Angel of Death

by S. Massery

  Slow clapping comes from the doorway.

  I lurch around, pressing my hand to heart. “Smith! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  He smiles. “Sorry, Hadley. I’ve come to collect you.”

  I tilt my head. “Griffin?”

  “He has a solid lead on Santos and said it would be safer if you came back.”

  “Oh.” Trepidation is an odd feeling. It’s ice-cold.

  “Are you still mad at him?”

  I turn off the radio and cross to the kitchen, grabbing my water bottle off the counter. “No. I mean, I guess a little. I thought he’d come back here in person.”

  “It’s a long flight,” he reasons. “In the time it would take him to come get you, then get back to Paris, whatever lead he had might go cold.”

  “All right, well, let me get my stuff.”

  “Take your time.” He glances out the window. “I’m surprised your nurses aren’t here.”

  “Khadijah is coming soon,” I say. “I think she mentioned stopping to get lunch first. She’s bringing fresh fish.”

  “Ah, it’s a pity we’ll miss it.”

  I go back into my room and pull out the note I had written weeks ago, when Elizabeth and her mystery man told me someone would take me. Could it be Smith?

  “Ah, you must be Khadijah,” Smith says in the other room. “I’m Griffin’s pilot. He heard that Hadley was well enough to travel, so I’m here to take her back to him.”

  “No one cleared it with me,” she says. “Let me check with Hadley.”

  She appears in the doorway, and I drop the paper. I turn toward her.

  “Hey,” I say. “Did you hear? I get to leave.”

  She nods, but her brow is scrunched. “Are you sure, honey?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” I either convince you, or Smith will probably kill you. He hasn’t so much as raised a finger, but I believe that with my whole heart.

  She stares at me for half a second, and the look on my face must convince her. “I’m happy for you.”

  I exhale.

  I start throwing my clothes in my bag, and she goes back out into the kitchen. Her and Smith’s conversation drifts toward me, but I try to block it out. I slide on the shoes last, swallowing my sudden nausea.

  “Ready?” Smith says behind me.

  I spin around, my foot landing on the paper.

  “Yes,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He leads the way out, and I cast one look back at my room. The paper is almost hidden by the sheet from my messy bed, but the blue… I just hope it’s enough.

  I hug Khadijah goodbye, hiding my smile when she presses a kiss to my cheek.

  “Take care, beautiful girl,” she says.

  We’ve come miles from the vase-throwing incident.

  Smith opens the car door for me and tosses my bag in the trunk. We ride in silence to the airport, and he points to a tiny plane. “Sorry, I only brought this one. I hope it’s okay.”

  I shrug. I’ve never been in a plane that small, but what am I supposed to say? No?

  He helps me into it, then starts whatever sort of pilot check they do. He’s carefree, almost lazily moving, and the trepidation flutters faster inside me. Something is off. Am I willing to risk it?

  I have the tracker in my shoe. I know the proper way to punch someone and how to get out of certain holds, and—

  Well, that’s about it. I didn’t expect to become a self-defense master in a few weeks.

  “Ready?” Smith asks, closing us in. “We’ll be back to Paris in about six hours.”

  I press my lips together and lean back in my seat. It’s weird, sitting up next to him where the copilot should sit. “It takes that long?”

  “You were asleep for most of the flight the last time.”

  I nod and buckle my seat belt. Memories of Griffin doing this for me flash before my eyes, and I shake my head to clear it away. No use thinking of that at a time like this.

  The flight is unexpectedly smooth. We land, and Smith navigates the aircraft into a hangar. A black SUV is parked off to the side. He powers everything down, then helps me out. I jump down, looking around, and Smith says, “Into the car, now.”

  He pulls open the back door, and I almost balk. Once I get in, game over. He could take me anywhere.

  The same was true for the plane, a voice in my head whispers.

  I climb into the backseat, and Smith slams the door behind me. It’s as good as a coffin: the windows are completely blacked out, and there’s a divider between the front and back seats. Little lights on the floor flicker like fireflies. I focus on them as the car starts.

  We drive for ages, and my eyes burn from staring at one little light for so long. Eventually the lights, along with my hope, sputter out.

  22

  GRIFFIN

  “Ready?” Ernesto asks.

  One of his nephews stands directly behind him, holding an umbrella. The sky dumps rain on us, and I am unprepared. My hair is soaked, plastered to my head, and water continually runs into my eyes, my mouth. I may as well be standing under a fire hydrant’s spray.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I say.

  He chuckles and pats my shoulder. “Once you go in there, I’m not responsible. Okay? I set up this meeting, but it doesn’t mean I want to take part in it. If you get shot, if he gets shot, I’m not involved.”

  “Got it.”

  “Just checking.” He gestures to the hotel behind him. “Room fourteen-thirteen.”

  I try not to think about that actually being 1313, since hotels frequently skip the number thirteen when labeling their floors. You’re just being superstitious.

  “Thank you,” I mutter, crossing the street. I take a minute in the lobby to pull off my wet coat and slick back my hair. The elevator takes an excruciatingly long time, and then the hallway seems to go on forever.

  I reach the room and hesitate. I fucking hesitate because for once, I’m not sure if he’s going to pull a gun or talk or if there will be an army of men inside the room to capture me.

  The door swings open, and finally, Il Fantasma is in front of me. He doesn’t look like a man I would know, as Ernesto may have hinted. He appears… plain. Impressively normal.

  He squints at me and sighs, like I wasn’t what he expected either.

  “We’re doing this the gentlemanly way,” he says.

  His voice doesn’t have much of an accent, except the barest hint of Italian. That’s the first thing I notice. The second thing is the slim knife in his hand. He flips it across his knuckles, into his palm. It’s an easy movement that must’ve taken years of practice to become muscle memory.

  “How’s that?”

  He gestures to the couch. “Sit.”

  I don’t move. The hotel room is nice—one of the suites, with a living room and separate bedroom. The door to the bedroom is closed.

  He chuckles. “I understand you’re wary. But you and I need to discuss some things, and that simply won’t do if you refuse to move from the doorway.”

  I nod and cross to one of the two couches, perching on the edge of it. He does the same, but he looks way more relaxed than I feel.

  “You’ve been searching for me,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Have I?”

  “You told Hadley you wanted me to pay for my crimes. I’m afraid I don’t know what crimes you’re referring to.”

  “Ah.” He glances down at the knife, which now lies across his thigh. It’s thinner than my ring finger. “Yes, I’m afraid you are correct. The crime, as it was: you murdered my son.”

  ‘He had a son that lived outside Paris,’ Ernesto said.

  Had. I should’ve read more into that particular phrasing.

  “I doubt it,” I answer. “Our history goes back further than that.”

  He leans forward, his face morphing with anger. “That’s it, Angel. That’s exactly why you killed him—because Scorpion wanted you to.”

  I shake my head. “No.”


  “They couldn’t get to me, but they could get to my son.”

  I force myself to remain seated. “I left Scorpion three years ago. I haven’t had any—”

  “None?” he hisses. “Am I supposed to take your word for it?”

  “I don’t know why you wouldn’t,” I say. “Who was your son I supposedly killed?” In the past three years of working alone, I’ve had some people die on me. I research every single death—secretly—so I can learn. Sometimes, I made a mistake. Other times, the people called me too late. Some people were just hurt too badly. It always gave me a modicum of relief when I discovered it wasn’t my fault.

  “Argo,” Santos says. “His wife called you, and he died of poison with you hovering over him.”

  I remember him.

  “His wife called me,” I say. “He had been shot in the stomach. I don’t ask questions—I don’t ask last names either.”

  Tricky business, that. There are so many things that can go wrong in the lower torso.

  Santos glares at me. “And then he started foaming at the mouth. He was dead in a matter of seconds, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “How did you do it?”

  I shake my head. “I investigate all of the deaths I’m involved with. It was an accident.”

  “Bullshit, Angel.”

  “The blood was bad.”

  How did it kill him so quickly? A question I should’ve asked myself sooner.

  A long time ago, I made a friend. We got talking in a bar. I later ran into him at a cemetery, and we got talking again, this time about the downfalls of business. He was in the same industry as me: catering to the whims of evil men. He was looking to switch things up. He had an estranged wife, a kid in college. He had a pilot’s license.

  I told him if I ever needed a captain, maybe I’d call him.

  One trip became a dozen. He ran errands for me—supplying the plane, procuring medical supplies and weapons. Including blood.

  “It was an accident,” I repeat, refusing to let any sort of realization show on my face. Smith isn’t Santos’ problem—he’s mine. And I’ll deal with him like I deal with everyone who steps out of line.

  Santos’ eyes are wild. “This entire chase—you’re saying it was an accident?”

  I stand. “I tried to save your son. I try to save everyone who calls me.”

  He stands, too, and moves to the window. He pulls at his hair. Tugs on the collar of his shirt. He beats at the air with his fists, and I watch him implode.

  “Fuck,” he mutters.

  “I don’t blame you,” I say. “In fact, given the circumstances, it’s understandable.”

  He whirls around as I lift his knife from the couch. I don’t think he even realized he dropped it until he sees it in my hand.

  My gaze narrows. The darkness that comes with being the Angel of Death rolls over me like a storm cloud. “The fact remains, however, that you went out of your way to ruin me. You hurt my father. Repeatedly threatened Hadley.”

  The black hole yawns open inside me, overpowering. I throw the knife.

  It flips point over hilt, faster than I’ve ever thrown a knife before, catching him in the throat. The blade tears through his airway, and his lips part. Only a moment of shock. The cut artery sprays the window and walls.

  He covers his throat with both of his hands, looking at me with something like surprise. I pull the blade from where it stuck into the wall, wrapping it in a linen napkin that had been left on the side table. I slide it into my pocket and head for the door.

  He falls to his knees. There’s no guilt or remorse—if I had been found guilty of the charges he laid at my feet, I’m sure I would’ve had much the same ending as he did. A gurgling sound is the last thing I hear as I close the door behind me.

  My mood doesn’t lighten in the elevator. There’s a line of blood across my chest. I yank my wet coat back on, zipping it up to my throat, and stalk through the lobby.

  Ernesto is gone.

  I didn’t quite expect him to still be here, but I’ll keep the blade as proof, if he ever asks. I have a feeling he’ll hold up his end of the bargain, though, once the newspapers catch wind of the fact that one of the most prestigious hotels in Paris has a murdered man in it.

  One thing is for sure: now that the threat to Hadley is gone, I can go back for her.

  Smith doesn’t answer his phone—not that I expected him to. I figure he must know the ruse is up. I take the commercial airline to the island, which is fortuitous timing and nothing more. My leg jigs the whole time we’re in the air.

  Through the window, the island comes into view. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. I regret leaving her. I regret it so damn much—it’s been an eternity. I didn’t even call her, because what if it was traced?

  We land. Deplane. Time slows.

  I climb into a car and make the drive to the house.

  She’s going to hate me.

  She called me a coward, but if I was really a coward, I wouldn’t get out of the car. I think the fear of her hatred would make me run away. In the end, I get out and open the front door. The place is silent, and an awareness moves up my spine.

  I walk silently through the house, checking the kitchen, guest room, and bathroom before I sweep into Hadley’s bedroom.

  Nothing.

  A piece of paper on the floor catches my attention. It’s halfway under the bed, but the electric-blue color makes it hard to miss. I grab it and flip it over, and my lungs stop working.

  If you’re reading this, they took me.

  “Griffin?”

  I spin around, but there’s just a nurse in the doorway. She isn’t one of the ones I vetted, though. I went through the doctor’s list of referred nurses like a lunatic, looking for anything that could be a red flag. Nothing. The two nurses I approved were older, had children, were used to caring for kids with cancer.

  This nurse is young. Dark hair braided over one shoulder.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “It was a clever deception. One of the nurses fell for it, and I wasn’t here to stop them.”

  “Fell for what?” I ask, trying not to yell. “Where is Hadley?”

  “They took her, Griffin,” she says, all but rolling her eyes. “I’m sure the note says as much.”

  “It doesn’t quite elaborate on who,” I say. “Santos couldn’t have—”

  She raises an eyebrow in question.

  “He’s dead.”

  She nods, lips pressing into a thin line before she says, “An interesting turn of events.”

  “Smith took her.”

  The mystery woman hums. “Hadley’s met him. It would’ve been easy enough for him to come in here and say, ‘Griffin sent me for you.’” Her gaze is hard. “You trusted the wrong person.”

  “Like you’ve never done that?” I want to blame anything else. Smith has been with me the longest. Years. “What does he want from her?”

  She shrugs. “His story is complicated.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask me that.” She turns and disappears down the hallway.

  I run after her. “Wait—seriously?”

  “So thirsty for answers.” She picks up a phone from the kitchen table and tosses it to me. “We put a tracker in Hadley’s shoe. She’s in Paris. In fact, I think she was there before you even left...”

  “How—”

  “We’ll meet again,” she promises me. “But… maybe not for a while yet.”

  She walks out the back door, through the garden, and closes the gate behind her. I stare at the gate for a minute, contemplating chasing after her, but I can’t. The thought of Hadley pulls me back to my car, and I speed to the airport.

  The woman at the counter informs me that there is only one flight out per day, and I’ve missed my window by a half hour. I try to tamp down my panic.

  There’s really only one person left to call. Well, two.

>   When Delia’s voice fills my ear, I almost lose it. I clear my throat. “Hey, Delia. Skye there?”

  “I’m here,” Jackson says. “What’s up?”

  There are so many ways to answer that. I lost Hadley. I fucked up. I need help. What comes out of my mouth is, “I’m going to need to rally the troops.”

  Jackson grunts. “What’s the emergency?”

  “I fucked up.” It’s hard to admit. I can barely breathe. Is this how Hadley felt? Trapped on this island with no way off it?

  “Say again?” Jackson says.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jackson,” I growl. “I need your help. When’s the last time I admitted that? Get the other guys and get to Paris, or else—”

  “Or else what?” Delia asks.

  It’s good to hear her voice. I close my eyes and focus on that. “I just—” I clear my throat. “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “I’ll call the guys,” Jackson says. “Just hang tight, buddy.”

  “If you use the Sinclair guy, swing by Ponta Delgada and pick me up. Otherwise I’m fucking stuck here until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You got it. See you soon.”

  In slow motion, I return to the house. I crawl into the bed that, up until a few days ago, Hadley occupied. God, it still smells like her. I pull the sheets to my face and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. My mind races.

  I lurch up, digging the phone out of my pocket—the one the nurse gave me. I switch it on and stare at the blinking dot. It hovers over Paris, and I can zoom in to a district not far from my apartment. She’s maybe thirty miles away from where we stayed.

  I’m going to find you, I promise her.

  Dalton shoves the door open. “You’re a jackass,” he declares. “For the record.”

  I groan. I was tempted to get wasted, but I couldn’t do that to myself. Hadley’s been gone for too long. I’ve been stuck here for too long. Time has sped up, moving at warp speed, and I can’t do anything except watch it go by. It’s driving me closer to insanity.

  “Seriously?” Delia snaps, directly behind Dalton. “You can’t just—”