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Which meant Benson had sent Ice after Indy to begin with.
And that meant Indy couldn’t trust Benson.
As for her boss at Langley . . . well, if the CIA believed Indy was dirty, then she couldn’t callanyonein the CIA, couldn’t trustanyonein the CIA, couldn’t trust anyone at the Embassy, couldn’t trust anyone at all.
Excepthim.
Shit.
Now Indy rubbed the back of her neck and glanced at the groaning monster who’d tossed her at a wall and dragged her by the hair and tied her up twice already today.
And saved her life once, Indy reminded herself.
She glanced at the front door out past the bedroom, then back at Ice curled on the floor like a dying man.
He turned onto his side, clearly trying to regain his senses, get to his feet, maybe get to her again.
Indy felt the walls of the room closing in on her. Her vision narrowed to the point where she was only aware of the front door gleaming to her left and the glow of the bathroom door to her right.
A choice was opening up for her. Indy felt it in her gut like a punch, in her heart like a pinch, in her soul like a poke.
It was poignant and real, two paths diverging in the woods of her destiny, fate offering the choice of whether to go it alone or trust whatever instinct whispered that she was safe with this dangerous man.
She could go or stay. Trust logic and reason or follow whatever force had engineered this choice like it was a test, a fork in the road that commanded Indy to choose, to make a conscious decision about which way to go, forward or backward, left or right, within or without.
With him or alone.
Indy took a long breath, let it out slowly.
Then she walked over to where Ice was on his hands and knees, retching out the last of whatever cosmic poison was racking his insides.
She stood above him and rubbed her chin. Then she chuckled once, blinked twice, hurried over to his duffel, reached inside and grabbed the set of heavy-duty plastic ties she’d seen tucked in the side flap.
8
Ice turned on his side and dry-heaved. It had been years since he’d thrown up, and now he remembered why he didn’t drink more than three beers anymore, no matter how much Jack egged him on.
He spat onto the bathroom floor, feeling the burning taste of bile. His stomach was empty—which made sense, since he hadn’t eaten a damn thing on the plane. You don’t go into battle on a full stomach. Digestion uses energy, diverts blood-flow to the gut instead of the brain and muscles.
One more painful retch that made his ab-muscles burn and Ice knew his body had pushed out whatever the hell had done this to him. He knew he’d thrown up mostly water, but the bottles were factory-sealed and this was an upscale hotel that cared about the sensitive guts of coddled foreigners.
It wasn’t the water.
Maybe it was something she’d said, came the hazy thought which thankfully didn’t linger long enough for Ice to remember Indy’s words clearly.
Now Ice blinked himself back into focus and saw Benson in his fever-dream. The man was wolfing down those sun-yellow egg-yolks and blood-red bacon. The diner, Ice thought with sick amusement. That bacon was undercooked, the eggs a little too runny. Probably a bout of salmonella that took some time to kick in. The bacteria needed twenty-four hours to multiply to critical mass. Then his immune system sensed the threat from the microscopic critters and purged his body.
“It wasn’t the water, by the way,” came her voice through Ice’s blurry head. He groaned once more, tried to wipe his mouth, realized he couldn’t because his hands were tied behind his back.
No fucking way.
Ice tried to kick himself upright, but his ankles were tied together with a double-long plastic tie that he knew couldn’t be broken with brute force. He cursed and spat, then rolled onto his side so he could look at her.
Indy O’Donnell was perched on the king-sized bed, a ravaged room-service tray beside her, two empty water bottles on the carpeted floor. She tracked his gaze to the water-bottles, nodded earnestly at him and flashed a sweet smile that even a semi-conscious Ice could tell was oozing with triumph.
“Yup,” she said, winking at him before turning back to the phone on which her thumb was scrolling. “Drank two bottles myself. The water’s fine. Must be something you ate.” She glanced at him again, raised an eyebrow, shrugged exaggeratedly. “Or maybe something I said hit home for you.”
Ice spat onto the bathroom floor, tried to remember what she’d said. His head pounded with the memory of her words. Something about chivalry and sensing the “good” man in him—whatever the hell that meant.