Hot Ice

she couldn’t find it. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace. The floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem. People stopped to look at them in surprise and speculation as they never would’ve done in New York.
    Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder. She had no way of knowing he’d lived that way most of his life and had often wondered if he’d ever live any other way. When he dragged her down the stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging head first.
    “Blue lines, red lines,” he muttered. “Why do they have to screw things up with colors?”
    “I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board. “I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”
    “Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.
    The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.
    It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd.
    When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like public transportation.”
    She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.
    “Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat. “How’d you spot them anyway?” he asked absently while he plotted out his next move. Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick trip to the library. If Dimitri and his hounds showed up in Madagascar, they’d just lose them again. He was on a roll. “You’ve got a sharp eye, sugar,” he told her. “We’d’ve been in a bad way if there’d been a welcoming committee back in the hotel room.”
    Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”
    “What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”
    “He was dead in your room when I went back. There was a man waiting.”
    “What man?” Doug demanded. “What’d he look like?”
    “His eyes were like sand. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar.”
    “Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”
    Her eyes, dark as aged whiskey, focused on his again. “I think I killed him.”
    “What?” he stared at the elegant, fine-boned face. “You killed Butrain? How?”
    “With a fork.”
    “You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”
    “I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and, unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way off. Swearing and struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform.
    “Okay, okay, you’d better tell me the whole thing.”
    “The