Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [72]
Things were far too lax. In Harry’s day, someone like Hiromasa whatever his bloody name was wouldn’t have gotten as far as London. In his day, a woman would never be put in charge of a job only a cool, practical man could accomplish.
And Thomason had every intention of getting back there, where he belonged. Back to the good old days, where enemies were straightforward, where you trusted no one, and any inconveniences and anomalies were wiped out. The ends justified the means.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was going to be a busy man the next couple of days, once the word about the car bomb came through. His cigar had gone out, and he relit it, drawing in a deep, mellow stream of smoke. He’d be ready.
It felt like they walked for miles through the busy streets of Plymouth. The smell of the car bomb lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of diesel fuel and the distant tang of the ocean. A cold, light rain was falling, and Isobel kept her head down, huddled in Killian’s jacket.
Mahmoud seemed impervious to the cold, scampering along after them like a child on holiday as they moved through the streets. It was hard to believe he was keeping Killian in his sights because he wanted to murder him, but Isobel didn’t doubt it. She wanted to murder him as well, and she wasn’t letting him get too far ahead.
She shouldn’t be letting him take charge—there was no reason to trust him, and now that she’d gotten him into England, he could just take off. If he had any sense, he’d kill the two of them first—or, at least he’d try.
Right then she wasn’t sure she could stop him. Her back was on fire; she was cold and wet and numb. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to find out who the hell had put the hit out on them. But for the time being, all she could do was trudge after him, wishing she still had her burka.
At one point he pushed them into an alley and left them, and she and Mahmoud had no choice but to stand there, shivering, not looking at each other. She should be hoping Killian hadn’t abandoned them for good, striking out on his own, but in fact she would have welcomed his disappearance. Enough was enough. She wanted him gone, she wanted him dead, she wanted her life back. If he didn’t return she’d get back to London on her own, with or without Mahmoud dogging her heels.
For forty-five minutes she stood there shivering, though her back was on fire. Her fingers were numb, her feet soaked, but Mahmoud just kept waiting, expressionless. And then he perked up, hearing something she was too miserable to notice.
“Serafin,” he said. The first word he’d spoken directly to her since the deserted village in Morocco.
He was right. The bright blue Jaguar was gorgeous and striking, and Killian was behind the wheel, looking impatient. He pulled up at the end of the alleyway and lowered the window.
“Get in the front seat, princess,” he ordered. “Mahmoud will ride in the back.”
The boy seemed to know the drill, for he’d already scrambled into the backseat and slammed the door behind him.
“Isn’t this rather a conspicuous car to steal?” Isobel said, stalling.
“I didn’t steal it, I rented it. The leak’s on your end, and they don’t know the names we’re using.”
“And if the leak’s on your end?”
“Then we’re toast. It’ll make the day more interesting. Do you want to put some money on it? I’ll give you excellent odds.”
“I think life or death are high enough stakes,” she said. “I can sit in the back with Mahmoud.”
Killian just looked at her. “It happened,” he said flatly, and she didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Get over it, and climb in the front seat. It’s already growing dark, and at the least they have our descriptions.