Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [22]
“And what happens then?”
“Then I’ll kill him.” His voice was light, sure.
It didn’t make sense. He’d yet to give her a straight answer. A man like Serafin—like Killian—could kill a small boy quite easily, no matter how fanatical and well armed. Why didn’t he put an end to this particular threat? Someone couldn’t live the life Serafin had lived and have any qualms about killing a child.
It probably didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him do it, but it was an anomaly. And anomalies made her nervous.
“When and where do we catch our plane?”
“You’re not arguing?”
“About what? Killing Mahmoud or the burka?”
“Killing Mahmoud isn’t on the table. I’m talking about the latter.”
“Burkas are excellent for concealing weapons. I don’t have any problem with it.”
“A reasonable woman,” he murmured in mock awe. “Mahmoud.”
His response was instant. The child was awake, and clearly had been for quite a while.
Serafin’s orders were brief and to the point, and Isobel once more cursed the fact that she couldn’t understand more than a word or two of what he was saying. Not that further studies would have helped; it wasn’t standard Arabic, but some sort of obscure dialect.
“Does he understand any English?” The ground had leveled out, and they were drawing closer to the edge of town. As the sun slowly rose the chill began to seep out of her bones. A stray shiver danced across her skin and then was gone.
“No. He has no idea that in twelve hours he’ll be disarmed, scrubbed clean and praying to Jesus.”
“If he didn’t want to kill you already, then that would do it.”
“I wouldn’t blame him,” Serafin said.
Mahmoud muttered something in a sharp voice, and he replied, then turned to her. “Actually, I lied. There is one word he understands—kill. He wants to know if he should kill you or if I should.”
She glanced back at the empty eyes and blank face of the lost child. “And what did you tell him?”
“That you’re my business. If you needed killing I’d see to it, but right now, you’re more valuable alive.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are.” They’d reached an abandoned storage building, and he pulled the Jeep behind it, turning off the engine. “Darling, we’re home.”
Her body was cramped and stiff from the long ride, but she made no attempt to climb down. “And when is our plane?”
“Tonight, if we’re lucky. Otherwise, tomorrow night at the latest. Trust me, I’m ready to get back to the world of hot running water and single malt whiskey.”
“And where will we be until then?” The light of day was strong and clear, bringing blessed respite from the elusive cover of night. She could see him clearly—the puffy face, the balding head, the blackened teeth and middle-aged paunch.
“Samuel’s house is quite well-equipped for this part of the world, and he has reasonable guest quarters. We’ll be able to freshen up there, and if it becomes too dangerous we can always find a hotel and spend the night.”
She bit back the impulse to say “lovely.” She shouldn’t care enough to be hostile. She’d made her reputation as the Ice Queen, a cool, emotionless creature that nothing touched. Every time she reacted to him she was betraying all her hard work.
Besides, it didn’t matter. So she’d known him a lifetime ago. He’d been a bastard back then and was a triple bastard now. All that mattered was getting the job done, seeing it through to the end. And she had every intention of doing so.
A tall, thin Arab appeared out of the shadows. “My friend, I barely recognized you,” he said in greeting.
“Samuel.” Serafin climbed out of the Jeep and embraced the man. Isobel looked behind her, to see Mahmoud watching the two carefully, his hand on the weapon. They were going to have a hard time divesting him of the gun. Isobel was looking forward to watching the ensuing battle. She was keeping well out of it.
“This is the lady?” Samuel said, glancing toward her. “She looks like her passport photo.