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“He’ll get past Bastien. Maybe he couldn’t have three years ago, but Bastien’s been out of the game. We need to go. Maybe we can get to Thomason’s place before he does. He’s going to need to steal a car, and he’s not familiar with this area, so we’re bound to have a head start on him. If we’re lucky. Unless he’s even more of a monster than I think he is, and he puts a bullet in Bastien’s head on his way out.”
“He’d have Reno to contend with. And as far as I know he doesn’t have a gun.”
Isobel opened the purse she’d collected. Both firearms were gone. “Yes, he does. Two.”
“All right. But he’s still not going to kill Bastien.”
“Why not?”
Peter hesitated for only a moment. “Because Killian’s CIA. This is just one more undercover sting, trying to take down the Committee, but this time Harry Thomason is getting to
it first.”
“What?” Isobel felt as if she were falling, twisting and turning, and she grabbed on to the kitchen counter, her knuckles white. “He’s what?”
“One of the good guys. Or let’s say one of the not so bad guys. We should have figured it out, since each time he fucked up, disasters were averted and lives were saved. He’s good at what he does, he’s very good. But he and Bastien came to an understanding years ago. He’s not after us.”
“I’m going to kill him,” she said in a tight, determined voice.
“I would have thought he’d told you,” Peter said. “Considering…”
She knew he was referring to the wrecked state of the bedroom. “I would have thought so, too,” she said grimly. “Let’s get out of here. We need to get to Thomason before he does.”
“Why? Thomason will keep him alive until he gets his hands on you.”
“Because I want to be waiting there to kill him myself,” Isobel said.
“Thomason or Killian?”
“Both,” she snapped. “Both.”
22
Killian had a solid head start. By now Bastien or Peter would have told Isobel what he couldn’t tell her. She’d know just how deep his lies had been. In a dream world she’d be relieved that he wasn’t the international war criminal he’d pretended to be.
But it wasn’t a dream world, and even when he could have, should have, he hadn’t told her the truth.
It wasn’t his truth to tell. He couldn’t compromise his mission, couldn’t walk away without telling his superiors first. He’d spent too many years doing what had to be done, and that was a part of him he couldn’t change. His moral code would never be recognized as such by most people, but it existed.
The Committee was imploding, eating itself alive from within. It didn’t need his help to bring itself down. He wasn’t even sure the Committee needed to be brought down. He tried to keep things simple, follow orders, never question the how or why. Though in truth he always had. Blind obedience had never been his thing; if he’d always followed orders he’d be dead.
He couldn’t afford to be thinking about her right now. She’d put a bullet in his brain if she had the chance—and right now she’d be sorely tempted. Fortunately, Harry Thomason was higher up on her shit list.
Killian actually didn’t give a damn what happened to himself. Happy endings weren’t made for the kind of man he was, the kind of life he’d lived. But he was damned if Mahmoud was going down, too. He’d saved the murderous little brat’s life time and time again. Right now the kid had one thing to live for—Killian’s eventual, torturous death. It didn’t matter that Mahmoud would have died along with his foster sister—he didn’t see it that way. Killian was responsible; Killian must pay.
And Killian didn’t have much of an argument with that.
If he didn’t get out of this alive, and there was a very good chance he wouldn’t, then Mahmoud would be cheated of his eventual revenge. But maybe Isobel would see he had something else to live for.
Killian could count on her for that. He could see through the lies she told him, the lies she told herself. She’d protect the child with her life, instinctively, without question. He’d be leaving Mahmoud in good hands.
If he made it through…well, he wasn’t going to think about that. One thing at a time.
He could feel the ice-laden fog in his bones as he slipped down the quiet streets of Kensington. He’d already figured out they were somewhere near the Committee’s phony office front, which made orientation easier. In an expensive part of town it wasn’t that hard to find a late model SUV with killer tires, and no alarm system known to man could slow him down. He had to get the hell out of town, following the instructions on the tiny little GPS to the letter.
But he had one important stop to make first.
“Good to see you, too, Isobel,” Bastien murmured as she pushed past him, climbing into the backseat of the car and slamming the door behind her. Reno was sitting in one corner, looking like hell. He had a bandage across his forehead, his arm wrapped, his clothes bloodstained, and there was death in his eyes. No cat’s-eye contact lenses. Just black, implacable rage.
