Their voices were trailing off. She didn’t dare move, to see which direction they were heading, but the sound of a metal door opening and closing suggested they’d gone into the warehouse. She sank down slowly, the tarp still shielding her, so that she was sitting in the dirt and mud, her legs unable to hold her any longer.
She shut her eyes, forced herself to breathe deeply, steadily, when she wanted to scream. She didn’t dare draw any attention to herself; if she was going to make it out of there alive she needed to run, fast, before anyone saw her.
But Etienne Matanga…She kept out of politics whenever she could, nonetheless even she had heard of him, head of the revolutionary forces in his small African nation. A decent man, a leader, despite the fact that most of the free world found him a threat. He was the best hope for stability in a diamond-rich nation torn by tribal warfare, genocide and lawlessness.
And Killian had murdered him.
She couldn’t believe it. This freakish nightmare had to stop—she’d been a weak-minded idiot. She’d find gendarmes, bring them to the old warehouse, tell them everything. She had no idea what Matanga was doing in France, or what Killian had to do with him…. The smart thing would be to run, as far and as fast as she could, and forget all about it. Forget about Killian. She couldn’t do it. During the long, cold hours she’d searched the docks, her anger had turned to a solid knot, mixed with an undeniable need for revenge. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Get away with anything.
But maybe there was still time; maybe Killian hadn’t killed Mantanga yet. She had no idea how long it was since he’d left her, drugged and helpless, at the hotel, but he might not have committed murder.
She shoved the tarp aside, struggling to her feet. If she moved fast, she could—
“There you are, chérie,” a rough voice said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
She turned, slowly, to face a very large man with a very large gun.
Killian still had blood on his hands. They’d had to work quickly, arranging the bodies and scattering the broken packets of heroin. It was an expensive setup—the smack could have gone for half a million on the open market, but it was an important part of the show. The French police would confiscate it, and somewhere down the line someone who shouldn’t would get his hands on it, but that wasn’t Killian’s business. His business was almost done.
Etienne Matanga, so-called savior of Western Leone, had died in a shoot-out with his fellow drug smugglers, leaving no one alive. That he’d been supporting his resistance movement with drug money would destroy any reputation the former priest had left. He had led his army of followers in attempting a peaceful coup, and he was so popular he’d almost made it. But his plans for the country were at odds with those of Killian’s employers, and he had to die, disgraced and discounted. And Killian had seen to it, with his usual efficiency.
He was sorry about Mary Isobel. He’d tried to set it up so that she could get away unharmed. He’d found a great deal of pleasure in her semidrugged 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. “Entrez,” 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 fuck 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?”