turn.
7
« ^ »
L ittle Fox Island could have been designed just to his specifications, Peter thought a few hours later. The main villa was on a hill on the east side of the island, with a long, sloping path leading down to a pristine beach. The island was well out of the way of the normal shipping lanes, with a dangerous riptide that discouraged all but the most foolish of tourists, and the treacherous water took care of the rest. There were sharks as well—Peter didn't know for certain but he expected Harry had had them brought in. As far as he knew, no one had managed to train sharks, but with Harry's limitless resources he'd doubtless found a way to keep them nearby to ward off unwanted visitors. It would put a damper on swimming in the ocean, but Harry had both a traditional pool and a seawater tidal pool to make up for it. And it would keep interference at a minimum.
Renaud and Hans had lugged Harry's unconscious body to the small shed by the dock and tied him up there. Not that it was necessary—the dose had been perfectly calibrated to keep Harry semicomatose until the time came. He wondered whether Harry deserved the kind of death he was about to get. He'd never know what hit him. Was it too harsh a punishment for his sins? Or was he, just maybe, getting off too
lightly?
It didn't matter. He didn't waste his time second-guessing—as far as he knew no innocent person had ever been brought down by careless intel, at least by the Committee. The jobs were well researched, justified, and necessary for the greater good. Even if the details of this current mission were maddeningly vague, there was still no doubt about the catastrophic danger. The longer he stayed with Harry Van Dorn the more he'd discovered about the man's rampant evil, and he suspected he'd only seen the tip of the iceberg.
He just wasn't so sure of Ms. Genevieve Spenser.
She'd come with him docilely enough. He hadn't bothered to tie her up or blindfold her—in the end it wouldn't matter. Little Fox Island, or the greater portion of it, would be gone in an explosion—a faulty gas connection, they'd rule it. Unless he could figure out a way to get her out of there, she'd be gone as well.
She looked a little too damn good in the cutoffs. She thought she was wearing Harry's clothes, and it gave him a wry kind of pleasure to know they were actually his. She wouldn't like it. She was convinced that poor old Harry was the victim of terrorists, and she was going to keep fighting to save him. Which made her more than a pain in the ass, it made her a liability. He could tell her the truth, but keeping information on a need-to-know basis was instinctive. It didn't matter whether she thought Harry was a good guy or a bad one. The results would be the same.
They'd gotten rid of the maintenance staff a couple of days ago, and there was a damp, abandoned air to the million-dollar villa. Unavoidable, he supposed. He'd been there before, during his tenure as Harry's flawless personal assistant, and he knew everything he needed to know about the place. He hadn't taken his current companion into his calculations, but he was professional enough to be able to adjust to changing circumstances.
He'd been holding on to her arm. She didn't like it, and it wasn't necessary. If she tried to run she wouldn't get far, but for some reason he didn't want to risk Renaud or Hans catching up with her, so he'd held on. He waited until they stood alone in the middle of Harry's massive living room before releasing her, and he watched with amusement as she did exactly what he expected of her, yanking her arm away and taking several steps out of his reach. If she continued to be that predictable she'd be very little trouble at all.
"You can take the bedroom at the end of the hall," he said, nodding his head in that direction. "You might even find some new clothes, though I doubt it. Harry's guests were usually anorexic models wearing Victoria's Secret. Not that you wouldn't
7
« ^ »
L ittle Fox Island could have been designed just to his specifications, Peter thought a few hours later. The main villa was on a hill on the east side of the island, with a long, sloping path leading down to a pristine beach. The island was well out of the way of the normal shipping lanes, with a dangerous riptide that discouraged all but the most foolish of tourists, and the treacherous water took care of the rest. There were sharks as well—Peter didn't know for certain but he expected Harry had had them brought in. As far as he knew, no one had managed to train sharks, but with Harry's limitless resources he'd doubtless found a way to keep them nearby to ward off unwanted visitors. It would put a damper on swimming in the ocean, but Harry had both a traditional pool and a seawater tidal pool to make up for it. And it would keep interference at a minimum.
Renaud and Hans had lugged Harry's unconscious body to the small shed by the dock and tied him up there. Not that it was necessary—the dose had been perfectly calibrated to keep Harry semicomatose until the time came. He wondered whether Harry deserved the kind of death he was about to get. He'd never know what hit him. Was it too harsh a punishment for his sins? Or was he, just maybe, getting off too
lightly?
It didn't matter. He didn't waste his time second-guessing—as far as he knew no innocent person had ever been brought down by careless intel, at least by the Committee. The jobs were well researched, justified, and necessary for the greater good. Even if the details of this current mission were maddeningly vague, there was still no doubt about the catastrophic danger. The longer he stayed with Harry Van Dorn the more he'd discovered about the man's rampant evil, and he suspected he'd only seen the tip of the iceberg.
He just wasn't so sure of Ms. Genevieve Spenser.
She'd come with him docilely enough. He hadn't bothered to tie her up or blindfold her—in the end it wouldn't matter. Little Fox Island, or the greater portion of it, would be gone in an explosion—a faulty gas connection, they'd rule it. Unless he could figure out a way to get her out of there, she'd be gone as well.
She looked a little too damn good in the cutoffs. She thought she was wearing Harry's clothes, and it gave him a wry kind of pleasure to know they were actually his. She wouldn't like it. She was convinced that poor old Harry was the victim of terrorists, and she was going to keep fighting to save him. Which made her more than a pain in the ass, it made her a liability. He could tell her the truth, but keeping information on a need-to-know basis was instinctive. It didn't matter whether she thought Harry was a good guy or a bad one. The results would be the same.
They'd gotten rid of the maintenance staff a couple of days ago, and there was a damp, abandoned air to the million-dollar villa. Unavoidable, he supposed. He'd been there before, during his tenure as Harry's flawless personal assistant, and he knew everything he needed to know about the place. He hadn't taken his current companion into his calculations, but he was professional enough to be able to adjust to changing circumstances.
He'd been holding on to her arm. She didn't like it, and it wasn't necessary. If she tried to run she wouldn't get far, but for some reason he didn't want to risk Renaud or Hans catching up with her, so he'd held on. He waited until they stood alone in the middle of Harry's massive living room before releasing her, and he watched with amusement as she did exactly what he expected of her, yanking her arm away and taking several steps out of his reach. If she continued to be that predictable she'd be very little trouble at all.
"You can take the bedroom at the end of the hall," he said, nodding his head in that direction. "You might even find some new clothes, though I doubt it. Harry's guests were usually anorexic models wearing Victoria's Secret. Not that you wouldn't
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