Читать книгу Ice Blue - Anne Stuart - Страница 11

If there was any chance the Shirosama’s goons would have simply killed her, then Takashi O’Brien would have let her go and good riddance. He was pissed. As far as she knew he’d nobly saved her life, twice, and she’d thanked him by taking off when his back was turned.

In fact it was himself he was mad at. Normally he wouldn’t have made the mistake of leaving her long enough to switch cars. Normally he wouldn’t have had to factor her in at all—she wouldn’t be alive.

He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, not if he wanted to live. And he did—he’d fought hard when that madman had finished with him, survived when other men wouldn’t.

The icy Madame Lambert was probably wondering what the hell was going on. During the night Taka had come up with a simple enough plan—switch to a less conspicuous car, find out where Summer had stashed the real Hayashi Urn and retrieve that, and see if he could figure out exactly what else she knew.

That had been his original mission. Keep the urn out of the brethrens’ hands, find the missing piece of the puzzle and then wipe out any trace of his presence. But Summer Hawthorne didn’t appear to be any more forgetful than she was compliant, and she wasn’t about to ignore the events of the last twenty-four hours. He had his orders about her, whether he liked them or not. He couldn’t waste any more time trying to circumvent them—the Shirosama and his followers were upping the ante, the lunar year was approaching and a mistake could be disastrous.

He stared at her, not bothering to hide his annoyance. She looked like a drowned rat again, but he was getting used to it. He actually preferred her that way; he had an annoying weakness for blond hair, and when she was drenched her hair looked brown as it snaked over her shoulders in sopping tendrils, not its usual sunlit gold. Hair color aside, he’d never once been interested in a woman with freckles.

She wouldn’t look at the men in the alleyway, which was probably just as well. One was already dead—from a broken neck when he’d thrown him against a wall, and the other would soon be gone, too, hemorrhaging from the knife he’d tried to draw on Taka. The third had gotten away, another mistake, because Taka had recognized him. Heinrich Muehler was one of the Shirosama’s better known followers—and one of his most dangerous weapons. If Taka had recognized the murdering German punk in time he would have concentrated on taking him out first.

Except if he had, Summer Hawthorne would already be dead. Instead he’d gone for the one who’d been coming at her with a knife, and by the time Taka had gotten around to baby-faced Heinrich it was too late. Taka had acted on instinct, and by doing so complicated his life yet again.

He took her arm and started toward the back of the alley. It was a good thing for her she didn’t say anything, not even when saw the huge black luxury SUV he’d traded for. She winced when she climbed up into the passenger’s seat, and he wondered if he’d gotten to her before too much damage had been done. At least she was still in one piece … and any pain she was feeling was her own damn fault.

He pulled out into the rainy night, not looking at her, keeping his expression absolutely blank. He didn’t often lose his temper, particularly in a situation like this one, but right now he was having a hard time not lashing out at her. He knew he was being ridiculous—no matter how polite he’d been, her instincts probably told her he was as dangerous as the men who were after her in the first place. He’d flat out told her as much.

And her instincts were right.

“Where are you taking me?” She was looking for something as they drove down the crowded street, far more alert than she had been before. “Are we going back to the hotel?”

“No. And don’t think you can jump out the next time I come to a stop. You really wouldn’t want to see me any angrier than I am already.” His tone was calm, almost contemplative, but she had the sense to be afraid.

She hadn’t fastened her seat belt, but at his pointed look she did, grimacing slightly. There were red splotches on her hands, and her pant legs were soaked by more than the rain. He couldn’t deal with patching her up now. It was more important that they get as far away from Little Tokyo as they could.

“I don’t see why you’re angry,” she said after a moment. “You aren’t responsible for me. I can take care of myself …” Her voice trailed off as she realized how patently absurd that was. She tried again. “You could just drop me at a friend’s house and not have to bother yourself—”

“I’m not dropping you anywhere. You’d just be drawing your friend into danger, too.”

“I would?” She sounded distressed at the idea.

Shit. “What have you done?” Taka asked.

Summer was silent for a moment, and he wondered if he was going to have to hurt her. After a moment she spoke. “I asked my friend Micah to bring me my car and some things from my desk at work.”

“Shit.” He said it aloud this time.

“It’s not like anyone could trace me. I used a public phone.”

“And where was this friend supposed to meet you?”

“Outside the noodle shop.”

“The same noodle shop where the True Realization Brotherhood found you? Don’t you have any idea what kind of danger you’re in? This isn’t a movie, and it isn’t a game. These people are dangerous, and they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.”

She looked shaken. “I think you’re exaggerating …”

“Did you see what just happened in the alley?”

“I didn’t look.”

He shook his head, giving up, and punched a few numbers into his mobile phone. He said nothing but a number to identify himself, and then listened to the message. He hung up, then clicked the phone off so no one could pick up his signal. He took a sharp left turn. “And what was Micah Jones bringing you besides your Volvo?”

“My passport, a lot of cash, a couple of credit cards …” Her voice trailed off. “How did you know his last name?”

“A dark green 1996 Volvo was just discovered at the bottom of a cliff near Santa Monica, and the driver, an African-American male with the name of Micah Jones, was found dead inside. He was forced off the road.”

She started hyperventilating, and Taka cursed beneath his breath. She was either going to pass out or throw up, and since they were going to be stuck in this car for a while, neither option was appealing. He couldn’t afford to slow down, either. He took the back of her neck and shoved her head down as far as he could with the seat belt holding her back. “Breathe slowly,” he ordered, still driving fast. He could feel her pulse against his palm, the fluttering, racing throb of it, and he figured once she started crying she’d calm down. She kept trying to hold it in, but she was a civilian, unused to the horror that often made up his daily life. She needed the release of tears.

But she simply let him hold her down as she shook, and it wasn’t until he had an unbidden, unwanted erotic thought about cradling her head at crotch level that he let go of her, almost as if he were burned.

She sank back against the seat, her eyes wide and staring. “I killed him,” she said in a bleak voice. “I didn’t realize …”

“No, you didn’t realize,” Taka said, trying to forget about the feel of the warm skin at the back of her neck. He didn’t want to offer Summer any kind of comfort, but he couldn’t keep himself from adding, “You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, and anyone else you involve is going to run the same kind of risks.”

“I wasn’t trying to involve anyone. I just needed to get away from here …”

“You’re going to need me for that.”

She turned to look at him. “Who the hell are you?”

Takashi wondered whether he should try the Ministry of Antiques story again, then discarded the idea. They were long past that innocent lie. The next lie he told needed to be far more plausible and deadly, or she was going to run again.

And he couldn’t afford to let that happen. At this point the only way she was going to get away from him was if she was equally safe from the brethren, and, right now, the only way that would happen was if she was dead.

“Someone who’s not going to let the Shirosama get you,” he said, which was nothing more than the truth. She just didn’t know what lengths he’d go to ensure that.

She leaned back against the seat, her color pale in the reflected city light. She didn’t ask where he was taking her, and he didn’t volunteer the information. He drove fast and well, moving through the constant traffic with the ease of someone who’d learned to drive in one of the most congested cities in the world, and she said nothing, retreating in on herself.

He still couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t cried—not once in the time he’d been with her. She’d been through more than most American women would see in a lifetime, witnessed more violence, and yet through it all she’d remained shaken but dry-eyed. He wasn’t used to it—there was something almost unnatural about her control. As long as she kept that eerie calm, she was capable of bolting, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.

She needed to break, completely. And if the events of the last twenty-four hours hadn’t managed to do it, then he was going to have to finish the job. Until Summer Hawthorne was weeping and helpless, she was a liability.

He glanced at her pale, set profile. The lights from the oncoming cars prismed through the rain-splattered windshield, dancing across her face in shards of light and dark. Yes, he would have to break her. Or kill her.

Or maybe both.

Isobel Lambert stubbed out her cigarette, hating the taste in her mouth, the smell on her fingers, hating everything. She needed to go back to the doctor, see if there was something new she could try. She’d already gone through the patch, gum, nasal spray, hypnosis, cognitive therapy, clove cigarettes, and everything else under the sun, but nothing had stuck. She’d manage a day, a week, even three months one time, then something would happen and she’d pick them up again.

Her therapist had a glib explanation: her job. Her life was all about death. The giving of it, the ordering of it. By smoking she could atone by seeking her own death in a slower, more insidious way.

Just so much bullshit, Madame Lambert had told the good doctor. If smoking made it easier to accept the hard choices she had to make, then she’d go up to two or three packs a day. But it didn’t. Smoking just kept her hands from shaking.

O’Brien hadn’t done his job, and the bodies were piling up. Some civilian had gone over a cliff in the girl’s car, and Takashi had had to take out God knows how many of that sicko Shirosama’s mindless goons. She’d asked Taka what the fuck he thought he was doing, but he’d been avoiding her messages, and in the end, it was up to him. He had experience and cool determination, and if he was keeping the girl alive there must be a good reason.

Maybe it had been too soon to put him out in the field again, but she hadn’t had much choice. O’Brien was tailor-made for the job—he could speak and read Japanese, he had the connections, the culture. No one else even came close. His body had pretty much recovered from some of the most advanced torture the modern world could devise, and his sangfroid had never been an issue. So why didn’t he finish the job? He must still think there was a way to salvage the situation, but from half a world away Isobel couldn’t see many signs of hope. But strategy, she knew. And the only way to stop a deluded megalomaniac, if you couldn’t get close enough to kill him, was to take away his toys.

Summer Hawthorne had no idea that’s all she was. A toy, a pawn in the hands of some very dangerous people, and both sides were deadly, experienced and ready to kill her before the other could get their hands on her.

Takashi must be convinced there was something to be gained from keeping her alive, or the situation would be done with and Isobel could finish whatever open pack of cigarettes she was rationing, go back to her elegant apartment and break something.