Black Ice (25 page)

She moved, and through her panic she heard something hit the floor, something metallic against the cold, hard concrete. If her hands had been bound behind her she wouldn’t have been able to find anything, but with them in front she could hunt around, trying to concentrate on that rather than the inky darkness. It had sounded hollow and metallic, like a bullet, but she knew that was ridiculous. It had to be something else.

Her bound hands curled around the slender metallic cylinder, and for a moment she had no idea what it could be. She could feel the bubble of hysteria at the back of her throat. Was he French enough and crazy enough to give her lipstick? And then she knew.

Such a bright light, flooding the cramped space, all from a tiny little flashlight. She felt the clawing panic begin to recede, slowly, and she leaned back against the hard wall, trying to control her breathing. It took her a moment to realize she could also pull the duct tape from across her mouth, and she did so, not even wincing in pain as she yanked it from her skin. He would have known she’d figure it out sooner or later. But by
then she’d be calm enough to know that any sound she might make would only endanger them both.

She jerked at her wrists, but that was the limit of his concessions. The rope held firmly, and she could do nothing about her ankles. She was trapped there, but not in the darkness. She could survive anything if she had even a tiny beacon of light. And if enough time passed, and he didn’t come back for her, if her parents returned she could call out, and someone would come and rescue her.

The very notion seemed bizarre, but Bastien had been prepared for all contingencies. Now all she had to do was stay calm and wait. Wait for him to come back to her.

Because he would. Though hell should bar the way, hadn’t they both said? She had to believe that, or even the security of the tiny flashlight wouldn’t be enough to keep her from crying out.

It must be sometime after four. She had no idea how long they’d been in bed together—time had lost all meaning. He’d told her he would kiss every part of her body. He had. He’d made love to her with such exquisite tenderness, such fierce possessiveness, such mind-shaking intensity that even now she felt shaken, shocked. Aroused.

The light was strong and bright, but the battery wouldn’t last forever. She had no idea whether any stray light would filter through the solid covering to the
crawl space, but she didn’t want to risk it. Because if they found her, they’d have a weapon to use against Bastien, and she couldn’t let that happen.

She moved the tiny cylinder down in her hand and pushed the button at the tip. The thick, suffocating darkness closed around her like a smothering blanket, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She closed her eyes, refusing to be a victim of the darkness. She huddled there, silent, alone, and waited.

She almost thought she might have slept, though such a thing seemed impossible. She jerked suddenly, as the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the old stairway brought a surge of crazed hope.

She started to call his name, then bit her lips before anything more than a soft intake of breath could be heard. It wasn’t Bastien. Whoever was moving around the basement was very quiet—she could barely hear the softest sound of footsteps.

With Bastien, there would have been no sound at all.

Either her eyes had grown accustomed to it, or the darkness of the tiny cubbyhole had lightened slightly. She could see her hands in front of her, bound by rope and duct tape, but she couldn’t see the flashlight. She moved, just the tiniest amount, careful not to make a sound, when she felt something roll across her stomach, and a moment later it hit the concrete with a clang as loud as a pair of crashing symbols.

She held her breath, praying, panicked. Please, God,
don’t let them hear. Let it be Bastien, let it be anyone but the crazy woman who wanted to kill her for reasons so obscure that she wouldn’t have believed it if the smell of blood from the Hotel Denis hadn’t stayed with her all these months later.

She had no warning. The door to the crawl space was pulled open, and someone stood there, silhouetted by the dim light coming from the cellar door. It wasn’t anyone she knew—the person was tall, painfully thin, bald. She didn’t move—maybe Bastien had brought help.

“So there you are,
chérie.
” Monique’s voice came from the cadaverous figure, sounding eerily cheerful. “I knew I’d find you sooner or later. Come out and play.” She put a thin, painfully strong hand on her bound wrists and dragged her out into the basement, letting her collapse at her feet.

Monique knelt down by her, and Chloe could see her more clearly now. She wasn’t bald—her head had been shaved. And Bastien hadn’t been wrong—she had been shot in the face. The left side of her jaw had been blown away, and after four months she had only begun the healing process. Four years wouldn’t help.

“Pretty, aren’t I?” Monique cooed.

“I didn’t do that,” Chloe said in a shaky voice.

“Of course you didn’t. I doubt you could even shoot a gun, you useless little idiot. I have no idea who did—whether it was the Greek’s men, or Bastien’s people, or even my own. It doesn’t matter. I’m just clearing up
a few loose ends. And you’re the very final one. There’s no one else.”

A cold, sick dread filled Chloe’s throat. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? Bastien’s dead.”

“N
o!” Chloe said, hating the sound of fear in her own voice.

“But yes. Did you think he was some kind of super-hero? He bleeds red blood, just like everyone else. I will admit he’s harder to kill than most men, but in the end he’s only mortal. Or was.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you do. I can hear it in your voice. I think you knew all along that it was hopeless. I never expected to find him here in the first place. Why didn’t he try to run with you? He wouldn’t have gotten far, but at least it would have been better than waiting here like a cornered deer. Then again, maybe he decided he’d rather be dead than have a wet little creature like you hanging around his neck for the rest of his life.”

From somewhere deep inside she pulled the last of her resources. “He wouldn’t have come to save me if he didn’t want me.”

Monique shrugged. The daylight was growing brighter—it must be a little after six. Chloe’s sleep had been so erratic that she’d become far too familiar with how the sky looked at different times during the endless night. “Our mutual friend has a death wish—I’ve known it for quite a while. I’m merely the instrument to deliver his salvation.”

She didn’t say she’d already delivered that salvation. Surely she would have changed tenses if, in fact, he was already dead.

But then, English wasn’t her first language, and Chloe couldn’t place her hopes on the grammatical nuances of a crazy woman.

“So if you’ve done what you came for, why are you still here? Bastien is dead—what else do you want?”

“Chérie!”
Monique said, mocking. “Haven’t you been listening to me? Killing Bastien, while enjoyable, wasn’t what I came for. Besides, my men found him first, trying to escape. He would have abandoned you to my tender mercies, but Dmitri was too fast for him. If we hadn’t killed him now I would have found him in Europe sooner or later. No, I came here for you.”

“Why?”

Monique shrugged. “Because you annoy me. Because Bastien seemed willing to risk everything, including me, for some ridiculous notion of honor.”

“Honor? You think that’s why he saved me?”

“Of course. What other reason could he possibly have?”

“He loves me.”

Monique hit her so hard she fell back on the rough floor of the basement. She’d been holding a gun, a fact that had managed to escape Chloe’s attention, and the solid metal had connected with her face, her mouth. She could taste her own blood, but she was well past the point of caring. If Bastien was dead then she would be as well, but she’d make her last few minutes as painful for Monique as she could. She was willing to pay the price.

“Jealous?” she asked sweetly. “I’m sorry he preferred you to me, but I think he was tired of older women.”

Monique kicked her in the ribs, so hard that the breath was knocked out of her. The pain in her side was excruciating, and Chloe thought her rib might have snapped. In a while it wouldn’t matter. “Or maybe he just tired of you,” she managed to choke out.

Monique squatted down beside her, catching Chloe’s shirt in her fist and jerking her upright. The pain in her side was agonizing, but she managed to meet Monique’s furious gaze with stony unconcern, even when she felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against her forehead. “Would you like to see what it’s like to have part of your face blown away, little girl? I know exactly what to do—where to shoot you so that you won’t die
right away. You’ll lie there writhing in misery, praying for it all to end….”

“I don’t really care,” Chloe said, wishing she could manage a convincing yawn. “If you’ve already killed Bastien then why would anything matter?”

“Oh, Christ, you’re in love with him!” Monique cried in disgust. “Of course you are. How absolutely pathetic! I will admit he’s very good in bed—one of the best I’ve ever had, even if he had a faint aversion to some of the games I like. But he’s hardly a romantic hero. He died begging for his life. As you will.”

“Don’t count on it.” She didn’t see the second blow coming. A flash of blinding pain, pure white, and Chloe wondered if Monique had shot her. And then the darkness followed, and there was nothing left.

The spring storm had finally stopped, leaving the landscape blanketed with white. Bastien had hoped the explosion of the burning guest house had taken more than one of them, but only one charred body lay in the melting snow. There might be another inside, but he couldn’t count on it. He’d already circled around to check on the security system, and the second man was down there, electrocuted.

He broke the third one’s neck behind the garage, but not before he’d been stabbed. The knife had missed anything vital—he’d moved fast enough before his attacker could turn and pull the knife up, cutting through
major organs. He recognized the shape and the style of the attack even before he turned the body over. It appeared that Fernand had gotten tired of running that little bar in the Marais and decided to pick up a little outside work. He was good, but no match for Bastien.

Still, he’d managed to prick him. He’d also been well briefed—the knife went in close to the recent bullet wound. Obviously he was hoping his target would be more vulnerable, but he’d grown enough scar tissue that it had deflected some of the blow.

Bastien stepped back. He was still bleeding freely, and it was soaking into his pants, but he put Fernand’s knife into his belt. He was well armed, but at that point he still wasn’t sure how many he had left to face. Jensen had told him Monique had entered the country with five men. Had she picked up anyone else along the way, or did he only have the two left to deal with?

He was better off assuming there were more. He skirted around the garage, as the sky slowly grew lighter, streaks of iridescent peach spearing across the sky, and he stopped for a moment. The snow was already melting as the temperature began to climb. In the midst of death and danger it was very beautiful, and he could hear the faint noise of birdsong. What kind of morning birds did they have in America? It was a random thought, quickly dismissed. He would never know. But it gave him some kind of peace, to know that Chloe would wake to skies of that brilliant color, to the songs of unknown birds.

He headed for the house—Monique would have sent her cohorts through the grounds but she’d head straight for the house. Her instincts had always been strong—he could only hope they weren’t strong enough to lead her straight to Chloe. The crawl space would be hard to find in the darkness, and if she just stayed there, quiet and unmoving, she might have a chance.

Leaving her the flashlight had been a stupid idea, but he couldn’t stand the idea of sealing her into the dark that terrified her so much. He could only hope that tiny gesture didn’t kill her.

He heard them coming from a distance. They were making no effort to keep silent, and moving through the fresh snow was cumbersome going. Presumably they were hoping to lure him out. He vanished into the shadows, waiting, as Monique came out of the cellar, accompanied by a couple of men. One of them had Chloe’s limp body slung over his shoulder.

She was unconscious, but not dead. If she were dead they would have left her there. He could see the blood on her pale face, matted into her hair, and it took everything he’d ever learned not to move, not to make a sound. He couldn’t risk taking them in the darkness. If he failed, Chloe would die. He had to wait.

Monique opened the door, and he got his first good look at her. In the dawn light he couldn’t see much, only enough to know that the skeleton-thin figure was his former lover. The bullet could have done major dam
age—no wonder she wanted to kill. Her logic in choosing Chloe was twisted but undeniable. If Chloe hadn’t been there, everything would have been resolved at the château, not in a blood-splattered night in Paris. She’d let her anger at Chloe lower her defenses, and she’d almost died because of it.

She would die because of it, as soon as he got a clear shot. In the meantime he couldn’t do anything but follow and watch until the moment was right. He’d put Chloe in danger too many times. This would be the last.

The spring morning was clear and calm, the snow melting beneath their feet and the new leaves on the trees rustled with the barest trace of wind. It only took him a moment to realize where they were taking her—he should have known that Monique’s intel would be infallible.

The old, boarded-up mine.

The possibilities were simple. Either she was dead, and their previous scouting had found the perfect place to dump a body where it wouldn’t be found, particularly if they torched the main house. Or they could know her fears, and be taking her there to torture her.

Knowing Monique, it was more likely to be the latter. She wouldn’t care who found Chloe’s body—she’d be long gone. And she wouldn’t be dumping Chloe in an abandoned mine with nothing more than a gunshot wound. He doubted she’d leave her in one piece. Monique’s insane rage would require more of a punishment, either before or after death.

The gun was smooth in his hand, cold, as his hands were cold, as his blood ran cold in his veins. The rising sun was hitting the snow, but the chill in his heart was untouched. Don’t think about her, he told himself. Concentrate on the target, and don’t let sentiment get in the way. The only way to save Chloe was not to care one way or the other. He needed to pull that sheet of calculating ice over him so that he was nothing more than a machine.

But Chloe had melted the ice that held him. His armor had vanished, and for the first time in his life he was afraid he might lose.

He moved through the woods silently. Even the fallen leaves soundless beneath his feet. Once he knew where they were going it was easy enough to circle around, find a good position before they even got there. The entrance to the old mine was just beyond the first hill, overgrown now, boarded up, chained up and locked.

But not anymore. When he’d done his initial surveillance, while her parents were still here, the place had been impenetrable. Now it was a dark, yawning hole. Monique had done her research—it was just what would terrify Chloe the most.

They made no effort to muffle the noise they made as they approached. The two men were speaking some middle-European language—possibly Serbian. He only understood every few words, and he wished to God that Chloe were awake, alert, there to translate for
him. She seemed to understand every language under the sun.

In the daylight it was still hard to even recognize Monique. She’d shaved her head, though he didn’t know whether it was a fashion choice or because of surgery. One side of her face was ruined—they’d had to remove a cheekbone when they’d removed the bullet, and there hadn’t been time for any reconstructive surgery. She looked like a gruesome ghost of her former self—dangerously thin, dangerously mad.

One of the Serbians dropped Chloe’s body on the hard ground, and the sound of her muffled groan was music. She was alive, coming around, and all he had to do was get between her and Monique. The Serbians were no problem—he could take care of them in a matter of moments. He was a very good shot, and neither of them had weapons out. The second one would be dead before the first even hit the ground.

Chloe rolled over on her back, groaning, struggling to sit up. Bastien didn’t make a sound when Monique went over and kicked her, hard, with her heavy leather boots. Chloe’s muffled cry was enough.

“You have a choice to make,
petite,
” Monique said. “I can put a gun to your head right now, blow your feeble little brain to pieces. That might be the kindest move, and I expect you know I’m never kind. Vlad and Dmitri certainly deserve some kind of reward for making it this far, and they’ve both expressed a certain interest
in…having their way with you before you die. You American girls are so oversensitive about rape—that might be the most fun. I could watch, and you’d never know when I was going to shoot you. The boys wouldn’t either, which would make it even more exciting for them.”

“Sick bitch,” Chloe muttered. Her mouth was bloody—someone, probably Monique, had hit her hard enough to split her lip.

“Or you can join your reformed hero. He might not even be dead yet. You have a chance, a slight chance, of survival, if you’re willing to take it.”

“You think I’d trust you for even a moment?” This time when she tried to sit up Monique didn’t stop her. She merely smiled a horrible parody of a smile.

“Of course you don’t trust me. It’s a simple shell game. Under one shell is a quick, merciful death. Under another, rape and a slower death. And the third is to join Bastien in his watery grave.”

Watery grave? What kind of mind games was Monique playing? Something was wrong here—why was Monique concentrating on Chloe when he was her main target, why was she lying about already killing him…?

“Dmitri was kind enough to take care of our mutual friend, weren’t you, Dmitri? I think he should have first crack at you—after all, he’s earned it.”

Interesting, Bastien thought. Dmitri had lied to Monique—the woman believed he was dead. He knew
her well enough to know she wasn’t bluffing. So had Dmitri lied to help Bastien, or to save his own butt?

He didn’t look at all familiar, and Bastien knew most operatives. The question was, could he trust him for help, or should he simply take him and his companion out, hoping he could get to Monique before she could do anything more to Chloe?