Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
They waited two days to kill her. Chloe sat in her room, her nerves a screaming edge, waiting for Luc to knock on her door, but that knock didn’t come.
Maybe they’d changed their mind, but she couldn’t count on it.
There was no escape—the only windows in the lushly oriental room were up high, and Thing One and Thing Two were always at the door.
She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Would she die with dignity? Hell, no. She’d kick and scream and try to run and end up with a bullet in her back. She’d cry and plead and do everything she could to stop them. She didn’t want to leave her children. She didn’t want to leave Bastien.
There was nothing she could use for a weapon. She kept a fork from her dinner tray with the vague notion of stabbing Luc in the eyes with it, but it was a weak defense, though better than nothing. Maybe they were waiting for Bastien to return. He wouldn’t let them hurt her. But would Jean-Marc?
No, something would make him stop them, some inner core that they hadn’t been able to wipe out. He knew her, she could swear it, knew her on a subconscious level. He wouldn’t stand by and see her murdered.
But would he be back in time?
It was late on the second day when the knock finally came.
She considered not answering it, but they they’d just unlock it and come on in, and there was no reason they couldn’t kill her where she sat on the bed.
It would ruin all the brightly colored coverings, but she suspected buying a new bed was a simple matter for Le Faucon.
He just liked the efficiency of taking her out to the desert to kill her, but that wouldn’t stop him from doing it here.
“Come in,” she said, wondering why she bothered. He would come in whether she welcomed him or not.
But it was Bastien standing there, a forbidding expression on his face, and without thinking she jumped up and flung herself into his arms with relief.
Those arms didn’t rise to hold her. His body was cold and stiff, and she let her own arms drop to her side as she took a step away. “You’re back,” she said awkwardly.
“Yes. I’ve got orders to take you into the desert. Are you ready to go?” His voice was cold, emotionless, and his dark eyes were empty. They were going to make Bastien do it, she thought miserably. And whether he liked it or not, he looked ready to comply.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said in a hushed voice.
“The walk will do you good.” His voice was icy, robotic, and she knew there was no help from him. Her own husband was planning to kill her, never knowing who she was.
“I need shoes,” she said helplessly.
“The sandals will do. We’re not going very far.”
Could she run from him? Not in those flimsy sandals they’d provided. She’d be better off slipping them off her feet and running barefoot. Until she got a bullet in her back.
Bastien opened the door. “Geraldo and Esteban are coming with us,” he said. “Just in case we need help.”
“Why would we need help?” So, Le Faucon was sending backups. He must not trust Bastien to get the job done. Or maybe he was getting rid of Bastien as well, and they’d die together in the desert. The idea didn’t strike her as particularly romantic.
Thing One and Thing Two looked like executioners. But then, so did Bastien, with his cold eyes and his grim mouth. If they had a tumbril, it all would have been perfect.
Bastien didn’t answer her question. “Come,” he said. “If we don’t hurry, it will be dark.”
“Why don’t we wait until tomorrow then? I want to see the desert,” she said helplessly.
“It’s most beautiful at sunset and sunrise. I wouldn’t want you to see it at anything but its best.”
“I don’t mind waking up early,” she said desperately. Anything to put off this grimly determined man.
He shook his head, and if he felt any regret he didn’t show it. “We go now,” he said, and she knew there was nothing she could say to stop him. Not with Thing One and Thing Two watching them.
The blazing heat of the sun had lessened somewhat as they left the villa, and the path down into the wilderness was civilized enough. She almost began to wonder whether she was simply being paranoid when she saw the gun tucked into the waistband of Bastien’s pants.
She must be a glutton for punishment, she thought. “Why do you need your gun?”
“Wild boars,” he said briefly, moving down the path, and she tried to hold back, only to have the guards come up behind her like a phalanx of death. There was no way she was going to escape. Both of them were armed as well—between the three of them, one was sure to hit her.
It would probably be Bastien. He was the crack shot, the one chosen to kill LaDonna, the one who was going to try to kill Peter Madsen. She hoped, if he ever remembered who he was, that he would forget he murdered his own wife.
It was a long way down the winding path, and the shadows were growing longer. She looked out over the dramatic landscape of the Tabernas Desert, looking for a place to run to, but it was all rocks and sand and scrubby little underbrush, no help at all.
There was a vehicle of sorts at the bottom of the endless path, some sort of dune buggy, she guessed. Without a word, Thing One and Thing Two climbed into the backseat, their expressionless faces chilling in the afternoon breeze.
“Get in,” Bastien said.
So, there’d be no running away. She’d gotten the tumbril she asked for, and it looked like a teenager’s wet dream. She laughed, and if it sounded a little hysterical, no one said anything.
Bastien had already climbed into the driver’s seat when she followed, acutely aware of the men sitting behind her. “Do up your seatbelt,” Bastien said, and once more she laughed, a brittle one. Why the hell would they care about her safety if they were going to kill her?
He started the engine and they took off, bouncing over rocks and vegetation, moving deeper into the shadowed desert. Chloe stared blankly in front of her. Maybe one of the guards would simply put a bullet in her brain while they drove, and she wouldn’t have to think about it any longer.
Darkness was drawing in when they finally reached the ruins of the old movie studio, and she stared at it numbly.
It looked like a small, western town, with a dust-covered saloon with all the windows smashed, a narrow walkway and a sheriff’s office opposite it.
Bastien drove down the center of the road, stopping the vehicle just outside the abandoned blacksmith’s shop.
She didn’t move. The guards climbed out of the back, staying close, and Bastien had opened his own door when he realized she was still sitting in the vehicle, motionless.
“Come,” he said again, and she considered arguing. It would only delay the inevitable, and she was tired of waiting. The anticipation was worse than the reality, she thought. She only hoped she didn’t have to look at Bastien when he shot her.
Except that she wanted her last view of life to be of him, even of his ultimate betrayal. He reached over and unfastened the seatbelt, and she wondered if his hands shook. They were perfectly still.
This was his job. How many people had he brought out to the desert to kill? What did they do with the bodies?
She soon got her answer. Someone had dug a large hole by the blacksmith’s shop, eerily like a grave. She cleared her throat. “Very interesting. I’d like to go back now.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Bastien said. “These buildings are only fronts for outdoor shots—the backs of them are scaffolding holding them in place. And if you look hard enough, you can find bullet casings in the dust on the main street.”
“Why bullet casings?” Stupid question. They were just as likely to have come from him.
“They used to film gunfights on the streets here. No one bothered to clean up when they moved out.”
“How long have they been gone?” Her voice was hollow, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“A lifetime in the desert,” he said. “You can go on ahead and explore. I need to talk to the men.”
He was sending her away so he could get a clean shot, with the men as back up in case he missed. She could refuse, cling to his side, so that he had no choice but to shoot her point-blank. She didn’t think she could bear it.
So, she walked ahead, down the shadowed street, looking for shell casings, waiting for the explosion of sound.]
It came, sooner than she expected, followed by a second gunshot, and she froze, waiting for the pain, waiting for death.
But there was nothing. Maybe this was what death was—everything freezing in place and utter emptiness. The wind whipped up a swirl of dust, coming toward her motionless body, and she wondered if it was real, or eternity coming to take her…
“Move your ass,” Bastien barked at her, and she turned, to watch him lean over Thing One’s body, then calmly fire another shot, point blank. He did the same thing to Thing Two, then looked at her out of expressionless eyes. “Get back in the ATV.”
She should cry, she thought distantly. She should throw herself in Bastien’s arms and weep with relief. But he seemed just as cold and forbidding as he had earlier, so she simply did as he said, averting her gaze from the two bodies lying in the dust.
“Thank you for not killing me,” she said as she climbed in. She sounded like a polite guest at tea.
“No problem,” he replied tersely, not even glancing her way. “Hold on. We’re going to move fast.”
And she did.
If she thought the terrain was rocky before, it was nothing compared to the jarring of their breakneck pace as they sped through the desert.
The shadows were deep and forbidding, and instead of going back the way they came, Bastien drove forward, taking them farther and farther away from the villa. Maddelena was going to be pissed.