the third is to join Bastien in his watery grave.”
Watery grave? What kind of mind games was Monique playing? Something was wrong here—why was Monique concentrating on Chloe when he was her main target, why was she lying about already killing him…?
“Dmitri was kind enough to take care of our mutual friend, weren’t you, Dmitri? I think he should have first crack at you—after all, he’s earned it.”
Interesting, Bastien thought. Dmitri had lied to Monique—the woman believed he was dead. He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t bluffing. So had Dmitri lied to help Bastien, or to save his own butt?
He didn’t look at all familiar, and Bastien knew most operatives. The question was,