Black Ice - Anne Stuart [75]
A taxi. They’d found the man he’d trussed and gagged in the basement parking garage. Found him dead, his throat cut open like Chloe’s friend. He should have been prepared for that—even with all his precautions they’d managed to keep track of him. He’d grabbed the paper when he’d gone to find Maureen, and he’d spared a thought for the driver’s wife the water buffalo and their four children. If he made it through the next few days he might even see about getting some money to them. It wouldn’t replace their husband and father, but it would lessen some of the difficulties the work of the Committee had delivered.
It would have been Thomason who’d ordered the hit, Thomason who was having him followed and cleaning up any witnesses, any survivors. He must have seen through Bastien’s usually adept lies. It was standard operating procedure—an organization such as theirs wouldn’t exist for very long if people were left alive to talk and to wonder. Secrecy was the most important tenet, even more important than whatever mission they’d been assigned. They were all the same—to save the world. And yet no matter how many people he’d killed, the world never seemed to be saved.
He was nearing the hotel. A small suite was reserved for him, and most of the cartel was already assembled, awaiting the arrival of Christos. He was dressed and ready to resume his life, knowing Chloe Underwood was being taken care of by the best agent he knew. Maureen had worked on a number of missions with him, including the latest as his wife. She would get her safely on the plane, and then Chloe would no longer be their problem. His problem. In fact, by putting her in Maureen’s hands, he’d already finished his part of it. He was ready to move on, concentrate on what mattered and not a momentary distraction.
Except that something wasn’t right. It was gnawing at him, tickling his nerve endings, and he couldn’t quite place what it was. He’d trust Maureen with his life. Their affair had matured into a deep friendship that went beyond the boundaries of the all-powerful Committee, and he knew he could count on her.
So why did he keep wanting to turn back, to make sure?
Maybe it was simply that he was having a hard time letting go of Chloe. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about another human being for a long time. He wasn’t sure he actually cared about Chloe, but he’d chosen to protect her, and that had put some sort of connection between them that sex hadn’t.
If it was that simple—that he didn’t want to give her up—then he could easily ignore that nagging little voice. Sentimentality had no place in his life. He’d lost any trace of it long ago, if, in fact, he’d ever had any. When he’d gotten news of his mother and Aunt Cecile’s death in a hotel fire in Athens he’d simply shrugged. That part of his life was long over, and he’d dismissed it.
Just as he needed to dismiss all thoughts of Chloe and concentrate on finishing this last mission. She was no longer his problem, his responsibility. In fact, she never had been. He’d just chosen to make her so. And now he could forget about her.
He took the turn so quickly the car slid halfway across the snow-narrowed street, and he just barely missed hitting another taxi. He was being an idiot, and he accepted that fact, but he was going back to the old house on the outskirts of Paris. Maybe he just had to say goodbye. Maybe he simply had to make sure she was all right. Maybe he wanted to kiss her one more time. Make love to her the way she deserved.
That wasn’t going to happen. If he had any sense at all he’d ignore this sense of foreboding as the extraneous bullshit it was, put it behind him and finish the job. Take out Christos, and see whether Thomason was really going to have him killed as well.
But right now he didn’t seem to have much sense. And he wasn’t going to be able to move on until he made sure his reluctant charge was