Ice Storm by Anne Stuart

great deal of pleasure in her semi-drugged body the last few days, a good way to keep his mind off what he’d been ordered to do. And he’d found pleasure in the last few weeks, an odd kind of companionship he didn’t remember feeling before. Maybe if he’d lived a different life he really would have loved her. Instead of being the death of her. He was sorry they’d sent Ahmad. The West African wouldn’t have been able to linger over his work—time was of the essence. But he would have made it hurt, because he was a master at inflicting pain, and Mary Isobel Curwen hadn’t deserved that. She hadn’t deserved anything that she’d gotten, but then, life was a bitch and then you died. She’d just died a little earlier than expected.
He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. As soon as he got to
Southeast Asia
, his next destination, he was going to dye his hair, maybe grow a beard. He popped out the green tinted contact lenses and stared back at his own grayish-blue eyes. He looked exactly like who he was—a cool, ruthless bastard who always finished what he started.
He heard noise in the warehouse—voices, when they shouldn’t be talking. No doubt President Okawe’s men were thinking he was dispensable. After all, they owed him a great deal of money for shepherding the current operation through to its successful conclusion, and dictators seldom liked to part with anything they didn’t have to. Killian sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for this. It had been a rough night.
    Then again, he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between Ahmad’s close-set eyes. Just because.
Someone rapped on the thin door of the toilet. “Entre,” he grumbled.
“We’ve got a problem.” It was Jules, the weaselly half African, half French liaison.
“No, we don’t,” Killian said. “I did my part. I want my money, and then I’m out of here. The rest is up to you.” “Your girlfriend showed up.” He paused as he was shoving clothes into his duffel bag, just for a moment. “So?”
    “So we don’t know who she’s talked to. You said you kept her drugged, but she seems to know far too much already. What the luck is going on?”
    “The drugs would have worn off by now,” he said, weary. “And what’s going on is that Ahmad blew it. When I left her she was out of it, and not likely to remember a thing.”
“Then how did she get here? I don’t think she’s the innocent you think she is.”
“Trust me, she’s an innocent. Clueless to the point of recklessness. If she showed up here it’s nothing more than dumb luck.”
    “Not lucky for her. Ahmad’s got her out in the warehouse, and he’s annoyed. He figures she owes him a little time for the aggravation she put him through searching for her.”
Killian had seen Ahmad’s handiwork in the past.
    There wouldn’t be much left of Mary Isobel Curwen when he was done. Which was probably the best thing that could happen. “Then Ahmad’s happy, you’re happy, everyone’s happy. Except for the girl, but she doesn’t count. What’s it got to do with me?”
Jules looked at him for a long, contemplative moment, searching for weakness, regret, any emotion whatsoever. He didn’t find it. “All right,” he said finally. “You can go out he back way if you don’t want to see her. Just turn left.” It was a challenge; one that Killian had every intention of ignoring. He didn’t need to see her again, didn’t need to know what she was going to go through before she died. He already had a fairly good idea. The smartest thing to do was head out the back way, straight to the small cargo plane waiting to take him out of here. These things happened, and the wise decision was move on with his life, he couldn’t care less,” he said, shouldering his duffel. He headed toward the sound of voices, Ahmad’s, low and menacing. And Mary’s voice, the one that had whispered in his ear when he was inside her, the voice that had cried his name when she came. The voice that