Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [103]
He made his way into the stables, down the deserted brick alley to the far stall. To the hidden entrance to the tunnels, where he and his brother had once played pirates. And now he was a real pirate, about to claim his prize.
“Killian hasn’t been here,” Bastien said, pausing at the end of the driveway. “There are no tracks in the ice. With this kind of crust there’d be no missing him.”
“Then find him,” Isobel snapped.
He backed into the empty road, the car slipping. “I’ll follow the tracks. He can’t be far—the coordinates were close enough, and this is the only place that makes sense.”
“There’s a lot of land connected with the estate. He could be anywhere,” Peter said. “Maybe he hasn’t gotten this far yet. The roads are hell.”
“He’s here,” Isobel said. “Find him.”
It was taking too long, she thought, leaning back in the seat and deliberately letting the pain from her cuts move through her body. Strengthening her will. They’d taken main highways for as long as they could, but eventually had to travel icy back roads. The sun had risen, and sooner or later the ice would begin to melt, but right now it was a wonderland of crystal death.
An endless ten minutes later, Bastien pulled to a stop. “Found him,” he said in a grim voice.
She could see the abandoned car—and the two bodies lying on the frozen mud, blood pooling and freezing around them. Isobel let out an anguished cry, fumbling with the car door. “No,” she said, scrambling out and almost falling on the ice.
Reno was already beside her, surprisingly steady as he caught her. “He’s not one of them,” he said.
She pushed her hair away from her face, pulling the mask back on. “Of course he isn’t,” she said. “Though I imagine he’s responsible for them. The head shot is his specialty.”
“Fast and clean,” Bastien said in an approving voice. “Do you think he left anyone alive in there?” He nodded toward the door to what looked like an old storage cellar.
“Not if he could help it,” Isobel said, moving forward. Her leather shoes were crap on the ice, but she didn’t care. Nothing would stop her, not Mother Nature herself. “He’d better hope he’s taken Mahmoud and gotten the hell out of there before I kill him.”
Peter was moving ahead of her, Reno behind her, and she was getting the unpleasant feeling they were trying to guard her. “I don’t need protecting,” she said in her iciest tone.
“You’re the target, Isobel,” Peter said. “We’re not being gentlemanly, we’re being practical. Reno, I need you to keep out of the way and wait here. Make sure no one follows us in. We’ll send Mahmoud out.”
She half expected him to argue, but he simply nodded, vanishing into the morning mist, moving as quickly and as silently as the fog itself. She followed behind Bastien and Peter, hating the necessity, as they made their way into a whitewashed tunnel. The murky light of dawn made it only partway into the cavernous mouth, and she could see that a bare lightbulb overhead had been smashed. They moved silently, the three of them, passing another body lying in the shadows. None of them Thomason.
“What the hell is this place?” Bastien whispered.
“An old bunker of some sort,” Peter said. “They used them during World War II as hospitals or covert training areas. Thomason’s old man was a general. Rolling over in his grave, I expect.”
“I expect not.” The voice came from behind them, and Bastien moved swiftly, slipping in front of Isobel.
“Sir Harry,” he said in his deep, cool voice. “What a surprise.”
The old man stepped into the light, switching on the torch he was carrying. It illuminated his squat figure, dressed in tweeds and carrying a semiautomatic handgun. “The surprise is all mine, dear boy,” he said. “I thought you left the business.”
“I had, until you sent someone to mess with my family,” he said.
“I am sorry about that. It’s from a lifetime of tying up loose ends. I’m sure you understood the necessity. If one of our enemies found you they could torture you, make you tell them all the things you’ve learned over the years. And even if you could withstand