On Thin Ice (27 page)

“They work for the CIA.”

Relief washed over her face. “Then that’s no problem. Dylan and I are Americans. They wouldn’t want to hurt us.”

“Don’t count on it. They’re subcontractors, and they’ll kill anyone they want. As far as I can tell it’s me they’re interested in, and the two of you are expendable.”

“Great. Another thing to thank you for,” she snapped. “So how do we get out of this?”

“I have a knife. If you can get to it you can cut my ropes and then I’ll take care of you and Dylan. I’ll need to canvass the place before I know how we’re getting out, but trust me, we’ll do it.”

She didn’t move. “Oddly enough, I do. Where’s the knife?”

He shouldn’t have grinned. “Front of my jeans.”

Her icy stare would have flash frozen an ocean. “Yeah, right.”

“Sorry, babe, but that’s where I keep my spare. If anyone checks they just think I have a hard-on.”

“Which you probably do.”

“Not yet. You have to get closer.”

“You asshole,” she said in a fierce whisper. “You did this on purpose.”

“I don’t think so. It’s always been a smart place to hide something. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy having you get to it. But be careful. It’s a switchblade.”

“You mean if I grab it the wrong way I get to castrate you?”

He winced, then laughed. “No, probably just circumcise me.”

She looked startled, and he realized she didn’t know he wasn’t circumcised. That’s what came of innocence debauched and fucking in the dark. “Didn’t notice, did you?” he said softly, so the curious Dylan couldn’t overhear. “You can check it out later.”

She tried to jerk away, and the only way he could stop her was to slam his legs over her, keeping her still. “Come on, Sister Beth,” he chided. “We know you aren’t really a nun. Just chill and do what I tell you and we’ll get our asses out of this mess.”

She wriggled back toward him. “Do you know how much I despise you?” she said in a calm voice. She moved her bound hands toward the front of his pants, and he managed to keep the smile from his face.

“I know,” he said. Right now her fury with him was keeping her alive. Tenderness would have made her crumble, anger made her strong. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Make my day.”

Of course he was hard, had been since they’d started talking about it. Her hands brushed against him, for a moment mistaking his cock for the knife.

“No, baby,” he whispered. “Nice as that feels, the knife is over to the side. I dressed left today.”

He could feel her fury radiating from her body. The jeans were loose, as all his clothing was, and she moved her hands inside the waistband, finally finding the small pouch he carried the switchblade in, yanking it free with brutal haste.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider adjusting …?”

“Shut up, MacGowan,” she snarled. “You’re on thin ice already. How do I open this thing?”

“First, you move it away from my genitals,” he said gently. “Then you press the button on the side, and keep your hands away from the blade. That’s a Microtech Hawk and a very lethal piece of machinery.”

She grunted, not a promising sound, but the blade sprang free in her bound hands. “Do I get to cut your throat with it?”

“Maybe later. For now you need to cut the ropes around my wrists, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you get behind me? I’m having a hard time moving trussed up like this, and in my current condition …”

“Shut up, MacGowan.” She wriggled around him, a sight he found a little too stimulating, and then he heard her curse.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, and he felt her bound hands brush his. “Hold still or you’ll lose a finger.”

“Can’t have that. I’ve had a lot of good times with my fingers.” Something felt warm and wet, and he wondered if she’d managed to slice one of his body parts off and he was too numb to feel it. A moment later the rope gave way and he pulled his arms free with relief, shaking them. Blood on his hand – she must have nicked him, and he swiveled around for the knife.

She was sitting there, the knife on the floor, holding her wrist against her chest in a seemingly casual gesture. Totally ignoring the blood that was spreading onto her plain white t-shirt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Beth said, trying to scuttle away from him. MacGowan was cursing, yanking off his shirt and t-shirt so that he sat there, his ankles still bound, bare-chested and furious.

“Move your hand down so I can look at it.”

“I don’t think so.” She kept her hands cradled against her chest. “It’ll stop bleeding in a moment. And if you’re trying to distract me by your magnificent physique you can put your shirt back on. You’re not my type.”

They both knew that was lie, but he didn’t call her on it. “I’m going to use my t-shirt for a bandage.”

“Now that’s just stupid. Mine is already stained.” Dumb, dumb, dumb, she thought the moment the words were out of her mouth.

“You’re right. Now put out your goddamned hands and show me how badly you stabbed yourself. I warned you!”

“Yes, you did. I can’t help it if my fingers were numb.” She held out her wrists, looking at the slash across her palm. It looked as if the blood was slowing, though she couldn’t be sure.

He cut the rope deftly, and her arms fell apart. Her muscles were burning, so painful she barely managed to stifle her cry. “It’ll pass in a moment,” he said, and to her astonishment he put his hands on her shoulders, kneading them, moving down her arms with gentle, circular motions, moving the blood back through her starved muscles. “The cut doesn’t look too bad, but we’ll need to bandage it to keep from leaving a trail.” He glanced over at Dylan, who was watching all this with his eyes bugging out. “We’ll use your t-shirt,” he said, and before she realized what he was doing he’d taken the knife and sliced it open, leaving her sitting there in her pale pink bra. And thank God for that, she thought.

She tried to pull the remnants of the shirt off her body, but he stopped her, forcing her to wait while he slowly peeled it down her arms. It looked as if the bleeding had almost stopped, but he carefully avoided the gash, pulling the ripped shirt from her body.

She watched him, bemused, as he tore the white knit, and within a few short minutes she had a very serviceable white bandage over her hand. He tossed her his own shirt. “Put this on.”

She didn’t want to. It no longer held his body heat, thank God, but she knew it would smell like his skin. Touching her, surrounding her, embracing her. She had no choice. He helped her pull it over her head, his hand brushing her breast, but he said nothing and neither did she.

Dylan astonished her when MacGowan ripped off the duct tape. She’d been so certain his first word would be “dude” that she would have put good money on it. She was wrong.

“What the hell?” he said hoarsely.

“Be quiet.” MacGowan made quick work of the ropes that bound him, then leaned over to look out the window. “There are people down there. Tourists, it looks like, and the guy who met us is trying to argue with them. We could climb out the window if they weren’t standing there …” He pushed the window open a crack, and then moved back, and she sensed a subtle change in the way he held himself. “We’re good. They’re going to go into the restaurant. We’ll climb down the porch roof and get the hell out of here before they even know we’re gone.”

Beth leaned over to peer out, brushing against him. Down in the alleyway the man was arguing with two surprisingly tall Asian tourists, businessmen in matching dark suits, carrying cameras, speaking in Japanese and gesturing excitedly. One of them had odd, crimson hair, but apart from that they looked almost boringly normal.

“You don’t know those men, do you?” she asked doubtfully.

“I recognize Taka, though I don’t know who the other one is. They could help me take Leon and his pals, but I don’t want to risk any of you getting hurt again.” He hauled Dylan up from the chair. “Come on, cowboy. You first.”

He was right – the red-haired man had moved into the restaurant, refusing to understand Leon’s protests, and the other man followed, pushing Leon in front of him.

“Now,” MacGowan said, and shoved Dylan out onto the narrow porch roof. “You next, Beth.”

He’d stopped calling her Sister Beth. She wasn’t sure why. After their night together he knew better than anyone how close to celibate she was, and if anything she’d been afraid he’d mock her even more. He’d said nothing in front of Dylan, thank God, and with luck he wouldn’t. It was always possible the man had some sense of decency and discretion. Possible, but not likely.

The tiles felt loose beneath her feet when she followed Dylan, but she moved carefully, even as her flip-flops slid around her feet. When she got home she was going to spend thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars on shoes, and never look at a damned flip-flop again.

Dylan was waiting for her at the far end by the leaning wall and Beth followed him, with MacGowan close on her trail. The drop was about twelve feet to the pavement, and she’d probably break an ankle if he made her jump. There were discarded cardboard boxes nearby, and it was always possible she could hit them if she leapt far enough. She looked at MacGowan but he’d already moved past her, and before she realized what he was doing he’d jumped down, as light as a cat, landing on his feet like a gymnast performing a perfect dismount.

“How the hell did you do that?” she whispered.

“Practice.” He held out his arms. “Jump.”

She didn’t move. Throwing herself into his arms was the last thing on her agenda, probably because it was exactly what she wanted to do so badly. “If you can make it I can.”

Dylan was already sitting on the edge of the roof, his long legs dangling, and in the next moment he was over, landing with a graceless sprawl next to MacGowan, but a moment later he was on his feet, trying to regain his teenaged dignity.

“You’ve got a bad hand.” MacGowan was managing to control his temper, but just barely. “Get the fuck down here. I’ll catch you.”

She ignored him, sitting on the roof where Dylan had, preparing to leap, but she’d underestimated MacGowan’s determination and his height. His hands clamped around her ankles and he yanked, pulling her off and into his arms.

He staggered beneath her weight but didn’t go down, which annoyed her. He held her for just a second longer than he needed to, though she wasn’t sure whether it was as a punishment or relief, and then he dumped her on her feet.

The tourists were blocking the door and any sight of the escapees, both of them arguing in very bad French spoken with heavy Japanese accents. Beth couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but MacGowan paused, listening intently, then gave a little nod. “The two of you,” he said. “Get in there.”

“There” was a narrow space between the building looming overhead and the restaurant, with barely enough room to stand up.

“Why?”

“So I can help Taka and his friend deal with this little problem and find out exactly what they wanted.” He gave her a shove toward the narrow passageway, but she dug in her heels.

“And what if you don’t happen to succeed? Dylan and I will be perfect targets for them. I think we should get the hell out of here. You’ve done your duty, gotten us to Europe, and …”

He paid no attention, shoving her into the narrow passageway. “My job’s not done yet, and I’m not letting you run out without paying the bounty,” he said. “Besides, it’s too fucking dangerous. Dylan, keep her quiet.”

Dylan sidled into the alleyway in front of her obediently enough. “Dude,” he said. “You sure we’re going to be all right?”

MacGowan actually grinned, the heartless bastard. He was enjoying this, though she wasn’t sure why. Whether it was the chance to push her around, or the adrenaline rush of facing down his captors, but either way she didn’t give a damn. She turned her face away from him, looking down to the end of the passageway, wondering if that small movement was a rat. If he failed he was dead and they’d follow suit, but he wasn’t listening and she was tired of fighting. “Go kill yourself then,” she snapped.

But he was already gone.

She could hear the voices from within the crumbling brick wall, the French unintelligible given the various accents. And then the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle, furniture crashing, and she shivered.

“What’s up with you two?” Dylan asked suddenly.

She’d be so busy concentrating on what was going on beyond the blank wall that it took her a moment to focus. “What?”

“I said what’s up between you and MacGowan? You been bumping uglies?”

“Ewww,” Beth said at the really horrid picture it evoked. “Absolutely not.” At least, not the way Dylan had phrased it.

“Sure looks like it. He looks at you like he’s starving and you’re a six-course banquet. Dude, he wants you bad. Don’t you know that?”

“No, I don’t.” Did he? After the debacle of last night?

“And you’re just as bad. Like you want to jump his bones if you could only figure out how to do it. Trust me, all you have to do is ask.”

“Thanks for the advice,” she said wryly. “In the meantime …” She heard the shots, a volley of them, and she froze. Beyond the thick wall she heard the muffled cry. MacGowan’s name, shouted in a voice filled with shock.

She knew. There was no other explanation. MacGowan didn’t have a gun and they did. He was dead.

Sun was beating down overhead, slicing through the narrow pocket, which meant it must be around noon. He died at noon, she thought numbly. And she and Dylan would be soon to follow.

It wasn’t as if she cared. She was sorry about Dylan – he was too young to die. But all she could think of was MacGowan, separated from her by the thick, unfeeling wall, bleeding out on the floor of that filthy café.

He was dead, and she didn’t want to live. It was that simple. Surely she was way too smart to have fallen in love with him. It was gratitude that he’d rescued her, a normal reaction to his strength. And god, without the beard he was freaking gorgeous, which didn’t help. It was no wonder that she’d been crushing on him. No wonder she’d grieve his death.