Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [32]
“Crazy,” she muttered under her breath, standing in the rain, staring at the abandoned car. She was imagining disasters, when the answer was probably much simpler. He’d tired of her and gone off with someone else. But why bother to hide his car? And what was he doing with people the innkeeper thought were smugglers?
When Mary Isobel first heard the voices, she thought she was imagining them. She was standing there in the pouring rain, stunned, for God knows how long, but the rough French made her suddenly dive down next to the car, purely on instinct, and yank the corner of the tarp over her as they drew nearer. Then the nightmare blossomed into full-out horror.
“I’ve sent Ahmad to take care of the girl,” one man said. “I don’t know why you didn’t kill her when you had a chance. She served her purpose.”
She heard Killian’s voice, familiar and yet strange, cold-blooded and devoid of any emotion. “She provided excellent cover, and I pumped her so full of drugs she won’t remember a thing. Another dead body will just bring more attention, particularly when it’s a young American.”
“I don’t think that’s all you pumped her with.” The next speaker gave a snigger of a laugh. “Loose ends are a mistake.”
“So is overkill,” Killian said calmly.
“We’ll live with the consequences. She’s dead by now, and Ahmad will get rid of the body. Everyone minds their own business in that part of town, and no one’s likely to question her disappearance. You’re sure her family has no idea where she is?”
“She hasn’t been in touch with them for the last two weeks. I made certain of it. I know my business. She was the perfect mark—no family or ties to speak of, entirely at loose ends. No one will miss her.”
“So why didn’t you finish her? You have a reputation for taking care of details.”
“I’ve been more concerned with completing the job and killing General Matanga. The girl knew nothing—she wouldn’t have caused us any trouble.”
“And if she did?”
“Then I would have killed her,” Killian said in a cool, dispassionate voice. “As it was, I didn’t think she was worth the trouble….”
Their voices were trailing off. She didn’t dare move, to see which direction they were heading, but the sound of a metal door opening and closing suggested they’d gone into the warehouse. She sank down slowly, the tarp still shielding her, so that she was sitting in the dirt and mud, her legs unable to hold her any longer.
She shut her eyes, forced herself to breathe deeply, steadily, when she wanted to scream. She didn’t dare draw any attention to herself; if she was going to make it out of there alive she needed to run, fast, before anyone saw her.
But Etienne Matanga…She kept out of politics whenever she could, nonetheless even she had heard of him, head of the revolutionary forces in his small African nation. A decent man, a leader, despite the fact that most of the free world found him a threat. He was the best hope for stability in a diamond-rich nation torn by tribal warfare, genocide and lawlessness.
And Killian had murdered him.
She couldn’t believe it. This freakish nightmare had to stop—she’d been a weak-minded idiot. She’d find gendarmes, bring them to the old warehouse, tell them everything. She had no idea what Matanga was doing in France, or what Killian had to do with him…. The smart thing would be to run, as far and as fast as she could, and forget all about it. Forget about Killian. She couldn’t do it. During the long, cold hours she’d searched the docks, her anger had turned to a solid knot, mixed with an undeniable need for revenge. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Get away with anything.
But maybe there was still time; maybe Killian hadn’t killed Mantanga yet. She had no idea how long it was since he’d left her, drugged and helpless, at the hotel, but he might not have committed murder.
She shoved the tarp aside, struggling to her feet. If she moved fast, she