Chapter 15 #2
Peter Madsen stared at the dead man with imperturbable curiosity.
Anderson had come as a surprise, as much as anyone could surprise him nowadays, but he’d heard the tell-tale snick of a handgun being cocked and known what was coming.
Anderson lay in the doorway, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, the gun fallen from his hand, and Peter set his own gun down on the desk before rising to inspect the body.
It had made a hell of a racket, but the offices of Spence-Pierce Financial Services were soundproofed—there was no need for a silencer on the handgun he kept in his desk.
Anderson’s baby blue eyes were wide and staring, and his whole expression was one of childlike surprise.
Clearly, he’d underestimated his target.
It was a shame—Peter had liked the man, counted on him for the last four years as much as he ever counted on anyone, and he wondered who had gotten to him.
Did it have anything to do with Bastien, or was it some other operation that had managed to turn him?
He was betting on Bastien with the instinct that had been honed by years of experience.
Anderson didn’t like that he’d traced Bastien to Italy, and he’d felt it worth the danger to eliminate him.
He should have known better. Peter was a hard man to kill—he might almost say impossible, given his history, but he didn’t want to jinx things.
He and Genny had an ongoing joke—“Don’t you dare die and leave me with them,” referring to their unruly brood.
Genny would be fine with the motley horde of children and teenagers filling their old manor house in Hampshire, but he had no intention of leaving her, ever.
He glanced down at Anderson and gave him a small nudge with his foot.
Anderson had come out to the house—he’d charmed Genny and impressed the teenagers, not an easy thing to do.
He’d been good at both his jobs, as Peter’s right-hand man and his betrayer.
Too bad for him he’d underestimated his intended target.
Anderson hadn’t wanted him to go to Italy, enough so that it was worth blowing his cover.
Which made the trip all the more necessary.
He needed to find out what the fuck was going on with Bastien, and where Chloe was.
They didn’t seem to have anything to do with an ongoing operation, and maybe it was as simple as a marital spat gone nuclear.
Maybe they really were now touring Italy on a second honeymoon.
Except that he had no proof that the woman with him was Chloe.
And there was another man with them, not the best company for a honeymoon.
Peter was entirely at a loss about what was going on, and he didn’t like it.
If it truly was Chloe, then there would be no need for secrecy.
And she hadn’t called the children in two weeks, another anomaly.
Unfortunately, there was no one else he could send.
MacGowan was in Philadelphia with his millionaire wife, awaiting the birth of their first child.
Taka and Reno were in the midst of a Sarin gas threat that was far too credible.
And God knew where Killian and Isobel were, and it was better off that way.
Not that Killian would be any use, but Isobel knew both Chloe and Bastien and she could scare the truth out of anyone.
Genny was not going to be happy with him for leaving her with a horde of children in the house, but in truth, she handled them all with ease. Even sullen Mahmoud was eating out of her hand. Peter just needed some answers, some way of knowing Bastien and Chloe were all right.
But he didn’t think so.
He went back to his desk, making the preplanned phone call to the clean-up crew.
He’d never had to have them come to the office, and he didn’t particularly like the idea, but Anderson had been a compactly built man with a fondness for pumping iron, and Peter was damned if he’d do the clean-up.
He needed the cleaners to come before Anderson started to smell.
In the meantime, he had plans to make.
Chloe was leaving. There was no clock in the room, and she still missed her Apple watch, but it was somewhere near zero dark thirty, and Bastien had to be asleep somewhere in the back of the house. It was time to leave.
She dressed quickly, carrying her shoes with her as she slipped out the door.
All was silent in the house, and then she caught the faint sound of someone snoring.
Bastien didn’t snore, so it could only be Luc, but doubtless Bastien was just as solidly asleep.
The man was only human, hard as it was to believe.
He needed to sleep just as much as the next man. Probably in Maddalena’s arms.
She moved silently through the hall. She was starving—she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and while on the road, their meals had been far from sumptuous. At the last minute, she made a detour to the kitchen, looking for something she could grab and take with her.
They’d left their dishes in the sink, and she almost scoffed out loud.
They must think she was going to keep up cleaning up after them, like a good little hostage, until they had no more use for her.
She wanted to take the dirty plates and smash them against the terrazzo floor, but she controlled her fury.
They would have to wash their own fucking dishes. She would be gone.
She opened one cupboard, peering inside, finding nothing but baking supplies. Not even a stray bag of cookies, and she didn’t dare open the massive refrigerator. She had to get out of there—the hell with food.
But what was she going to do, with no money and no identification? She could go to the police—that was the sensible thing to do. She had to stop him before he killed LaDonna, and she would do anything she had to do.
But the gala was still two days away, they said.
That would give her enough time to get in touch with Peter.
Peter would be able to stop it while still keeping Bastien safe.
If she alerted the police and they came to the villa, Bastien wouldn’t go quietly.
There would be a shoot-out, and he would be lying dead on this terrazzo floor, and she couldn’t bear it.
“Going somewhere?”
The calm words sent a sinking feeling in her stomach. Slowly she withdrew her head from the cabinet to meet Bastien’s inimical eyes.
He was standing in the kitchen wearing only his jeans, his chest bare in the lambent light, and he was barefoot. He had no gun with him, but then, he didn’t need one to subdue her.
“I was hungry,” she said innocently. “I haven’t eaten in a long time.”
“You needed shoes to eat?”
“I was going to go sit on the terrace while I ate.”
“It’s dark—you wouldn’t see anything.”
“It’s peaceful,” she said. “Go back to Maddalena.” She didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of her voice.