Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
He looked like death, standing in the doorway, and Le Faucon let out a girlish squeak of panic. Luc rose, and he left the gun on the table in front of him. It was a false concession—he had another tucked in the back of his pants, and she knew without doubt that he would be lightning fast.
“I don’t want to shoot you, Jean-Marc,” Luc said easily. “We just want you back. I’m sorry we had to take Chloe, but it seemed as if it was the only thing that would get you here.”
“My name is Bastien Toussaint, not Jean-Marc,” he said. “And if you’ve hurt a hair on her head, I’m going to disembowel you.”
Le Faucon let out another squeal, but both men ignored him. “She’s perfectly fine,” Luc said. “She’d tell you so, but she’s bound and gagged at the moment. We didn’t want her warning you.”
“And yet here I am,” Bastien said in a voice silken with menace. “Do me a favor, Luc, and untie her. I need to hear from her that she’s all right.”
“Of course,” Luc said courteously, while Le Faucon moaned. He turned sideways, not exposing his back to Bastien, and reached down to unfasten the ties that were already lying loose in her lap. She reached up and yanked down the mask, taking a few deep breaths.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice a little raw. “They didn’t hurt me.” She rose on unsteady feet.
“Come over here, Chloe,” Bastien said.
“I don’t think so.” Luc grabbed her and pulled her in front of him. “She’s my only leverage. I don’t want you shooting me before you hear what I’m offering you.”
“You’re offering me? What about Le Faucon?” He threw a contemptuous glance at the other man in the room.
“I thought you figured it out by now,” Luc said. “He’s just window-dressing. I am Le Faucon.”
As far as big revelations went, it was a bit of an anti-climax. Bastien simply nodded, unsurprised. “Then you should know that your only chance of surviving this night is to let my wife go.”
“Maddelena’s your wife.”
“Fuck Maddelena,” he said flatly.
“I have,” Luc said. “I don’t recommend it.”
Chloe could feel Luc move behind her, and a moment later she felt the barrel of a gun against her temple. She froze. There was no way she could lean over and grasp the extra gun without Luc putting a bullet in her brain, so she held very still, looking at Bastien.
He looked like the very devil—cold and deadly, his gun held loose but confident in his hand. Even so, he couldn’t shoot Luc before he killed her, and they were at a standstill.
“Why don’t you take Jean-Marc’s gun, Jefe?” Luc said easily. “Don’t worry, he won’t harm you as long as I have his wife.”
“He could take me hostage in return,” the man said hoarsely.
“He knows that would make no difference to me. He can shoot you for all I care.”
“I’m not moving,” the man known as Le Faucon said.
Luc shot him in the face.
Chloe jumped, trying to jerk away from him, when he pressed the gun back up against her skin, burning her. “Just so you know, I’m serious, Jean-Marc.”
Bastien didn’t move, surveying his enemy with casual disdain. “Exactly what do you hope to gain from all this, Luc? If you think I’ll come work for you again, you’re delusional.”
She couldn’t see Luc’s expression, but she imagined he smiled with that boyish charm of his. “But we work so well together.”
“Let Chloe go and I’ll consider it.”
“Now why don’t I believe you?” He pressed the gun harder against her forehead, and she resisted the urge to fling herself forward. She’d still be in range of that gun, and she wouldn’t have time to get the discarded one…
“Let her go,” Bastien said again, and Luc would be a fool not to pay attention to the deadliness of his tone. He wasn’t looking at her, though he had to be perfectly aware of the gun on the table in front of her.
“Don’t even try it, Chloe,” Luc said. “It would be a waste of time and it would annoy me no end. It’s not loaded.”
She didn’t believe him, but he could pull the trigger if she even leaned forward, so she held still. And then she felt his body tense behind hers.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “We’re moving.”
“I untied the ropes. We’re drifting out into the shipping lanes,” Bastien said. “You’d better make up your mind soon or we’re all going to end up in a pile of splinters.”
“Damn you!” Luc spat, and he shoved Chloe down on the table before he shot at Bastien.
But Bastien had already disappeared, the door open behind him, and Luc cursed again. He shoved her out of his way, so that she landed sprawled on the floor, and took off after Bastien, not bothering to look behind him.
The gun wasn’t loaded. She threw it away from her, then looked at Le Faucon’s body lying in a welter of blood.
She didn’t want to go near him, didn’t want to touch him, but she had no choice.
There was a chance the old man had been armed, and as she listened to the gunfire overhead, she forced herself to turn him over.
He had a gun, in a discreet holster under his arm, and gingerly, she pulled it free.
It was fully loaded, and she scrambled to her feet, determined to go after them.
She ducked out the side door, then moved carefully down the walkway between the cabin and the river, watching in fascinated horror as the boat drifted farther and farther away from the docks.
Everything was suddenly silent except for the sound of the boat slipping through the water, and she had the sudden devastating fear that they’d managed to shoot each other. And then Luc’s voice called out.
“Is that all you’ve got, Jean-Marc?” he called. “I know I winged you. Come on out and we’ll negotiate.”
There was no answer, and Chloe’s state of calm determination began to shatter. If he’d hurt Bastien…
There was another flash of light, followed by the thunderous sound of a gun, and Luc stepped away from the bulkhead where he was hiding, moving into the pathway. And then she saw Bastien, slumped against the gangway, and he was bleeding.
“Get away from him!” she snarled, as Luc pulled closer.
He froze, his gun still raised in Bastien’s direction. “Don’t be silly, Chloe. You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I’d cut your heart out,” she snarled.
He turned and looked at her, and in the light from the cabin he looked young, charming, friendly. “I told you that gun had no bullets,” he chided her.
“It’s not the gun from the table. It’s from the man you killed.”
A faint shadow crossed his face, and then he smiled his charming smile. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “But I know you’re not used to guns. I can kill you both before you even get the gun cocked.”
“It’s cocked.”
“I don’t believe you.” He moved, turning back toward Bastien’s crumpled form, the gun raised.
Chloe pulled the trigger. The sound up close was deafening, the kickback from the gun surprising.
Luc turned back to look at her, an astonished expression on his face, and raised his gun to shoot her.
And then he fell against the side of the gangway, tipping over into the inky black darkness of the Thames.
Chloe didn’t hesitate, throwing the gun down and running to Bastien’s side. He looked white, drawn, and his black shirt was soaked in blood, this time his own. “Bastien!” she cried. “Where did he hit you?”
“In the side,” he said in a strained voice. “But I don’t think he hit anything crucial. I need to get this boat out of the shipping lanes.”
“You need to lie down while I see how bad it is.”
He shook his head, pulling himself to his feet. “First we make sure we stay alive.” He started slowly toward the back of the boat, leaving a trail of blood on the polished teak deck. Realizing she hadn’t moved, he turned back to her. “Come with me, Chloe,” he said, an order.
“I killed a man,” she said in a very small voice.
“If he’s dead. He’s probably swimming to Spain right now.”
She shook her head. “I killed him,” she said in a broken voice. He’d deserved to die, he’d been about to kill her husband, but the finality of it had shaken her to the bone.
“Come here,” he said again, and she moved, coming up to him. He put an arm around her, leaning down to kiss her full on the mouth, and she could feel the wetness of his blood sinking into her white shirt.
“You forget,” she said brokenly. “I’m not wearing black.” And she burst into tears.