Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [61]
There were drag marks in the dirt—someone had hauled Harry’s limp body in the direction of the main house. He was either too drugged to walk on his own, or…
There was no blood in the tiny shed, and no blood on the ground. But that proved nothing—there were bloodless ways to kill people, and Peter would know all of them.
Genevieve glanced over her shoulder. The path to the far side of the island, the hidden bunker, was still clear enough in her mind.
But Harry was being taken back toward the main house. And that was where she had to go, whether she liked it or not.
She heard the noise first—the grunting, groaning sound of a man struggling with too heavy a load.
Make that two men. Their voices came back to her, and she breathed a small sigh of relief that neither of them was Peter.
They were too busy arguing to even notice anyone was approaching. “You told me my job was done once I set the charges.” It had to have been Hans speaking. “I’ve already done enough shit work on this assignment.”
“You’re the one who gave him too much of the drugs,” Renaud snapped. “And you can’t expect his lordship to bother with old Harry, can you? He’s the brains of the operations, and if we know what’s good for us we’ll do what he says without arguing.”
“I just don’t like the fact that he got to spend the last day in a billionaire’s love nest with a decent piece of tail while we were camping in the jungle. I’m half covered with bug bites.”
They’d reached the back of the house, and if there was any kind of electric security it had been turned off. They dragged their burden through the gate without incident. “That’s why he gets paid the big bucks,” Renaud said in a sour voice. “Right now he’s sitting on the deck of the ship, drinking gin and tonics and waiting for us to get back before he takes off. Count your blessings. We’re both expendable and you know it—no one would ask questions if he just left us here to disappear along with half the island. But Jensen has a reputation of never leaving a man behind, even if he’s wounded. At least we’ve got that much going for us.”
“Wouldn’t do him any good if he did leave us behind,” Hans panted, dragging Harry onto the flagstone patio and dumping him facedown. He didn’t move. “I set the charges and I’m the only one who knows how to blow them so that it’ll look like a gas leak. He’s too careful to mess up a plan like this even if he wanted to.”
Renaud grabbed one of the heavy wicker chairs and pulled it forward. “Come on, dickshit. We need to get this done and get out of here. This place gives me the willies.”
Between the two of them they hauled Harry’s body into the chair. His head lolled back, but he was definitely still alive. He made an unintelligible sound, and Hans laughed.
“Just goes to show money can’t buy everything, Froggy,” Hans said, tying Harry’s limp body to the chair with quick efficiency.
Renaud had stepped back, watching from a distance, his back to the spot where Genevieve cowered in the bushes. “It can buy a lot.” He sounded detached, almost philosophical.
“What do you suppose he did with the girl?” Hans asked, glancing inside the house. “Think there’s anything left of her for a bit of fun?”
“Not that you’d want. He killed her last night—she was getting too yappy, he said, and there was no reason to put it off.”
“Well, I can think of one good reason, but maybe Peter doesn’t swing that way. He should have done her on the boat and dumped her overboard,” Hans said, disapproving. “He’s supposed to be the best closer there is. If he’s so fucking good, why didn’t he just off her and get it over with instead of dragging her onto the island?”
“She was going to be Harry’s excuse for coming here unannounced and sending the servants away. She got caught up in a love tryst and met a sad end.”
“Tryst,” Hans said. “It rhymes with pissed, not Christ.”
“Fuck off,” Renaud said in a genial voice.
Hans turned back to face his cohort, and Genevieve could make out a confused expression on his face. “What the hell are you doing, Froggy?” he demanded.