Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [38]
Once he retrieved the message, he severed the connection, then turned back to the car. Summer was sitting in the open doorway, but in the shadows he couldn’t read her face. Just as well. He didn’t have time to consider what she was thinking, what she was feeling.
“Time to go,” he said.
She stood up, bracing herself on the side of the car for a moment, then took a step forward. She was shaken, but still strong. At least she wouldn’t hold him up.
He went to pick up the urn, and she moved out of his way, so he wouldn’t brush against her. He grabbed the bowl and brought it out into the marginally better light.
He yanked off his jacket and wrapped it carefully round the bowl. Summer had made no effort to run, but stood waiting for him. He led her out of the garage, shutting the door behind them and listening to the locks reengage. Then he took her hand.
It was cold, she was cold, and she wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t matter, as long as she didn’t resist. But of course she wouldn’t. He was death and he suspected she’d been seeking him on and off for most of her life.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. And she let him lead her back to the car in silence.
Hell and damnation, Isobel Lambert thought. This was turning into one royal fuck-up, despite the Committee’s best efforts. The Sansone Museum had been broken into, all right, but two guards had died in the process, and the faux urn had been smashed on the marble floor. There was no telling whether it had been a casualty of the botched robbery—nothing had been taken from the place—or whether it had been recognized as the forgery it was. If the latter was the case they were in very deep shit indeed.
She had to hand it to the Hawthorne woman—substituting a believable copy was a stroke of sheer genius. Maybe a bit too much for an innocent. If she truly had no notion of the urn’s value, why would she have gone to so much trouble to safeguard it? A sentimental attachment to her nanny would take her only so far.
Originally, it hadn’t mattered. Taka had orders to take her out before the True Realization Fellowship could get their hands on her, and what she did or didn’t know would then become moot.
But he hadn’t followed orders. There was no one Isobel could send after him right now, and he was one of the best she had. It was going to be up to him to sort this current mess out.
One innocent life, Summer Hawthorne’s, was an acceptable loss, particularly when the knowledge she had concealed in her memory was so very dangerous. The loss of her friend and coworker was simply a reminder of the havoc that could follow if Summer was allowed to survive and the Shirosama got his hands on her.
But the sixteen-year-old girl was another matter entirely. There was only so much loss of life that Isobel could tolerate, and a young girl put that quota over the top. They needed to get her out, and fast, before the brethren could try any of their inventive brainwashing tricks that could leave her a broken shell. And if her sister knew she was being held hostage, she’d give everything she had to get her back.
Life would be so much simpler if Summer Hawthorne was already dead. The Shirosama would have to find the site of the ancient shrine on his own, something he’d tried and failed to do for more than ten years. If she were dead, then using Jilly Lovitz as a hostage would be worthless. Her mother was already willing to give the Shirosama anything he wanted, and her husband indulged her, no questions asked.
If Taka had only followed orders this would all be over, at least for this year. But right now the cult held a very dangerous bargaining chip, and they couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
Madame Lambert leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. This was a hideous game of chess, using