Ice Blue by Anne Stuart

weren't totally fucked.
    She left another message, trying to rid herself of the powerful sense of unease that tightened her shoulders beneath the pale silk of her suit. If an operative didn't check in there was usually a very good reason, and Isobel had learned to live with silence and unanswered questions until the time was right. For all she knew Summer Hawthorne was already gone—Taka could be very gentle and she'd never know it was happening. His ability to kill painlessly, and his experience with southern California, had been two other reasons he was perfect for the job. The fact that the Shirosama and his doomsday cult would hit a little too close to home for him only made the stakes higher.
    Too high, maybe. She could have sent someone else, someone without an emotional investment in the Armageddon the apocalyptic cult leader was planning to rain down on Tokyo and every other major city in the world.
    But she was a woman who went with her instincts, and there'd never been any doubt. Takashi O'Brien was made for this mission, and the sooner Isobel stopped second-guessing herself the better off she'd be.
    Until Taka called in to tell her Summer Hawthorne was dead, she had no choice but to sit in her office and smoke, watching the streets of London in the misty pre-light, and wishing to hell she'd gone into some other line of work. Like being a travel agent or an accountant. Anything that would allow her to sleep at night.
    The state-of-the-art phone vibrated in her hand, and she jumped, stubbing out still another cigarette. Someone had left a message—a coded text message—and she knew from the channel used that it could only be Taka. All she had to do was set the device into its cradle to read the news. And then she could move on.
    For a long time she didn't budge. She'd never been one to avoid unpleasant truths, and she wasn't about to start, but she needed to take a deep breath before she found out that one more necessary loss had been completed.
    But right now she needed one more cigarette. One more cup of coffee. Before another part of her soul was burned away.

7
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    H e had blood on his hands. He had the most exquisitely beautiful wrists, strong but delicate, and she stared at them as he drove through the busy nighttime streets of L.A., her eyes riveted to the drying blood on the back of his hand, on the long fingers holding the steering wheel far too casually, given the speeds they were driving.
    Summer wanted to throw up, to scream and hit something. The only thing to hit was him, and that would likely send them crashing into another car. In this tank they'd probably bounce off anything but a Hummer, but she didn't want to risk it. Too many people had died already, including Micah. Sweet, charming Micah, who'd just been complaining about his love life and the price of gas and the weather. Micah, who would never mind any of those things again. All because he'd wanted to help her.
    She was cold, her muscles clenched tight so that she wouldn't shake. She didn't want to draw Taka's attention any more than she had to, not when he was already angry with her. She wanted to disappear, to vanish into nothingness, and she let herself play with the fantasy that if she just didn't move, didn't speak, didn't breathe, she'd vaporize, and there'd be no more blood, no more pain, no more—
    "Snap out of it!"
    She let out her breath in a whoosh, her tense muscles loosening slightly. He had the heat on in the car, flooding it with warmth, and the hot air on her legs stung. She must have splashed some of the boiling water on herself as well as the men chasing her.
    She looked down at her blotchy hands, then turned to look at her savior. "What do you mean?"
    "Take deep, calm breaths and think about the ocean. I can't have you freaking out on me right now."
    "I wasn't freaking out," she said in a flat voice. "I was just trying to decide what to do next."
    "And what did you come up with?"
    "Nothing."
    He nodded, watching