Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [88]
And there was no name, no face he could put on his deadly rage. All his resources could track down only the vaguest of information about the Committee, and it wasn’t enough. Peter Jensen aka Madsen was dead—there’d be no satisfaction from gutting him. And Takashi had already taken care of the girl, her body long gone, in so many pieces no one would ever be able to put Humpty back together again. He giggled softly, and then his rage returned.
There had to be some way to get to the Committee, to exact his revenge. The Rule of Seven was smashed, but there was always another day. As long as he found a way to show his enemies just how dangerous he could be. As long as the so-called Committee existed, they would try to stop him. Therefore the Committee must be dealt with.
He needed to do something, anything, to show he wasn’t the patsy they took him for. Something bloody and brutal and undetectable enough that they wouldn’t be able to stop it. Something that would make them think twice before they tried to get in his way again.
He needed a sign. He firmly believed in divine guidance. After all, wasn’t he one of the chosen ones, to whom all things are given? He could do any number of things to find a clue—but that would require having someone come and read the signs. And he couldn’t afford to waste the time.
He closed his eyes and focused his entire body, tight and angry, like a child desperate for a toy train at Christmastime. “Give me a sign,” he said out loud. “Show me what to do.”
This time it was his cell phone, and he pulled it from his pocket and snapped it open eagerly. Ask and ye shall receive.
It was Donahue. He’d done his usual sweep of the garage, and found two of his men in the back of his Porsche, dead. There’d been blood on the ground as well, not belonging to the two men. And a couple of strands of long, blond hair clinging to the damp wall.
Takashi had told him he’d disposed of her body through the underwater entrance, piece by piece, and Harry had been so taken with the notion that he’d wished he’d asked for pictures.
Now he knew he should have. Because Takashi O’Brien, his right-hand man for the last three years, had betrayed him.
And Genevieve Spenser was still alive.
18
“Let me up,” Genevieve gasped into the carpet fibers that held God knows what. “You’re hurting me.”
Peter released her, stepping back and slamming the door behind him, locking them in. “Serves you right. When are you going to learn to trust me?”
She sat up, pulling the sheet more snugly around her, leaning back against the foot of the bed and cradling her hand. “Never,” she said flatly. “But the fact is, I wasn’t trying to attack you. I was afraid you weren’t coming back, and I was relieved.”
He stared down at her. “Never jump a man, no matter how relieved you are, unless you’re certain he’s not dangerous. And you know that I am.”
Yes, she knew. She’d seen him kill a man not many hours ago, and knew he would do so, again and again, without a second thought. The idea should have horrified her.
But she was way past that point. She was just grateful that he could kill to keep her safe. “Sorry,” she muttered.
He’d been carrying a bunch of plastic bags and he’d dropped them on the floor when she’d jumped on him. He proceeded to pick them up again, not looking at her. “‘Sorry?’” he echoed. “You’re actually apologizing? What kind of drugs did Takashi feed you?”
She should have known he’d mock her. “What’s in the bags?” she asked, changing the subject.
He turned. She was sitting at his feet, not a good position, psychologically, and she tugged the sheet up higher.
“Supplies. Including some clothes for you. There was an all-night Wal-Mart down the road. I know their clothes are not your usual style, but they’re more secure than that sheet. And what have you got on your foot?”
She glanced down, having forgotten. “A pillowcase,” she said sheepishly, pulling it off.
“Your feet were cold?”
She shook her head. “I was trying to break the window.”
He said nothing for a moment. “I assume