Page 42 of Cold and Bitter Snow

Raoul dropped Siena unceremoniously on the snow. Her beautiful dark hair had come loose and sprawled around her like a shawl.

She wasn’t moving. Conor felt terror the likes of which he’d never felt before in his life.

She can’t be dead.

Then he saw the purple outfit move a little. She was breathing. He heaved a relieved sigh.

Conor tightened his hold on the man beneath him, still choking him with his right arm. The man’s face was turning red.

“Get up now, Conor, or I swear I will kill her.”

There was no real choice with the gun pointed straight at Siena. Conor stood up. The man underneath him coughed and scooted away like an overgrown slug.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Raoul warned. He shifted the Glock towards Conor. That was good. What wasn’t great was the way was the relaxed, familiar way in which Raoul held the weapon. Conor longed to get his hands on it.

“What are you doing, Raoul? Is that even your real name?” Conor asked. He kept his arms lightly to his sides, looking to make himself as unthreatening as possible.

“This bitch shouldn’t be out here in these tight clothes,” Raoul spat out, waving his hand towards the unconscious princess. Conor looked at the princess’s loose ski outfit, at the veil that still covered her hair, unable to reconcile any of that with the anger he detected in Raoul’s voice. “If her father doesn’t care, we’ll take her back to someone who does.”

“We’re in Switzerland, Raoul. You can’t take a woman anywhere against her will. It’s kidnapping.”

“Really? Maybe we’ll take her as well,” Raoul taunted in reply. “Somebody’s bound to want to pay good money for her, even if she is used.”

The bodyguard laughed, spitting out a bloody tooth onto the snow.

Conor’s heart pounded. He forced himself to think through the sudden fear that threatened to paralyze him.

“You’re not from Malta.”

Raoul laughed. “No, I’m not from Malta. You are even stupider than I thought, and that’s saying something.”

Conor breathed in and out deeply to steady himself. He felt like his whole life had been coming down to this moment. He’d never been one to believe in fate but he suddenly knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was the reason he’d survived Colombia—the reason he’d ended up in Switzerland.

Whatever else happened he would not let these men take either woman.

“So what now,” Conor drawled.

Raoul’s eyes narrowed. Conor saw the Glock come up towards him again.

And then the white shape on the ground moved—imperceptibly at first. A small bare hand came up against Raoul’s leg, lifting his pant leg. The princess’s small mouth opened and she latched on, biting the man for all she was worth.

Raoul howled in pain and kicked at the princess.

Conor launched himself forward with a roar. Raoul pulled up the Glock, but he wasn’t aiming anymore. The first shot sailed harmlessly to the left of Conor’s head. The second shot was truer—it slammed into Conor’s side, slowing down his momentum. But he was already on top of Raoul.

Conor ignored the burning sensation. He’d trained for this exact scenario—track the pain but don’t let it hold you hostage. He focused on Raoul’s face in front of him and pummeled the man into the soft snow and into the hard ground below. His right fist slammed repeatedly into the man’s nose and jaw.

When Raoul finally went limp underneath him Conor jumped up. Blood roared in his ears. His mind might not be letting the pain through but his body knew something was wrong.

The bodyguard snarled at him and cracked his knuckles.

Conor looked at the snow around Raoul, desperately looking for the Glock.

Where the hell is it.

The bodyguard roared and ran towards him. His steps were still clumsy, but he was much more agile than Conor now.

Conor braced himself for impact when, suddenly, the man’s body stopped in its tracks. A red flower bloomed on his chest, right over his heart, and he fell over his knees. His hands came up towards his heart but didn’t even get close to their target before he face-planted into the snow. He did not move again.